The Parade

Raytown was a different place in the 60s

That’s an understatement, to be sure. Everywhere was a different place in the 60s, and any given subject was likely swimming in turmoil. Between the Cuban Missile Crisis, anything that involved a Kennedy (including sudden and public tragedy to the highest degree), the ongoing fight for civil rights, and ever evolving protests on college campuses, it was a very loud time. Families lived in fear of sending their men to Vietnam. Wives sat primly in polyester dresses while watching their husbands set foot on the moon for the first time. The Beatles, Elvis, and Jimi Hendrix provided background music for all of it—depending on who you talked to.*

Raytown’s population was growing rapidly throughout the 60s, and it would be dishonest to say it was a wholesome and tidy affair. A decent amount of those families arrived as a result of their unwillingness to love all of their neighbors, and the after effects would take years to undo.

It’s a different place and a different home now, but the work never stops.

The houses are much the same—cookie cutter ranch homes, standardized to suit the post-war GI bill, circling the grids of old blocks and culdesacs. They were evidence of a years-long effort to get military men back into jobs, and women in the family way. Gaggles of kids shared bedrooms and bathrooms—if they were lucky, the backyard came with a chain link fence for the family labrador to play in. 

If not, well, he would come back when he’s hungry.

Amidst the mess and the mundane, something new began to take shape. A lot of people don’t automatically think of music when the topic of Raytown comes up. The suburb is normally known for its accomplishments in basketball, dance, and—more recently—in track and field. But making Raytown a musical place was a labor of love that spanned decades, and it was at this point in time when educators began to see the benefits of music education alongside core subjects. Some (ok…a lot) might argue that the good fight started with Doc.

Doc Lewis, that is.

Raytown has been home to at least a couple of notable “Docs,” but Doc Lewis was the first. Known for his tough exterior and fierce competitive nature, he demanded excellence from his students. If a kid played any kind of horn and didn’t join his jazz band, he’d be the first to stop them in the hallway and demand to know why. He never forgot a face, and has been known to recognize his musicians decades after he ever conducted them.

As one student put it: “he could scare the living daylights out of you, but once you were one of his kids, you were one of his kids.”

Raytown South High School frequently won first in state band competitions and participated in local jazz festivals. There was even one fall semester when the marching band was specially selected to play for the Kansas City Chiefs half-time show in the downtown stadium. The game was broadcast as far away as Sedalia. 

You get the point. This was a sophisticated operation in a place with a lot of history.

One nearly-autumn day, on the bright afternoon of a Missouri September, several students sat in an English class. This particular part of the school building sat parallel to Raytown South’s football field, and the instructor opened a few of the windows after a lengthy internal debate with herself. The marching band would be rehearsing, and the floating notes of saxophones and drum lines would be invasive—however, it was also 90 degrees and stuffy, which would take away from the students’ concentration even more.

She ran a finger under her neck ruffle to allow a breeze on her collarbone. One student ran a hand across his forehead, while another leaned a chin on her palm while gazing at the blackboard with half-lidded eyes. One particular blue-eyed teenager shoved her sheet music into her orchestra folder as she organized her things, then moved her bookmark in the Jane Austen novel they were reviewing to the next page. The instructor turned back to the blackboard to circle a bullet point. The teenager looked up, then back to her notes once more when a gasp interrupted all of them. 

The instructor had a hand clasped tightly to her mouth, and tears sprang from the corner of her eyes—now shut into crinkled half-moons. Raucous laughter bubbled out of her as her shoulders bobbed up and down. This jarred the class awake, and as they looked around them to investigate, the instructor began to laugh even louder and point out the window.

In a flash, all 25 kids bolted for the edge of the classroom and began to inspect their surroundings. The muted notes of shuffled feet, flutes, and tubas scooted behind the bleachers. One kid squinted his eyes as another curved his hand over his brow to shade the glare. The volume became exponentially louder as one row marched past the bleachers, then another, and another. The marchers gave no hints—each one was in a hyper focused state, darting eyes from the drum major to their instruments while counting steps. The students glanced back at their teacher, now leaning on the edge of the desk and gasping for breath, then returned their gaze to the scene. The marchers continued to progress past the bleachers when—there! At the tail end of them, something odd slowly began to come into focus. The bottom seats were interrupted with what looked like small feet, walking in time to the music. Trotting shadows began to wave across the pieces of field that were visible between the slats. Before long, one kid spotted what looked like…hair?

When the song grew to a full roar, the students‘ eyes widened as they saw what sent their teacher into hysterics.

The last row of musicians marched past the bleachers—and so did every single dog in the neighborhood. 

How Doc never noticed escapes all of us. My mom, who was taking notes in her English class, couldn’t say for sure. And neither could my dad, who was playing alto saxophone. 

Eventually they’d grow up and raise a bunch of Blue Jays, so I guess it’s neither here nor there. But as far as we’re concerned, it’s still the funniest thing that’s ever happened on that football field.

Footnotes:

*Never ask me or my father about The Beatles, we will info-dump on the nuance of music trends for hours and we won’t let you leave.