Malcolm Goldman and the Very Merry Holiday
The door to my office banged open so hard that Winston, my perpetually unimpressed basset hound, let out a startled bark and shot under the desk like the world was ending. Standing in the doorway, clipboard in hand and a wooden spoon pointed like a sword, was Malcolm.
His Hanukkah sweater was slightly crooked, his Santa hat perched at an angle, and a glittery sash that read HOLIDAY CHEF was slung proudly across his chest.
“You’re the Holiday Chef?” I asked.
Malcolm’s bright face twisted into a scowl.
“It’s ‘Chief,’ Dad,” He protested.
“Well, buddy, “ I replied,” you spelled ‘chief’ wrong,”
Malcolm glanced down at the sash trying to read it upside down before giving up and saying “Okay. I’ll be right back,” before racing from the room.
A few minutes later, he was back with a freshly edited title. “I put the ‘I’ in ‘chief’ Dad, He announced,
I smirked. “You certainly do.”
He looked at me quizzically and decided to ignore me. “Did you hear what I said before?” he asked.
“I did,” I said, setting my coffee down. “What’s this emergency?”
“It’s Mr. Connelly!” Malcolm declared, slapping his clipboard onto my desk. “He doesn’t have anything, Dad. No menorah, no tree, no lights. It’s like his house doesn’t even know it’s December!”
“Maybe he doesn’t celebrate the holidays,” I suggested.
Malcolm froze, staring at me in horror. “Doesn’t celebrate? But that’s… that’s illegal!”
“It’s not illegal,” I said, chuckling. “Some people don’t like holidays.”
“But holidays are the best!” Malcolm said, pacing the room like a general planning a battle. “Cookies, candles, lights—what’s not to like?”
“Well,” I said, “there are more holidays than just Hanukkah and Christmas. Some people celebrate Kwanzaa, or the winter solstice. And Mrs. Kowalski probably has her own Polish Christmas traditions.”
Malcolm stopped mid-pace, his eyes narrowing. “Polish Christmas? Does that mean extra cookies?”
“It might,” I said. “Why don’t we ask her?”
Malcolm grinned, his Santa hat slipping further down his forehead. “Grab your coat, Dad. We’re going on a holiday mission!”
The Neighborhood Tour
Mrs. Kowalski opened her door with a tray of cookies in her hands and her apron dusted with flour. The warm, sugary smell of cinnamon and gingerbread wafted out onto the porch, making Winston’s nose twitch as he perked up beside us.
“Malcolm!” she said. “What brings you here?”
“We’re learning about holidays,” Malcolm said, clipboard in hand. “What’s Polish Christmas like?”
Mrs. Kowalski ushered us into her kitchen, where more trays of cookies cooled on every available surface. Her small Christmas tree twinkled in the corner, adorned with delicate ornaments that looked older than I was.
“Oh, Polish Christmas is full of tradition,” she said, setting down the tray. “On Christmas Eve, we have a special dinner called Wigilia. There’s no meat—just fish, pierogi, and soup. And we always leave an extra chair at the table for an unexpected guest.”
“Why?” Malcolm asked, frowning.
“Because no one should be alone at Christmas,” Mrs. Kowalski said simply.
Malcolm scribbled furiously on his clipboard. “No one should be alone…” He looked up suddenly. “Mrs. Kowalski, Mr. Connelly doesn’t have anything! Not a menorah, not a tree, not even cookies!”
Mrs. Kowalski’s smile faded. “That poor man. He’s had a tough few years.”
“Well, we’re fixing it,” Malcolm declared. “Come on, Mrs. Kowalski. Bring cookies.”
“To where?” she asked, laughing.
“To the neighbors,” Malcolm said. “We need more holiday traditions. My dad said there are lots of them.”
“You have a very smart dad,” she whispered to him confidentially. Malcolm agreed.
Mrs Kowalski untied her apron, and hung it over a hook. Then she smoothed down the front of her dress and placed some cookies in a tin to bring along.
“Lead the way, Malcolm” she said.
Malcolm was happy to oblige, “Come on, Winston,” he said,” We’re going for a holiday adventure!”
Winston looked at me as if to say “Really? Do we have too?”
