Pasadena, California, January 1, 1986, 5:15 AM: 

I wake to the sound of my dad’s voice—hushed and gravely. “Kiddo, time to get up. We’ve got to get out there early so we can get seats. Melba has some cereal for you in the kitchen.”

Sleeping on the polished wood floor of my grandparents’ tidy Pasadena bungalow hasn’t exactly made for a restful night. Slowly, I roll over and open my eyes to the darkness of the living room. As I wiggle out of my sleeping bag, I remind myself that there’s a lot to look forward to. Today is the first day of 1986! I’m turning 15 in a few months! I get to watch the Rose Parade in person! And unlike my chilly, often rainy-in-the-winter hometown in Northern California, today will be sunny and warm. This is LA, after all. I head to the kitchen to eat Wheaties with my dynamic, turquoise-collecting, organ-playing step-grandmother, Melba. 

Pasadena, California, January 1, 2026, 5:15 AM:

A few seconds after swiping the bar to silence my cell phone alarm, I roll over and gently nudge my 12-year-old daughter’s shoulder. “Time to wake up, Bunny…it’s the first day of 2026! Dad’s got a blueberry muffin for you in the kitchen.” Groaning, she shakes off my hand. She’s not easy to wake up on the best of days, but this morning I fear that the combination of the 3-hour change from our Midwest home, plus an ungodly wake-up time, might make it impossible. The driving rain outside doesn’t help either. Not fair, we’re in LA!

To claim our prepaid parking spot for the Rose Parade, we must arrive by 6 AM. The sun won’t rise for hours over the spacious modern house we are staying in—a house belonging to good friends who are out of town. And thanks to the unusually heavy rain sweeping across the Los Angeles basin, we won’t feel the sun on our skin for almost the entire day. With the promise of an early visit to Starbucks, our daughter finally rises. Blurry-eyed, mostly silent, yet eager to experience the parade. She refuses the muffin. 

1986, 6:30 AM: 

After piling into our blue Honda Accord, my dad steers the three of us (Mom, Dad, and me) the few miles from my grandparents’ house on Arden Drive to Colorado Street in downtown Pasadena. We are meeting our family friends, Kathy and Phil, at the parade. I am particularly fond of Kathy and Phil. The two of them live (child-free) in a house on a steep hillside above the Russian River, where banana slugs leave thin gossamer trails. However, they also once lived out of a school bus full of intricately handmade wooden cabinetry stocked with Mexican beads that was parked in our driveway for a month. 

It’s early enough that we easily find a parking space, but incredibly, many of the prime viewing spots along the parade route have already been claimed. My parents good-naturedly refuse to pay for “overpriced bleacher seats.” As our group stands on the curb discussing what to do, a truck suddenly pulls up next to us, and a burly guy leans out of the driver’s side window. “Hey, we got couches for rent,” he yells. “We’ll drop it off on the street right here and pick it up at the end of the parade. Thirty bucks!” The grownups look at each other, unsure about the offer. I quickly pipe up, “Oh please please please, that’ll be so fun!” Everyone agrees, and the five of us soon find ourselves sitting thigh-to-thigh on a fake leather couch, unexpectedly granted a rather cushy front-row seat to the 1986 Tournament of Roses Parade. 

2026, 6:30 AM:

“Two hot chai lattes with oat milk, one hot cocoa, and a croissant, please.” As one of the few cars in line, we quickly move along the Starbucks drive-through and are soon pulling into our assigned parking space, right on time. Our (uncovered) bleacher seats are only two blocks away, and the parade starts at 8. There’s only one hiccup—it’s raining. Hard. 

We are prepared. The day prior, after trying four separate stores, we were finally able to purchase plastic rain ponchos (never mind that we now appear to be huge LA Rams fans). We are also equipped with plastic garbage bags to sit on, snacks, and a change of clothes. My husband, who is attending the Rose Bowl football game after the parade, has his own see-through bag packed complete with regulation-sized water bottles and a towel. We waive off the friendly lady weaving through the nearly flooded parking lot, offering Rose Parade seat cushions for $20 each. 

Sitting in the dark, we listen to the rain drum on the car windows and sip our warm drinks. Our breath builds steam as we stretch out with the ease of the early hour. I’m grateful to share this cozy time with my daughter and husband. These quiet moments with our girl are fleeting—she’ll turn into a teenager this year. I can feel her consciously shaping her own identity apart from us, no longer attached to my hip or sharing every detail of her life with me the way she once did. She got her first phone for Christmas this year. Turning to ask her something, I see that she’s stretched out across the backseat, her head resting on a rolled-up sweatshirt, sleeping soundly. 

1986, 8:00 AM: 

The Pasadena City College band marches by, mere inches from our crossed ankles, the blaring horns and drums making my head throb. “Did I ever tell you I went to Pasadena City College before I went to Principia?” asks my Dad. I roll my eyes (a common occurrence), “Yes, Dad, many times. I know you played baseball for them, too.” 

