It may have been the 1990’s, but I remember laughing and singing the Happy Happy Joy Joy song to my children at the top of my lungs. Yesterday, I found myself singing it silently deep inside myself as I had lunch outside of the friendly confines of Chicago’s Wrigley Field. It was a beautiful, sunny, warm and memory provoking afternoon.
I stopped and people watched as parents, grandparents, friends and children of all ages walked down the familiar avenues of Sheffield and Waveland that pass Murphys. The barkers hawking their wares of souvenirs, parking spaces and peanuts all blended into the background and the sheer happiness of camaraderie embraced the intersection.
My bratwurst with sauerkraut and yellow mustard was just as important to setting the scene as the smiles on every single face. The sheer joy, the expectations of the unknown, the quality time all equated to the sum of just simple happiness. Strollers babies, toddlers holding elders hands, pointing to the flapping banners above the center field scoreboard and the policemans whistle attempting to control the traffic flow.
I stood against the red brick wall and just watched. I shared a few selfies and let the memories of my childhood replay in my head too. The times I was the child holding my dads hand, and the times I was the dad holding my children.
It was an hour of therapy that unknowingly was needed. It was an hour of serenity, enjoyment and downright elation. It was happy, and it was joyful.