During the first three years of my life, the only time she saw the inside of a synagogue was the day the rabbi permanently indoctrinated me (snip, snip) into the tribe. My dad? The closest he ever came to a religious experience was when Hank Greenberg hit a home run.
One of the great mysteries of my life was why my family would exchange presents each year on Christmas day—minus the Christmas tree. I can recall being about three years old and running into the living room of our apartment in Kearny and finding it full of toys. My eyes went wide, my mouth agape.
“Where is the Christmas tree, Mommy?”
“We’re Jewish. We don’t have a Christmas tree. We have a menorah.”
“Then why do I get my presents on Christmas?”
“Never mind, just play with your toys.”
Shrugging off my mom’s evasion, I focused on my new Good Humor truck, happily pedaling it through the apartment until it was time for bed.
Three years later, Mom brought home another brother and it was time to leave our one-bedroom apartment in Kearny. We moved to West Caldwell, where my parents became friends with the Clausens, our neighbors across the street, who always invited us to spend Christmas Eve with them. Each Christmas Eve, I would ask my mom if we could get our own Christmas tree. Her reply was always the same: “Can you just imagine what people would think of us if they saw a Christmas tree in our house?”
We shared Christmas Eve with the Clausens for many years, but some years stand out more than others. I was about ten years old when my friend and I each received the same present, a bazooka that shot big yellow plastic torpedoes. My friend’s mother was a deeply religious Catholic who adorned her house with pictures of Jesus. Her most treasured possession was the ceramic Jesus that sat atop the family’s TV set.
My buddy and I chased each other around the living room. Then I knelt down and my brother tapped me on the head, so I fired my bazooka at him. My friend ducked and, as fast as you can say sacrilegious, I knocked Jesus right off the TV. Until that moment, I had never seen an adult other than my mother cry hysterically. As my mother started screaming, my father started peeling off his belt. It was then that I heard a sound that I can only attribute to divine intervention. “Praise Jesus,” a voice said, “He is okay.” The warm rush of relief that spread through me was the best gift I ever received. On the downside, after that day the only presents I ever received from our neighbors were clothes.
Years passed. I went away to college and met my future wife, Diane. She was sweet, cute, and Catholic. Despite years of maternal incantations to “marry a nice Jewish girl,” the deciding factor in choosing her as my wife was that I would finally have my very own Christmas tree. The day we put up our first one was one of the more memorable days of my life.
Diane and I eventually settled in Montville, close enough to both of our families that our home became the center of Christmas festivities. My mom even came to love those Christmas Eve parties.
Many years have since passed, and I still love Christmas as much as I did that first year, when the toys magically appeared in that cramped apartment in Kearny. But a funny thing happened on my way toward Christmas heaven: I’ve come to appreciate the uniqueness of Chanukah. We bought a menorah and have incorporated it into our holiday traditions. People still ask me why we have both a Christmas tree and a menorah. “Never mind,” I tell them. “Just play with your toys.”
One of the great mysteries of my life was why my family would exchange presents each year on Christmas day—minus the Christmas tree. I can recall being about three years old and running into the living room of our apartment in Kearny and finding it full of toys. My eyes went wide, my mouth agape.
“Where is the Christmas tree, Mommy?”
“We’re Jewish. We don’t have a Christmas tree. We have a menorah.”
“Then why do I get my presents on Christmas?”
“Never mind, just play with your toys.”
Shrugging off my mom’s evasion, I focused on my new Good Humor truck, happily pedaling it through the apartment until it was time for bed.
Three years later, Mom brought home another brother and it was time to leave our one-bedroom apartment in Kearny. We moved to West Caldwell, where my parents became friends with the Clausens, our neighbors across the street, who always invited us to spend Christmas Eve with them. Each Christmas Eve, I would ask my mom if we could get our own Christmas tree. Her reply was always the same: “Can you just imagine what people would think of us if they saw a Christmas tree in our house?”
We shared Christmas Eve with the Clausens for many years, but some years stand out more than others. I was about ten years old when my friend and I each received the same present, a bazooka that shot big yellow plastic torpedoes. My friend’s mother was a deeply religious Catholic who adorned her house with pictures of Jesus. Her most treasured possession was the ceramic Jesus that sat atop the family’s TV set.
My buddy and I chased each other around the living room. Then I knelt down and my brother tapped me on the head, so I fired my bazooka at him. My friend ducked and, as fast as you can say sacrilegious, I knocked Jesus right off the TV. Until that moment, I had never seen an adult other than my mother cry hysterically. As my mother started screaming, my father started peeling off his belt. It was then that I heard a sound that I can only attribute to divine intervention. “Praise Jesus,” a voice said, “He is okay.” The warm rush of relief that spread through me was the best gift I ever received. On the downside, after that day the only presents I ever received from our neighbors were clothes.
Years passed. I went away to college and met my future wife, Diane. She was sweet, cute, and Catholic. Despite years of maternal incantations to “marry a nice Jewish girl,” the deciding factor in choosing her as my wife was that I would finally have my very own Christmas tree. The day we put up our first one was one of the more memorable days of my life.
Diane and I eventually settled in Montville, close enough to both of our families that our home became the center of Christmas festivities. My mom even came to love those Christmas Eve parties.
Many years have since passed, and I still love Christmas as much as I did that first year, when the toys magically appeared in that cramped apartment in Kearny. But a funny thing happened on my way toward Christmas heaven: I’ve come to appreciate the uniqueness of Chanukah. We bought a menorah and have incorporated it into our holiday traditions. People still ask me why we have both a Christmas tree and a menorah. “Never mind,” I tell them. “Just play with your toys.”