I am so excited this year getting to play the 85th Anniversary

Host: The morning sky was a sheet of cold silver, the air sharp with the smell of roasted chestnuts, diesel fumes, and anticipation. Broadway was flooded with color — balloons the size of dreams, marching bands gleaming in brass and sequins, and the hum of thousands of voices that could make even the frost feel alive.

Jack stood at the corner, hands buried in his coat pockets, his breath clouding in the cold, his grey eyes fixed on the slow procession of floats inching their way down the avenue. Beside him, Jeeny was wrapped in a red scarf, her cheeks flushed, her smile unguarded, her eyes reflecting the movement of color.

Jeeny: “You know what Rodney Atkins said about this parade? ‘I am so excited this year getting to play the 85th Anniversary Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Everyone knows on Thanksgiving morning to get up, turn on the TV and watch the parade, so to be an actual participant is going to be fun and I'm looking forward to it. I am gonna have to put on my deer hunting gear, though, to stay warm!’”
She laughed, her voice light, visible in the cold air. “Can you imagine? A country singer in hunting gear, singing under those giant balloons.”

Jack: (with a half-smile) “Seems fitting. The only thing more American than Thanksgiving is pretending to be cheerful in subzero temperatures.”

Host: The wind cut through the street, carrying the smell of coffee, pretzels, and caramelized nuts. The crowd cheered as a giant Snoopy balloon floated by, towering above them like a friendly god of nostalgia.

Jeeny: “You really don’t like crowds, do you?”

Jack: “I like honesty. And nothing about this looks honest.”

Jeeny: “What are you talking about? Look around! Families, kids, music — it’s joy, Jack. Pure joy.”

Jack: “It’s performance. Manufactured warmth. The kind that vanishes once the cameras stop rolling.”

Jeeny: “You’re impossible. You’d find cynicism in a sunrise.”

Jack: (smirking) “Only if it came with a corporate sponsor.”

Host: A marching band passed, their instruments shining, their breath visible, their movements sharp and precise. The crowd erupted, a wave of cheers and applause rolling through the avenue. Jeeny clapped, her gloves muffling the sound, while Jack stood still, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betraying a faint curiosity.

Jeeny: “You see that? Those kids have been practicing for months for this. They’re freezing, probably exhausted, but look at them — they’re glowing. That’s not fake.”

Jack: “That’s discipline, not joy.”

Jeeny: “Discipline and joy aren’t opposites, Jack. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting confetti from the street, spinning it in the air like a miniature snowstorm of paper light. A float of a giant turkey rolled by, the feathers shimmering, the music swelling.

Jack: “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I do. It’s... memory in motion. My dad used to wake us up at dawn on Thanksgiving just to watch it. Pancakes, pajamas, the parade on TV. I thought the floats were real magic.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Now I know it’s work, but that doesn’t make it any less magic.”

Host: Jack looked away, watching a clown troupe wave to the crowd, their painted smiles both absurd and sad. For a moment, his face softened, something distant moving behind his eyes.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mom worked Thanksgiving every year. Hospital shifts. No parades, no pancakes. I used to sit by the window and watch other families drive by, heading to dinners that weren’t ours.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s why you hate it.”

Jack: (shrugging) “I don’t hate it. I just don’t believe in it. All this... color, music, togetherness. It’s like we’re all pretending the world isn’t as cold as it is.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we’re remembering that it doesn’t have to be.”

Host: The sunlight broke through the clouds, gilding the tops of the buildings, the floats glowing brighter for a brief, transcendent moment. The crowd gasped as the light hit a massive silver balloon, turning it into a mirror of sky and color.

Jack: “You really think a parade can make the world better?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not better. But it reminds us we’re not alone. Sometimes that’s enough.”

Jack: “You talk like belief is a choice.”

Jeeny: “It is. Especially when everything else tells you not to.”

Host: The band’s drums thundered, echoing through the buildings, vibrating in their chests. The energy was contagious, unfolding even the most guarded hearts. Jack watched a young girl on her father’s shoulders, waving a small flag, her face alight with pure awe.

Jeeny: “Look at her. That’s the point, Jack. That’s why Rodney Atkins was so excited. The world’s complicated, but some things — like that — still make sense.”

Jack: “You think awe’s a cure for cynicism?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s a start.”

Host: A moment passed, quiet yet loud, filled with music, wind, crowd noise, and heartbeats. Jack took a slow breath, the cold air cutting his lungs, clarifying something unspoken.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been standing too far away. Watching life like it’s a broadcast instead of something to be in.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then get in it. That’s all this parade is — people showing up to remind each other they’re alive.”

Host: A float carrying a country band rolled by, guitars glinting, voices rich and warm. The singer, bundled in hunting gear, grinned into the cold wind as he sang about home, hope, and the long road between them.

Jack: (grinning faintly) “There he is. Rodney Atkins. You were right — looks like a snowman with a guitar.”

Jeeny: “And still smiling through it. That’s America for you.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s messy and loud and sometimes hollow — but it’s ours. And every once in a while, it’s beautiful.”

Host: The song ended, and the crowd cheered, a wave of warmth that seemed to reach even the coldest hearts. Jack clapped, quietly at first, then fully, his face open, the cynicism softening to something human.

Jeeny: (laughing) “See? You can be part of it. It’s not so bad.”

Jack: “Maybe not. Maybe the trick isn’t staying warm — it’s letting yourself feel something even in the cold.”

Host: The camera of the moment pulled back, rising above the avenue — the crowd waving, the floats gliding, the music spilling upward like colorful smoke.

Jack and Jeeny stood among thousands, two small figures wrapped in sound and light, both changed quietly by the simple act of showing up.

And as the final balloon drifted past, the sun broke fully through, gold on glass, smoke, and smiles —
reminding them that even in the coldest mornings,
joy doesn’t have to be believed in to be felt.