He clears his throat, then his thoughtful gaze shifts to mine. “What would you think about taking the Honda over to the Rose Bowl parking lot tomorrow? If it’s not too crowded, you could practice the stick shift a bit.” My eyes grow wide. “Really?” I ask incredulously, even though I know he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t mean it. My dad never goes back on his word. 

This Grand Marshal of this year’s 133rd Rose Parade is Mickey Mouse, tying in perfectly with the theme: A Celebration of Laughter. I’ve been to Disneyland once, when I was three, but not since. My dad is a freelance writer, and our vacations are almost always centered around visiting family or camping. I know better than to ask for a trip to Disney—there isn’t a budget for that. 

Mom, Dad, Kathy, and Phil point out the flower-covered floats, plentiful prancing horses, and celebrities. The sun is out and beginning to warm the excited parade crowd. After a while, I lean against my mom, close my eyes, and turn up the volume on my Walkman. The parade is entertaining, but I’m tired. I’ve never been much of a morning person. Right now, I’d rather be at home, calling my friends on the phone and listening to Adam Ant. 

2026, 8:00 AM:

Still in the car, we’ve been waiting for a break in the rain, but it hasn’t arrived yet. Parade start-time is approaching, so we pull on our ponchos, ready our bags, and step out into the downpour. At least it’s daylight now. Suddenly the festive atmosphere surrounds us. I get the sense that this is about as friendly a scene as you’ll find in Southern California.  

We walk the two blocks to our assigned bleacher seats, avoiding puddles and trailing behind a group of young Latino men yelling into a microphone about the importance of fearing Jesus (what would the all-loving Jesus say about that advice, I can’t help but wonder). 

Above us, a large squawking flock of Pasadena parrots flies by, a welcome distraction from the rain. This flock is much higher in number than the flock that used to fly above our San Francisco cottage.

We’re up in the 20th row of metal bleachers ($336 for three seats, parking, and one program). The garbage bags we brought have come in handy, and we place them across the soaked seat. Behind us, a young girl is on the lookout for her dad, who plays the clarinet in one of the marching bands. Directly in front of us is a couple sharing our love for the Indiana Hoosiers, playing in the Rose Bowl football game in just a few hours for the first time since 1968. How wonderfully strange it is to travel across the country only to be surrounded by people connected to our own Midwest hometown and team. 

Around us, the damp crowd stirs as the first rose-bedecked motorcycles cruise by. The 137th Rose Parade is starting! One clever, vibrant float after another sails by, horses of every breed and color (from the Budweiser Clydesdales to mini therapy horses from Calabasas) and the most impressive, inspiring marching bands we’ve ever seen in a parade. 

One band, the Allen Eagle Escadrilles from Allen, TX, includes so many members (600) that they create a royal blue sea stretching down the road as far as the eye can see. 

My daughter is particularly impressed by the perpetually waving lovely 2026 Rose Court, the elephants on the San Diego Zoo Safari Park (announcing the park’s new Elephant Valley attraction), and the stack of hot syrupy pancakes featured on the City of Sierra Madre float. 

My husband and I enjoy the gorgeous City of San Francisco float (our former hometown), the Star Trek 60 “Space for Everybody” float featuring a grinning George Takei and Tig Notaro, Apple TV+’s Shrinking float (one of our favorite shows, shot in Pasadena—where are Harrison Ford and Jason Segal and Jessica Williams??), and a glimpse of the great Earvin “Magic” Johnson, the 2026 Pasadena Tournament of Roses Grand Marshal, still going strong at 66 years old. 

Through the rain, the brave parade participants wave, drive, clop, and march. Under her poncho, my daughter texts her friend, “Can’t talk now, I’m at the Rose Parade.” 

1986, Noon: 

Walking up the low concrete steps leading into my grandparents’ home, the five of us feel hungry, tired, and overstimulated. My step-grandmother Melba has made us soup and sandwiches, and we eat together in her immaculate kitchen, bright Los Angeles sunshine reflecting off the yellow walls. Phil regales us with stories of his wayward youth in San Diego. Across the room, my towering Swedish Grandfather winks at me, his kind blue eyes crinkling at the corners. 

Afterward, collapsing on yet another couch, I lean heavily against my mom. I might be fourteen, but in many ways I’m still her little girl. 

2026, Noon:

The parade has ended, and for the most part, so has the rain. Walking carefully down the bleachers, we make our way to the street, where we part ways with my husband. Father and daughter hug tightly, and we tell him to enjoy an experience he has been dreaming about since he was a child, his Indiana University team playing in the Rose Bowl. (Not exactly a) spoiler alert—they won. 

Weaving through the parade stragglers, we head in the direction of our car. The two of us are hungry, tired, and overstimulated. While her dad walks down Colorado to catch the shuttle to the Alabama vs Indiana Rose Bowl Football game, my daughter and I head to Glendale where we have tickets to see the final episode of Stranger Things on the big screen.  

A few hours later, reacting with emotion to her favorite character’s shocking demise, my daughter leans heavily against me in the dark theatre. She might be twelve, but in many ways she’s still my little girl. 

Thanks for the memories California, you know how to throw a parade, no matter what year it is. We’ll be back soon. Hopefully the sun will be out.