Spring turns to Summer
I Love a Parade
As Spring turned to Summer, I was getting restless—or nervous. Or both. The real campaign effort wouldn’t begin until after Labor Day, and that still felt like a distant future. I hadn’t even filed for office yet. Filing wouldn’t begin until mid-July.
There was plenty to do, but I needed help. I was canvassing apathetic voters. The few meet-and-greet events I attended with the posse, drew more campaign staff and fellow candidates than actual voters, which told me nobody was really paying attention yet. Rene and I talked about it, and then she’d say something that made me feel like she wasn’t hearing me at all.
Don’t worry too much. Nobody’s listening now.
At one of those sparsely attended meet and greets, Wally, Rene, and I were chatting when Rene turned to me and said, “Wally and I are going to do the Oceanside Independence Parade. Why don’t you come too?”
Wally stared blankly, his eyes rolling behind his smile.
“A parade in Oceanside? Uh, yeah, sure,” I replied.
At that point, I was saying yes to almost anything. Being part of Rene’s posse made me feel like I was doing what candidates do, so it seemed productive. Later, out of Rene’s earshot, Wally and I briefly discussed something neither of us knew much about: what we were supposed to do at a parade—or why we’d agreed to be in one.
On the way home, Rene told us we’d also be doing the Rancho Santa Fe 4th of July Parade together. She also said that both of us should show up for the San Diego Pride Parade couple of weeks later—even though she would be on vacation that day.
Rancho Santa Fe puts on a 4th of July Parade? The wealthiest, uh, whatever it is, in San Diego County? I thought, "Oh, this ought to be good.
Wally and I never communicated unless Rene was around, but we both did some quiet Google research on parades and marked our calendars.
As the Freedom Parade drew near, I kept asking Rene what, exactly, we were supposed to do. She’d look at me with disbelief and say:
It’s a parade. What the hell do you think we’re going to do?
I concluded that Rene had no idea either.
The DEMCCO newsletter helped fill in the blanks. There was a short article about the parade. They were renting a convertible decorated with club signage, and the president would ride in the back, waving. Members were invited to walk behind the car with signs. There was even a photo of their entry from the previous year.
I showed the article to Rene, and her face lit up.
"Great! That’s what we’ll do. Find out all about it and arrange everything with DEMCCO. Just let Wally and me know and we’ll meet you there.”
That confirmed it—Rene didn’t know anything useful about the parades. I just nodded and said okay.
I “found out all about it and arranged everything” and on parade day, the posse met up at our assigned slot on Wisconsin between Ditmar and Coast Highway.
In the meantime, I had made a decision: I would wear the same outfit to every public event. A kind of unofficial campaign uniform. White button-down shirt, long sleeves rolled up, top button open. Loose red tie. Gray slacks. And a pair of $350 Allen Edmonds black cap-toe Oxfords purchased under auspices of Rene.
The idea was simple—I was a man with his sleeves rolled up, ready to serve. The parade was a good time for its debut.
Rene never commented on my outfit. Wally wore his own version of it, but no tie and mild Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants and Nikes. Rene, predictably, dressed casual.
We were ready to parade.
Oceanside Independence Day Parade
The convertible was there when we met at our designated location, along with about 30 DEMCCO members.
I had asked Rene what kind of sign I should carry. “Bring a bunch of your lawn signs,” she said. “You can hand them out to the DEMCCO people.” Not the clearest guidance. She’d already convinced me to order 500 signs, even though I couldn’t imagine needing more than fifty. I asked if they were recyclable. Well no, she said—but I could use them around the house, especially in the garden. I didn’t want to get into that conversation, so I let it go.
As per Rene’s rules, the signs said only my name and “City Council.” No slogans, no city, just text large enough to read at 30 miles an hour. But in 2016, Oceanside had its own City Council elections, and I already knew at least one candidate running there.
I saw three or four people without signs and offered them mine. They agreed cheerfully. One asked where I lived in Oceanside. I told him I lived in Carlsbad. He looked at me skeptically. I added that there would be “lots of Carlsbad people” watching the parade. That was a lie. After that, I decided if anyone else asked where I lived, I’d just smile, wave, and walk away.
The parade route stretched a dozen blocks down Coast Highway—four-lanes and a wide painted median. At first we moved slowly, stopping and starting, guided by marshals. It felt like a game of Red Light, Green Light.