I shrugged at him and pointed toward the door—the universal sign for “let’s get a move on.”
Mrs. Jenkins greeted the four of us wearing one of her signature sweaters—a bright blue one with a snowflake pattern that sparkled in the sunlight. Her house smelled faintly of pine, and Malcolm’s nose wrinkled as he caught a hint of something herbal.
“Malcolm!” she said, clearly pegging him as the leader of our little unit, “What brings you by?”
“We’re learning about holidays,” Malcolm explained, without hesitation. “What’s yours?”
She thought for a moment and replied, “Well, no one ever seems to ask anymore, but I celebrate the winter solstice,” Mrs. Jenkins said, stepping aside to let us in. “It’s the longest night of the year, so we light candles and reflect on the season.”
Malcolm squinted at the candles on her mantle. “You don’t spin them, do you?”
Mrs. Jenkins chuckled. “No, dear. We just light them and think about what we’re grateful for.”
“Huh,” Malcolm said, jotting it down. “Candles for thinking. Weird, but cool.”
“Why are you asking?” Mrs. Jenkins asked, curious.
“Because Mr. Connelly doesn’t celebrate anything,” Malcolm said. “And we’re bringing him the holidays.”
Mrs. Jenkins clapped her hands. “Well, he could borrow some of my candles. No one should be without light this time of year.”
When Malcolm invited her to come along, she did—both she and her husband Rick. So the foursome became six and we made our way down the block.
By the time we got to Mr. Parker’s house, our group of 6 had blossomed into a group of 12, made up of the Newest Neighbors, Pam and Jim Ferris who had brought along their daughter Krystal and their little boy Steven—a few years younger than Malcolm but with seemingly twice the energy. Then Sarah joined us and that made us thirteen before we were greeted too by little Emma and her mother Jen. Mrs Kowalski suggested we sing some carols and since we all knew Jingle Bells and Rudolph, those were the ones we sang as we made our way down the street.
Mr Parker was hanging lights on his porch when we arrived, singing merrily. He greeted us with a grin and an offered us all what turned out to be very welcome hot chocolate.
Malcolm regaled Mr Parker with the details of our mission and asked “What’s your holiday tradition?”
“Kwanzaa,” Mr. Parker said, gesturing to the kinara on his dining table. “It’s about family, community, and heritage. We light a candle for each principle.”
“Another holiday with candles?” Malcolm muttered, writing furiously. “Does everyone steal Hanukkah’s thing?”
Mr. Parker laughed. “Candles are universal, kid. Want to borrow the kinara for your project?”
“Absolutely!” Malcolm said. “Mr. Connelly needs all the candles he can get. And a lot more hot chocolate too!” he said before adding, more like a command than an invitation “and you’re coming with us.”
Mr Parker didn’t even hesitate. “Oh I’m not gonna miss this. Let me grab my coat!” a few minutes later, off we went again, leaving the warmth of Mr Parker’s living room to brave the cold again until we reached the little bungalow occupied by Mr and Mrs Nguyen and their cat Misty. When Misty came to the door, Winston backed away. He had met Emma’s cat Felix in the summertime and he wanted no part of cats anymore after that.
Mr. Nguyen answered the door with a warm smile and the smell of spiced tea spilling out behind him. His small living room was decorated with red and gold lanterns, and a plate of fresh spring rolls sat on the counter.
“Malcolm!” he said. “What’s this all about?”
“We’re learning about holidays,” Malcolm said. “What’s yours?”
“We celebrate Tet,” Mr. Nguyen explained. “It’s the Vietnamese New Year. Lots of food, red envelopes, and family.”
Malcolm’s eyes lit up. “Do you have any candles?”
Mr. Nguyen laughed. And Mrs Nguyen replied: “No candles, but we have lanterns—and I’ve just finished making a pot of fresh dumplings. I’ll bring those too.”
“Perfect,” Malcolm said. “Onward we march”
At this point, I felt the need to warn him, “Malcolm, you remember how cranky Mr Connelly can be, right,” I asked. “Are you sure you want to go there? I mean everyone is having so much fun. We could all just go back to our house and leave that angry old man be.”
Malcolm looked at me like I had three heads. The room went silent for a moment as if real contemplation were taking place.
