The Kincardine Parade
By Loreen Haldenby

If you drive along Highway 21, sometimes called the Blue Water Highway because it runs parallel to Lake Huron, you may come to a sign which says: KINCARDINE: Population 6000, where you’re a stranger only once.

“Where you’re a stranger only once.”

How true this is. I have been spending my vacation in Kincardine every year now for the past ten years. I was a stranger the first time I came to this lovely town in 1986, but with every visit since, I feel that I am among friends.

Kincardine is a tourist town, but it is devoid of the glitz and glitter of so many tourist towns. The people are warm and friendly, the atmosphere homey.

The beach along Lake Huron is dotted with cottages. White-capped waves roll in, sobbing, laughing, sometimes like thunderous applause, sometimes like gentle, wayward children returning home. The waters change from the deepest blue to the palest green. Gulls glide overhead, little beach birds run along the beach on spindly legs.

We swim, letting the waves carry us along. We rest and allow our souls to absorb the peace.

But all too soon it’s Saturday, the last day of our holiday. A lump comes to my throat, but I smile through my tears. Already I’m dreaming of next year.

Saturday night, it’s the night of the Kincardine parade. Every Saturday night during the summer months the main street is closed off, and at promptly 8 o’clock, the parade begins.

I stand on the sidewalk with my children and grandchildren waiting for the parade to begin. The tension and excitement mounts. We can hardly contain ourselves. Then, at last, we hear the sound of the bag-pipes.

We look toward the park. Here they come. They wear kilts in the tartans of their clans. The whole Scottish regalia is displayed. They turn the corner of the main street. The Band members of the Kincardine parade, playing the bag-pipes, march to the tune of My Bonnie Lassie.

Most of the crowd lining the sidewalk fall in behind: little children on their father’s shoulders, men and women, boys and girls of all shapes and sizes, dogs of every description. We all walk behind the band. We are the parade.

My oldest grandson, Christopher, age 15, walks ahead of me with his mother. I notice their similarities. The same loping gait, the same easy smile. I walk with Kayle, age 11 on one side and Joshua, age 8 on the other. We hold hands and swing them back and forth in time to the music as we saunter along.

Bobby, age seventeen months, is too small to walk in the parade. He rides on his father’s shoulders. He grins hugely showing all of his eight teeth. He wags his head from side to side and claps his small hands as the band plays The Campbells are Coming.

We march up the street to the end of town, then turning, we follow the band back to the park where they continue to play for our pleasure.

Their last selection is Amazing Grace. The beautiful melody sweeps over us as the sun sets below the horizon across Lake Huron.

The sky on the edge of the lake is filled with a myriad of golden lights. They dance in joyous celebration, a dance of praise and glory.

My heart exults. For one brief moment, in a whisper of time, I reach out and touch the face of God.