The happiest time of the year

Several of my friends are flying south toward warm weather. But I’ve been heading to the local malls to add to my daily steps while soaking in the sounds and sights of the holiday season.

I love this time of year in the Northeast.

There’s a positively charged energy in the air as people pour into stores, stand in long lines, dig out their wallets, and walk out with bags aplenty. Ornate decorations light up the stores and mall areas, and every year they seem bigger and brighter. And there’s the music! Beautiful songs that we all grew up with, as opposed to the everyday music that I just don’t get, with lyrics I can’t decipher. But these songs are timeless and hummable, with lyrics I totally understand, and know by heart. There’s Andy Williams singing “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” Mel Torme’s “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire,” and “Sleigh Ride,” among many other oldies but goodies.

Of course, there are those who stick to online shopping, which may be faster, it’s easier, and there are no long lines. But as far as I’m concerned, they’re missing out on the whole shopping experience. It’s no fun at all. While I’m walking and checking my steps on my Apple watch, I sometimes catch a sale or two. The stores are utterly tempting this time of year, and it’s hard to resist when signs blare “70 percent off!” Thus, my walk is detoured. After all, it’s Chanukah, and time for presents for the big and little ones in my family.

And is it my imagination, but aren’t people so much kinder, cheerier, and more polite this season? Strangers wish one another happy holidays, happy Chanukah, and merry Christmas. It’s hard to believe it was just a few years ago, during covid, when people walked around masked, isolated, and sad.

This time of year also reminds me of my first best friend, Mary Beth Kelly, who lived across the street from our house in Hartford, Connecticut. At that time my family lived on a lovely, ethnically mixed block, with Jews, Irish Catholics, Italians, and Blacks. Canterbury Street was a wonderful inclusive community, and all the kids played together in the street and in our backyards. We had a huge backyard that seemed to go on for miles.

Mary Beth came from a large Irish Catholic family, and they attended Mass every Sunday. The whole family put on their Sunday finest, the girls in poofy dresses and the boys cleaned up with slicked-back hair, and they walked up the street together to the church on the top of the hill.

On Shabbat, we put on our finest too. I wore poofy dresses with a crinoline underneath, and my older sisters had teased up hair, slick with hairspray, and we walked down the block to the Young Israel at the bottom of the street.

On Chanukah, while our freshly polished silver menorah sat on our windowsill, Mary’s Christmas tree lights shimmered from her window across the street. Her large piney smelling tree sat in the middle of the Kelly family living room, with all the many presents tucked underneath.

Mary Beth and I were frequently in each other’s homes, but most of the time we played outside for hours, especially in the summer months. We turned upside down on her backyard monkey bars, played hopscotch, and jumped rope on her driveway, and we colored for hours. We both loved to color pictures. Mary always colored in the lines; me, not so much. When the Good Humor man drove down in the late afternoons, he parked in front of my house, which was right smack in the middle of the block. We always shared a cherry popsicle that had two sides, and broke it down the middle, licking it up until the red juices ran down our chins and stained our fingers.

When we moved from Canterbury Street, I was just 7 years old. It felt like an abrupt departure. I never had the chance to say goodbye to Mary Beth. I didn’t have the words to tell my best friend about being uprooted from the block and my other friends, and I lost touch with her and the rest of them.

Years later, I returned to Canterbury Street and found my old house, right smack in the middle of the block, as I had remembered. Its structure looked similar to what I remembered, but there were some changes. The living room window where we placed our menorah was still in the same place, but the entrance and the color of the house were different. Across the street, Mary’s house still looked the same, but the block had changed, and I didn’t know anyone.

A woman came out the door with a puzzled look. Clearly, she was wondering who was there on her front lawn, just standing and looking. I explained, “This is my old house. I lived here a long time ago. Can I go see the backyard?” She was kind, and she saw how sentimental the moment was for me. She even asked me if I wanted to come inside. “It’s okay. I just want to see the backyard,” I replied.

When I rounded the corner to the back, there it was. My backyard. So large, not just a magnified memory from a child’s perspective. Then I walked down the block to where the old Young Israel had stood. It was no longer there. Most of the Jewish community had moved to West Hartford long ago. But as I headed up the block, I saw that the church that Mary and her family had attended still stood, and it still looked just as I had remembered it.

After that poignant visit, I began tracking down my old friends from Canterbury Street. I found a few, and we all reminisced about our time on that wonderful block from so long ago. They all remembered Mary Beth too, but we can’t seem to locate her.

Wherever you are, Mary Beth Kelly, I hope you are well. I’m sending you good wishes. Thank you for the sweet memories.

Esther Kook of Teaneck is a reading specialist and freelance writer.