The search for something special about Hanukkah
I asked Mom if Hanukkah might be as exciting as Christmas. But, no. Apart from an eight-hole candelabra, with an extra hole in the middle, called a menorah, and a few traditional coins doled out to the children on each of the eight days, that was pretty much it.
Oh sure, there was the little wooden top, or dreidel, but it didn't spin very well. It just clunked around and then fell over. Then there was one single Hanukkah song — about guess what? Spinning a dreidel!
Searching for the bright side
Cookies, at least? Nope. A couple of foods were supposed to be special for the holiday, but my grandmother already made potato pancakes, latkes, every Shabbos (Sabbath) Friday night. So what was the big deal?
My tires went flat.
Sure, I might sing Christmas carols and help trim the classroom Christmas tree, but it was all just a sham.
Addicted to Christmas, a true devotee of the holiday season, I'd had the rug pulled out from under me. Didn't my family understand that I loved everything about Christmas; that in comparison, Hanukkah was coming off like a second-rate runner-up?
But wait! That wasn't all! The offhand remark casually spilled out of my mother's mouth: "Mr. Fingolde-across-the-street is Jewish, too, like us."
Did a black hole just swallow me up?
A great holiday disappointment
Nothing could be worse in my child's view of the world. Now there existed a clear demarcation between "us," the ones who didn't get to celebrate Christmas, and "them," the lucky people who did.
Nice Mrs. Carruthers next door, who smilingly invited all the kids on the block in for frothy cups of eggnog and warm gingerbread, was a "them." Crazy Mr. Fingolde was an "us" — and so were my parents and I.
The equation easily followed in my unsophisticated mind: it was Mr. Fingolde's fault that Jewish people didn't get to have Christmas. My disappointment was now final and complete. Christmas would never be mine to celebrate again.
In the face of my abysmal letdown, my parents decided it was time to "pitch" the holiday.
My mother bought me an illustrated book that explained the Festival of Lights. We went shopping for a menorah. That I would receive a gift every day for eight days was definitely cheering.
Then, my mother added that potato pancakes weren't the only holiday staple; a whole multitude of sweet, yummy things were special for Hanukkah.
And my grandparents could teach me lots of new songs at our family Hanukkah parties; the dreidel song was not the only one. I began to think that maybe Hanukkah wasn't such a poor substitute for Christmas after all.
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