Growing up in a Jewish home, we celebrated all the Jewish and American holidays in full style. We have enjoyed each at its given time, with the proper full table and decorations. As a little girl, I never dreamed of waking up to see what Santa might have left me, I knew that was for the other kids. I was happy with my eight nights of Hanukkah, my gelt and dreidels and latkes and knowing I was that anomaly at school who didn't blend in.
But... one year... things were different.
It was 1969. That year, my family had moved from Newton Centre, Massachusetts to Cherry Hill, NJ. Shortly after we moved in, we watched with amazement as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. I went from not understanding Red Sox fever to not understanding Mets fever. (AGAIN with the kids and their transistor radios!)
I was in 4th grade, and my little brother Geoffrey was in 1st. Of COURSE we walked to school, and it was quite a hike. As we walked along, we met up with our neighbors and friends. We made friends quickly and summer turned to fall turned to winter.
I remember one very cold and slightly snowy morning, and our usual friends were sparse. As we approached the "major" intersection where the crossing guard usually protected us from the dozen or so suburban cars, who slowly made their way toward the school, we saw she was not there. Being the big sister, I took my little brother by the hand when the light turned green. We boldly crossed, me feeling proud and accomplished. When we arrived, unscathed at the school, we found, to our delight, it was a snow day! Our small group turned around and trudged back home, through the inch and a half of accumulated snow, most likely to my mother's chagrin.
As was the norm back then, the school was decorated beautifully. As you walked into the lobby, there was a huge Christmas tree, and it made the foyer smell great. The tree had ornaments and lights, and back in those days, that metallic tinsel that came in single shreds. The lobby had other decorations as did every hallway and classroom. The school was positively festooned with Christmas decorations.
Was there the obligatory menorah in the lobby? I doubt it. Did one or two teachers hang up some Hanukkah decorations? Maybe. Was there a Kwanzaa candelabra up? There wasn't even Kwanzaa yet. I don't know what other parents told their children, but I just knew it wasn't my holiday. I knew when I got home there would be my holiday waiting for me... and it was okay.
And then, it was time for Christmas vacation. The school did what they had always done, they entered every child's name into the raffle to see who would get to bring the giant Christmas tree home. They did not ask who wanted to enter. They did not consider who might not want a tree, or who might already have one. And little Juliet Cantor, one of a handful of Jewish children in the school won that Christmas tree.
I didn't think for a second to argue with the principal of the school, or turn down this tree. At 9 years old, I had not yet even considered standing up to authority, and it was true, we didn't have one...
So.
There I was.
To my surprise (and probably dismay) winning the Christmas tree did not mean winning any of the lights, ornaments or that pretty tinsel. The custodians had made quick work of that while we were in our last classes of the afternoon.
I rounded up my friends, which included my boyfriend Andy and his best friend Paul (both Jewish) and little Geoffrey (we let him carry the top of the tree, since he was only 6). And the four of us schlepped
As a parent... I can't imagine what I would do if any of my kids EVER came home with a Christmas tree. But I can tell you what mine did.
They let me keep it.
My dad configured some kind of stand for it in our den. And I was allowed to make decorations for it... origami and snowflakes... and we admired it. Since we didn't know about watering it, it dried out nicely, dropping its needles all over the place. My cousin happened to be visiting and he taught me to draw a perfect 5-point star and we colored them in, punched holes, used Mom's yarn to make loops, and hung them up on the tree. Then we taught Geoffrey how to draw Stars of David, as I had just learned in Hebrew school, and did the same with them. We did not see the irony.
When Christmas came, there were no presents under that tree. We didn't hang stockings with care, or leave cookies for Santa. But for one year, we had that intoxicating scent of pine wafting through the house. After that, my dad took it outside, chopped it up, and let it dry, and we used it for firewood. It smelled wonderful in the fireplace.
It's funny to think of it now. A Christmas tree in our house. My parents acting like it's no big thing. And because they acted that way, it wasn't. (Although I did ask if we could buy tinsel and lights, and they said no.)
When I reminded them of this story, family lore at this point, I asked them if there were photos I could use to enhance the blog. They both looked, but, not surprisingly, there were no photos to be found.
Since that time, we've always enjoyed Christmas as guests, celebrating with others. Enjoying their traditions, foods, stories, and Christmas trees. And definitely the music. But that one year was the beginning and end of Noel in our house.
 |
| The author, as artistically "elfed" by @pawhite. |
To read more of my Jewish blogs about Christmas, click on these links:
http://myso-calledblogat.blogspot.com/2013/12/why-theres-plaster-jesus-in-my-basement.html
http://myso-calledblogat.blogspot.com/2011/12/in-memory-of-friend-at-christmas.html