Eventually the pace settled, and Rene took charge. She darted from one side of the street to the other, shaking hands and shouting greetings like a swing-state candidate. Wally followed her lead and quickly found a rhythm—zigzagging from curb to curb, holding out his hand, grinning for photos. Rene began trailing him, holding up his campaign sign each time he stopped.
I copied the pattern, though I usually zagged when they zigged. I walked with my sign in the lane closest to the sidewalk, smiling and waving. When I spotted someone wearing a veteran’s baseball cap—and there were many—I stepped closer to thank them for their service. Most seemed surprised. Otherwise, I stayed in the center, smiling and waving. I didn’t want anyone asking about my residency.
It was fun. We reached the end of the route faster than I expected. On the walk back up Coast Highway, we carried our signs but did not stop to talk.
I wasn’t sure how many spectators were Carlsbad voters, but it didn’t matter. The crowd responded warmly. It felt real. Messy, awkward at first—but real.
We were pros at this now.
Rancho Santa Fe 4th of July Parade
The Merry Pranksters
When Rene pulled up to my house, I did a double take. She wasn’t driving the sporty, competent BMW 321i she had driven before. This was a slightly dusty Honda Odyssey with a stubborn sliding side door resisting every attempt to open it smoothly. Oh yeah, I recalled, she was a soccer mom. Somehow, we had never once talked about her kids. I searched my memory of her office, trying to recall how many children she had from the framed photos that sat on her desk. Judging from the condition of the Odyssey, it was more than one or two.
Only after I’d buckled in beside Wally did I notice Helen riding shotgun.
I paused for a moment, unsure whether to joke about the car or say hello to Helen. I opted for the latter—after a quick glance at Wally. He caught the look and said, “I invited Helen, thought it’d be fun.”
The joke came to me at last, “If I’d known we were going in a bus, I’d have said we should paint it in psychedelia and go as The Merry Pranksters.”
Wally, riding high on our Independence Parade success, got it and boomed, “Hell, we are the Merry Pranksters!”
Rene and Helen both laughed in that polite way people do when they’re pretty sure a joke was made, and they don’t want to be left out.
Wally had updated his parade wardrobe. He wore a dark blue baseball cap monogrammed in small white letters—U.S. Navy Fighter Weapons School. Knowledgeable people know it as Top Gun. And he had exchanged his mild Hawaiian shirt for a dark blue polo monogramed modestly in white with “Captain Wallace C. Binghamton, USN Ret.” His military bonafides now would not be questioned. And his cap almost always started a conversation. I wondered whether Rene was behind the wardrobe change.
I briefly considered Helen for membership in the posse, but that didn’t seem likely. Maybe honorary membership. For the day.
The Gathering
We arrived early at the Roger Rowe Gymnasium parking lot—the staging area for the 35th Annual Rancho Santa Fe Parade and Picnic. We were in for a long wait. There was plenty to see, like the vintage cars that were part of the parade, a fire truck, and cars decorated for the occasion by local civic groups. We had all recognized that the Independence Day Parade had been worthless for my campaign and decided that our presence would be dedicated to Wally's campaign. We had a banner that was carried by two young college students, friends of Rene's oldest daughter, both of whom lived on the outskirts of Rancho Santa Fe.
In the lineup we were placed ahead of Darrell Issa, CD49's incumbent up for reelection, who objected to our presence altogether claiming candidates should not be allowed – he was entered as a VIP congressman and not a candidate. He was riding on the back of a 2016 Mercedes-Benz SL 550 Roadster with dealer plates, meaning he had borrowed the brand new car (no doubt without cost) from a local Mercedes dealer. After some discussion with parade officials, we were allowed to participate, but had to follow the $108,000 car. Wally and Darrell met and had a brief conversation after shaking hands.
Issa's candidacy had run into headwinds when it was revealed that he had been indicted for grand theft auto, twice, as a young man years before he ran for Congress. Both times he pleaded down to misdemeanor charges.
"It was all a misunderstanding," he said, as if that explained everything.
It's not a Date, No Really
During our wait, Helen and I had one or two brief conversations of the type we had at the Farmer’s Market, friendly and newsy. But it was understood she was there to help Wally's campaign and spent the waiting time with him while I happily checked out the classic cars, the gymnasium, and park. I wondered if Helen had reassured Wally that she campaigned with many candidates, not just single men with impressive military credentials.
