My friend Lynne and I have been observing the annual tradition of Oktoberfest in our neighborhood for years. It runs over a weekend in mid-September.

I usually just make it over to the big tent on Saturday night or Sunday afternoon to have a brat and a beer. I had never seen the opening parade before.

It was a beautiful day and I was a little giddy at the prospects of having a first-time experience.

And the spot Lynne picked out was perfect. Just across from the library, it provided good views and wasn’t particularly crowded.

Families sat on the curb as lederhosen-wearing teens and girls in their dirndl dresses tossed out candy from passing floats.

Why is Oktoberfest in September? I think I pose this question to Lynne every year as if it might unlock one of the great mysteries of life.

We laughed as we watched the parade and the parade-watchers.

There were tricked out VW Beetles chugging down the street, old bald men in Kaiser Wilhelm style spear-topped helmets carrying Deutsch-American banners, knee-slapping dancers on a float that resembled the Brandenburg Gate, and blue and white themed vehicles transporting bawdy looking barmaids. They were from Hofbrau Beer, one of the official sponsors of the event.

The old lady who sat on a folding chair next to us, confided good-naturedly., “Look at the old Germans who came in from the suburbs for this.”

We took special note of the marching bands, which were usually led by a small group of flag or banner carrying guards announcing where the group was from. Hard to believe some featured groups came all the way from Milwaukee for a neighborhood parade.

A few folks, dressed in their everyday garb walked in between the bands and slow-moving flatbeds. They’d shake hands with people standing along the route or pass out diminutive black, gold and red flags. Politicians, happy to be German for a day.

I first spotted the Riverside-Brookfield High School marching band when they were a couple blocks away. They wore navy blue jackets and hats with white feathers. It was a big group. I watched the faces of the teens as they came closer. Some were so serious and others …

I started to think about when I marched in my high school band. I played the flute. I remembered the flute section usually occupied the front row. We had to keep an eye out for horse droppings if we were following a troop of mounted policemen.

When we marched in the big Christmas parade downtown, it was hard to keep our hands warm and impossible to keep our instruments from going flat. I smiled at the thought of high school band rivalries and the simplicity of the musical arrangements we played.

The band stopped in front of the library. I listened intently to the music, trying to pick out the name of the tune. Was it a Beatles number? No.

Slowly, the lyrics started filtering into my mind. Hey, hey, hey baby…I want to know if you’ll be my girl…

A girl near my side of the street caught my attention. She wasn’t particularly tall, but she didn’t seem dwarfed by the sax she carried. She wore sunglasses and actually danced in place when the band stopped in front of Sulzer Library.

She loved playing music. She loved dancing. She loved marching in the band.

As she swung her torso from side to side, I saw that she was happy. Under her short brown hair, behind her sunglasses, I imagined that her eyes were smiling. Seeing her dance in place made me happy too.

Hey-ay-ay bay-bee…

Ah, what could be better than wearing a uniform (with feathered hat), toting around your saxophone, and dancing in place to a classic rock love song?

Being in the band, marching in a parade on a perfect September day is no small thing