Well, what do you know? It’s that time of year again. Time for me to name this year’s Coolest Neighborhood, an annual ritual stretching back as far as I can remember.

OK, I’ve never done it. Never even thought about it, in fact, until I got a motorcycle and started wandering out in the countryside.

You know the scene. Bright-eyed children are playing hopscotch in driveways on grids they drew in chalk. Among them, a deliriously happy beagle is running around and barking, occasionally wandering away to chase butterflies, which are abundant along this street.

In one spacious backyard, men in aprons are toiling over a barbecue grill. Spatula in one hand, beer in the other. They’re talking about the Red Sox. Doesn’t it feel like those bums are headed right back to the pits? Oh, well. Maybe all the changes will be good for them. They just wish the Sox weren’t saddled with so many prima donas with bloated contracts.

Closer to the house are clustered the women, who are sharing recipes or tips on how to get gravy stains out of the drapes. Two of them are drinking wine. One is drinking a lite beer while another is sticking to tap water because . . . Well, I guess there’s no harm in telling you. Mrs. Q from next door is pregnant at last. We’re all very happy for her. They’ve been trying for so long.

At least two guys are throwing around a football. A couple others are next to the garage looking over Ron’s new riding mower. Ain’t that a beast? The men burn to know how much he paid for it, but no one is tactless enough to ask.

A motorcycle buzzes by on the street out front and everybody pauses to wave to the rider, who waves back in a bemused way.

A couple houses down, a pair of men are chatting over the top of a fence. The fence is white, freshly painted. One of the men is older, a retired train engineer. The other is young and new to the neighborhood. The younger one is wrestling with the kind of problem that might seem trivial to someone from another place. His 12-year-old son has been clamoring for a dirt bike. Clamoring hard, in fact. But his dad isn’t sure. Aren’t dirt bikes dangerous?

The older man gives his advice only because he was directly asked for it. He’s wise enough to know the advice may not be taken. He’s OK with that and smiles. His own kids are grown up and long gone. He kind of misses the kind of adventure that comes with a house full of growing children.

The motorcycle is passing by on the street out front. Both men turn toward the road and tip a finger to the rider, who nods in his helmet to return the greeting.

Near the end of the street, a teenager is fumbling around under the hood of his car. It’s a nice car, but not too nice. This kid isn’t spoiled. He had to take extra shifts at the grocery store to pay for it. He had to earn enough money to pay for things like insurance and registration, too. It’s been hard work but he loves his ride. He won’t be one of those who leaves a hundred feet of skid marks up the middle of the street out front. What, are you crazy? You know how much tires cost these days?

When the motorcycle passes, the young man waves a wrench to say hello. Once again, the rider nods.

Farther down, a man is standing quietly and looking up at his house. Is it too soon for Christmas decorations, he wonders? It probably is, but man, he can’t wait to get started. His kids are old enough to appreciate the holiday now. It’s going to be a fun Christmas season.

Next door, a widow is sweeping her driveway. She’s been widowed a long time and has learned to do most things herself. When she needs help, though, it’s there. This is a good neighborhood. They take care of one another.

When the motorcycle rolls by, the woman smiles and nods just slightly. Ah, memories. She remembers when her husband, in the early stages of a mid-life crisis, went out and bought a big old Kawasaki. The poor man dumped it the first time out and scraped up both knees and both hands. He sold the bike without a word and used the money to put in a backyard pool.

It’s just another Saturday in this year’s Coolest Neighborhood. Every weekend is like this, a buzz of convivial interaction. The motorcycle rider knows because he passes through at least three times a week on his way to a friend’s house. He’s collected a lot of nods and waves over the summer, he’ll tell you that. More than he can count.

And that’s why this year’s Coolest Neighborhood, as declared by me, is Marston Street in Auburn. It’s just a short road connecting one neighborhood to another, but it’s jampacked with good nature. And while it may have its dark side, as all neighborhoods do, on the surface it’s an idyllic place; the kind of place I might have lived if my life had taken a different turn somewhere along the ride to here.

Congratulations, Marston Street, you’ve earned the distinction. And because I so enjoy that 30-second strip on my way from here to there, I’ll reward you in the only way I know how. I promise I won’t move in.

You’re welcome.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can nominate your neighborhood for his upcoming column on adultery and alcoholism at [email protected].