As we lined up behind Issa's car, she stepped behind Wally and adjusted the back of his monogramed Polo which had ridden up a bit and then gave him a gentle pat on his arm. It was just a small, familiar gesture. Except for poking me that time at Wally's meet and greet, she and I had never touched. At the Farmers Market, if we ended up too close in line, she’d sometimes take a step back. I’d noticed she would keep space between her and others too. It wasn’t personal. I thought of her like a proximity cat—drawn in, then retreating, always on her own terms.
The Captain Meets the Admiral
During the parade Helen shadowed Wally closely holding a Rene designed Binghamton for Congress lawn sign high as he approached and conversed with spectators on both sides of the narrow two-lane street. Rene walked without a sign, ahead of our banner carriers and Issa's car, to find spectators who she thought would be good for Wally to greet, like she did at the Freedom Parade. I stayed behind the banner and greeting baseball-cap-wearing veterans and others who had not been singled out by Rene.
Part of the route went through a short stretch of residences with tastefully designed and landscaped estates. That area only had a few spectators.
One, though, was memorable enough that we lingered—and Rene took photos. Several family members had wheeled out an elderly man in a wheelchair wearing a Navy Dress Blue uniform with white combination hat and a substantial number of service ribbons on his left breast. As we came closer Wally identified the man as an admiral by the four stripes on his sleeve. The admiral spoke slowly and softly, befitting his advanced age. He could well have been in the Navy by the end of World War II or most certainly the Korean War. Wally and the Admiral chatted for a minute or so. The Admiral seemed genuinely pleased to greet Captain Binghamton as an equal. Wally rose to the moment, standing at ease with his shoulders squared and his voice toned down, louder than a close conversation but not yelling. His family members expressed concern about the warm sun and seemed ready to take him up the long driveway back inside, so we moved on. But the encounter energized us with a certain pride and renewed energy with the realization that we were in the right place doing the right thing on the 4th of July.
The Picnic
The parade itself was not that long, perhaps it took 20 minutes to walk the circular route ending a block away from the starting point. It was a short walk to the park where many from the crowd were setting up picnics. Rene, Wally and Helen continued their encounters with picnickers in the park who were eager to have conversations with Wally.
I was not needed for that, and I was hungry and thirsty, so the banner carriers and I found a taco cart of suspect hygiene and questionable license encased in a greasy plastic envelope taped to the glass. There were hot dog stands, too, but tacos also pass as patriotic food on the 4th of July in San Diego. There were Hispanic families having picnics. There was no sign of ‘La Migra’—what ICE was called by undocumented residents before the Anglicized acronym came in common use. They might have been working this holiday on the I-5 and I-15 checkpoints, or officers normally on the local beat might have had the day off.
It was truly a great day.
Sadly, it was the last day of the posse; There was no single reason, each of us just went about our separate business as the campaign drew nearer.
San Diego Pride Parade
Then came the San Diego Pride Parade.
The posse had dismantled. Wally and I arrived separately, with no planned meeting location—but somehow, in the chaotic staging area that spanned several blocks, we found each other right away. It felt like a small miracle. Helen was no doubt at the parade, but hanging elsewhere.
Somehow I had ended up with Wally’s banner after Rancho Santa Fe, so I was drafted to carry it alongside one of his other volunteers. That was fine with me. Someone snapped a photo of me holding a “Proud to be an Ally” sign—sent to me by text a few days later. I wore my standard event attire. Wally had reverted to his mild Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and Nikes. This wasn’t a patriotic holiday. It was something else.
The parade was massive, loud, joyful, unapologetic—and it completely swallowed us. We were slotted between two enormous floats. One blasted club anthems and fired rainbow confetti into the air. The other featured a gyrating dance troupe in coordinated unicorn outfits.
Our entry was… less exciting.
Zigzagging was out of the question. It didn’t fit the mood. No one came to Pride hoping to be approached by candidates in sensible shoes handing out palm cards.
We were simply ignored.
And it made perfect sense. The applause, the cheers, the cameras—they were for others. We didn’t mind. We were there because it was right to be there. It was long. It was hot. But it was fun.
And it was miles—literally and figuratively—away from the Rancho Santa Fe parade.
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