It was Mrs Kowalski who broke the ice. “Oh, Charles is a pussy cat,” she said, speaking of Mr Connelly. “He just misses Dorris lots the same way I miss my Henry.” She paused and smiled through what threatened for a moment to be a tear. She leaned down and as if conspiring with Malcolm tapped her tin of cookies and said “If all else fails, I brought my secret weapon!” Malcolm grinned, took Mrs Kowalski by the hand and lead the march toward the darkened house with the unkempt yard standing at the end of the block.
By the time our procession reached Mr. Connelly’s house, word had spread around the neighborhood and it seemed everyone wanted to join in, memories fresh from our impromptu neighborhood Thanksgiving feast. The newcomers carried pieces of their own traditions. Winston brought up the rear as we started to sing Jingle Bells for what seemed like the dozenth time.
Malcolm marched up the steps with all the confidence of a seven-year-old who thinks the whole world can be fixed with cookies.
He knocked on the door with the wooden spoon, clipboard in his other hand.
The door creaked open, and Mr. Connelly appeared, his scowl firmly in place. He looked over the crowd who had stopped singing abruptly, mid-song.
“Well,” he asked, a growl fueling his voice, “What do you all want?”
“Hi, Mr. Connelly!” Malcolm chirped, undaunted and grinning up at him. “We’re here to bring you the holidays!”
“I don’t need the holidays,” Mr. Connelly snapped. “Goodbye.”
Before he could shut the door, Winston barreled through the crowd, and shot through Mr Connelly s legs, followed closely by Malcolm.
Mr Connelly was momentarily stunned. “Wait. You can’t…”
He turned to the crowd as if looking for help. He settled in on Mrs Kowalski who was grinning from ear to ear. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded angrily. “And why is this b-boy and his dog in my —-“
“Oh do pipe down, Charles,” Mrs. Kowalski said sharply, pushing her way toward him. She reached in her tin and held up a cookie, her face set in a way that made her years of dealing with Mr. Connelly’s grumpiness very clear. He stopped talking. Silent. His face began to redden and he looked for a moment as if he might really make a scene.
He opened his mouth as if to speak but Mrs Kowalski wasn’t having it. Before he could say another word, she shoved that cookie right into the stunned old man’s gaping mouth and pressed her way through the door. The neighbors all followed.
“You’ll think more clearly once you’ve had some sugar,” she advised him as she stepped past.
Mr. Connelly froze, the cookie still hanging halfway out of his mouth. Slowly, his expression shifted—first surprise, then something that looked suspiciously like delight.
“Well,” he mumbled around the cookie, “I suppose you can come in.”
In a matter of minutes, the house transformed into a patchwork of traditions. Candles flickered on the mantle, lanterns glowed warmly in the windows, and the dining table groaned under the weight of cookies, pierogi, dumplings, latkes, and spring rolls. Winston lay sprawled under the table, gnawing contentedly on a decorative pinecone.
Mr. Connelly, at first reluctant, slowly began to thaw. He tasted a latke, then a spring roll, then another cookie—each time muttering something about “not being so bad.” By the time Malcolm was explaining the meaning of Hanukkah with the solemnity of a tiny professor, Mr. Connelly actually laughed aloud—the sort of laugh that only erupts from the sort of man who had forgotten how after not having laughed for many years.
“Well, Charles,” Mrs. Kowalski said, handing him another cookie, “you’re practically cheerful.”
“Don’t push it,” he grumbled, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed him.
Malcolm climbed onto a chair, his clipboard held aloft. “See, Mr. Connelly? Holidays are the best! Cookies, candles, lights—everything’s better when you share it.”
Mr. Connelly looked around at the bustling room, at Mrs. Kowalski fussing over her cookies, at Winston snoring under the table, and at Malcolm, whose sash glittered in the candlelight. He shook his head and chuckled—a warm, quiet sound that made everyone pause.
“Maybe the kid’s got a point,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Holidays aren’t so bad after all. Merry Christmas,” he said. He looked around the room at all the various faces each with our own traditions and holidays and then he added “And whatever else you celebrate.”
There aren't enough Malcolms in the world these days.....