Malcolm Goldman and the Great Thanksgiving Parade

It was the kind of morning where the world outside looked like it belonged in a snow globe. A blizzard had swept through overnight, leaving trees, rooftops, and even Winston’s doghouse buried under a thick blanket of white. The roads hadn’t been plowed, so the neighborhood was silent, save for the occasional muffled thud of snow falling from a roof. Our long-planned guests wouldn’t be coming. I suspected none of the neighbors would be enjoying the Thanksgiving traditions they had planned for either.

Inside our house, though, it was warm and cozy. The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the unmistakable aroma of turkey roasting in the oven. Sarah, my wife, had decided to roast one for the three of us—four, if you counted Winston and it was a given that Winston wouldn’t settle for anything less than a full plate of his own.

I was sitting in the living room trying to decide if I really wanted to get into a thick Dean Koontz novel I had just picked up at the used book store when my seven-year-old, Malcolm came barreling into the room, wearing a red jacket with brass buttons and a top hat that sat crookedly on his head. A wooden spoon twirled in his hand like a conductor’s baton, and his face was set with the kind of determination usually reserved for people about to storm a castle.

“Dad,” he announced, sternly, “we have a situation.”

I set down my coffee and my book. “A situation? This ought to be good.”

When he knew he had my full attention, he nodded and continued. “Mrs. Kowalski,” he said gravely, jabbing the spoon at me for emphasis. “She’s alone. On Thanksgiving. And that’s not okay.”

“Malcolm,” I said, “we invited her, remember? She said she was happy staying home.”

“She’s not happy,” Malcolm insisted, waving the spoon as if batting away my excuse. “She said she’s happy because grown-ups lie about stuff like that. You said so yourself when you told Uncle Doug his meatloaf was great.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it again. He had a point. I glanced at Sarah, who was standing at the counter slicing carrots. She raised an eyebrow at me, clearly enjoying this.

“That’s why,” Malcolm continued, puffing up his chest, “I’m bringing her a parade. The Great Thanksgiving Parade! With floats, music, and Winston as the mascot.”

Winston, who had been snoozing under the table, let out a low groan, as if to say, Leave me out of this.

“A parade,” I repeated. “And how exactly are you going to pull that off?”

“With vision, Dad,” Malcolm said, planting the spoon like a flag. “And teamwork. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And you’re helping,” he added, pointing the spoon at me.

“I am?”

“Yes. Because Thanksgiving is about helping people,” he said, grinning. “And Winston is the turkey.”

Winston growled softly.

By mid-morning, Malcolm’s “parade” was in full swing—or at least, it was starting to be. He’d conscripted me into building his “float,” which was really just the red wagon he insisted we cover with cardboard sails. He called it the Mayflower. A stuffed turkey from his toy box was strapped to the front, and Winston had been reluctantly outfitted with a feathered headband that hung crookedly over one ear.

“Magnificent,” Malcolm declared, stepping back to admire the wagon. “This is going to change everything.”

Sarah poked her head out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Malcolm, what exactly is your plan?”

“Easy,” he said. “We’re bringing Mrs. Kowalski a parade. She’ll love it.”

“And then what?”

“And then…” He faltered for a moment, then brightened. “Punch and cookies.”

He marched out the door, kazoo in hand, spoon twirling like a baton. Winston trudged after him, the feathered headband slipping lower with every step. I grabbed my coat and followed, not entirely sure what was about to happen.

Two houses down, Emma, the girl from next door, spotted us. She was sitting on her porch swing, wrapped in a blanket, when Malcolm banged on her fence with the spoon.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Parade,” Malcolm said. “For Mrs. Kowalski.”

Emma frowned. “Why?”

“Because she’s alone,” Malcolm explained. “And we’re bringing her joy.”

Emma tilted her head. “Can I bring my bike?”

“Only if you decorate it,” Malcolm said, handing her a roll of toilet paper from the wagon. “Make it festive.”

Within minutes, Emma was trailing behind us on her bike, now covered in streamers. She rang her bell in time with Malcolm’s kazoo, which was only slightly out of tune. By the time we reached the Jenkins’ house, the parade was gaining momentum.

“What’s all this racket?” Mrs. Jenkins called from her porch, wrapped in a scarf.

“Parade,” Malcolm said. “For Mrs. Kowalski.”

“Well, isn’t that something,” she said, smiling. “Do you think she’d like my sweet potato casserole? I was going to save it, but…”

“She’d love it!” Malcolm said. “Bring it. And tell everyone!”

Mrs. Jenkins disappeared inside, and when she returned, she wasn’t just carrying the casserole—she’d also called Mrs. Nguyen, who showed up moments later with a bowl of steaming dumplings. The smell of ginger and soy sauce mingled with the crisp winter air, making my stomach rumble.

As we made our way down the street, more neighbors joined in. Mr. Parker contributed a pumpkin pie, and Mrs. Patel handed over her famous cranberry relish, its ruby-red sparkle catching the sunlight. Timmy from down the block banged a toy drum, and even the giant Golden Retriever, Sampson from three doors down had been recruited, pulling a sled of various culinary concoctions. Dana and Mike Johnson had planned on a full house that would never materialize due to the storm so they decided to join in the fun by loading up the sled.

Then Sarah showed up, carrying the foil-covered turkey. Malcolm froze mid-march, his top hat slipping forward.

“Mom?” he said. “You’re coming too?”

“Mrs. Jenkins called,” Sarah said. “She said you were pulling off a Thanksgiving miracle and needed a turkey.”

Malcolm hugged her and grinned ear to ear. “Mrs Kowalski is gonna’ be so surprised.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure there are gonna’ be cookies?”

Malcolm nodded assertively. “I would bet my allowance on it!”

By the time we reached Mrs. Kowalski’s house, the parade had become a full-fledged neighborhood event. The table inside her small dining room, which had been empty just that morning, was soon piled high with delectable dishes. Sweet potato casserole and dumplings sat alongside green bean casserole and fresh rolls. The cranberry relish sparkled like jewels, and the turkey’s golden skin gleamed under the warm light. The air was filled with the rich, buttery smell of roasted turkey, the sharp tang of cranberries, and the faint sweetness of cinnamon.

The adults, who had started out as reluctant participants, were now fully invested. Mr. Parker helped carve the turkey, and Mrs. Jenkins rearranged the dishes to make more room. Someone suggested making a toast, and before long, the room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses.

Mrs. Kowalski, seated at the head of the table, looked around in amazement. “This is incredible,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

“It’s not just me,” Malcolm said, his spoon held high like a sword. “It’s everyone.”

As the feast wound down, to the delight of little Emma (and of course Malcolm too), Mrs. Kowalski brought out her famous punch and chocolate chip cookies, which Malcolm immediately declared the “grand finale.” He stood on a chair, kazoo in hand, and gave an impromptu speech about the importance of “teamwork and joy, and the spirit of Thanksgiving,” though most of it was muffled by the cookie in his mouth.

“See, Dad?” he said a few minutes later as neighbors continued to mingle. He leaned back contentedly in his chair. “Told you it would work.”

I smiled, ruffling his hair. “You’ve got a way of making things happen, kid.”

Even Winston, now stretched out under the table, seemed content—for once.

As I looked around the room, at the neighbors laughing and the table piled high with food, I realized Malcolm’s parade had done more than just cheer up Mrs. Kowalski. It had turned a snowbound Thanksgiving into something magical—something none of us would forget.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Kowalski!” Malcolm called out.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Malcolm,” she replied, smiling. “And thank you—for everything.”