I will admit it freely: I am a Jew who loves Christmas.
I fell in love with Christmas at an early age as I observed the festive, Norman Rockwell-like scenes of holiday cheer that erupted each December in the village where I grew up: Christmas trees twinkling in living room windows; sprigs of holly and mistletoe; poinsettias; plum puddings with hidden silver medallions; gingerbread houses; families warbling ‘round their pianos; eggnogs; fruit cakes; clove-studded hams; hot ciders; evergreen swags; brown paper packages tied up with… oh, sorry—I shift into “Sound of Music” mode when I get excited.
Anyway, every single thing about Christmas floated my boat. It was utterly magical. It was, without question, the most wonderful time of the year.
As my mother would have said, “What’s to hate?”
Except that she did hate it.
She hated it a lot.
As a child, she had been beaten and called “Christ killer” by antisemitic classmates in Pensacola, Fla. Her parents had fled the bloody pogroms of Eastern Europe, and my father was a Holocaust survivor. So, my mother was not a big fan of Christianity and, by extension, Christmas.
But what did that have to do with me? Not quite enough, evidently, because my Christmas obsession persisted until I grew up, left home, and was free at last to indulge all of my pent-up Christmas fantasies. I have concluded that it was a form of holiday psychosis from which I have yet to fully recover.
Thus, it was at the tender age of 18 that I decorated my first Christmas tree, and the word “decorated” should be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism, since my day-long effort produced an “Oh, Holy Cow” mess of epic proportions. In those days, I had no idea that Christmas trees, in order to look like anything but winking, blinking, lumpy mounds of “yech,” needed to be decorated in stages, in a particular order.
Who knew?
But now, having been partnered with my very skilled and elegant Shiksa Goddess for close to 30 years, I understand that the strings of lights are arranged first so that they can be tucked into the deepest recesses of the tree, then subtly twined through the branches. Next, the larger ornaments are hung—with great care, if you are married to my elegant and very particular Shiksa Goddess—and finally, the small ornaments. We always do classic strings of white lights; the colored lights feel a little too circus-y for us, but please don’t think that I am casting Christmas aspersions. Your circus-colored lights look just great, on your tree, at your house.
Besides, what do I know? I’m Jewish.
I love seeing lots of presents under the tree, but gift wrapping has never been a strength. Perhaps that is why I am so fond of the notion of brown paper packages tied up with strings—even I could manage that. But when it comes to fancy wrapping paper tied with satin ribbons, I am a disaster. Either I don’t cut enough paper, requiring me to splice an additional, mismatched piece of paper onto the bottom of the package, or I cut too much paper and am left with bulging pleats and folds that I try to muscle into submission with yards of tape. Ergo, gift bags and pre-decorated gift boxes are a few of my favorite things.
I have indulged other Christmas fantasies, too. One Christmas Eve, I went caroling door to door in the Berkshires with our friends, the Halligs. There were no charming Victorian costumes to wear for that occasion—we were attired in outerwear designed for caroling in Siberia. It was absolutely frigid. Our noses ran, we shook with cold, and death from hypothermia seemed likely. Thank God someone had the presence of mind to bring a flask of whiskey (it was Oskar, bless his heart), which we polished off in short order as we lurched from house to house in a drunken stupor, botching the lyrics, slipping on ice, and cursing Charles Dickens.
I have also sampled plum pudding. I liked it, even after being told that it was made with lard—an ingredient typically absent from my food pyramid. But it was delicious, and I managed not to break a tooth on the silver medallion tucked inside. I considered it a Christmas miracle.
I had no idea that there were strict rules about when Christmas music could—and could not—be played, until I was informed by my colleagues in California that Christmas music was forbidden until after Thanksgiving. I now see the wisdom of this advice, because even though I have dutifully waited each year until the last shreds of turkey have been consumed, I find that I am still sick of “Deck the Halls” by December 15, and the only antidote is half an hour of Led Zeppelin.
However, Josh Groban’s version of “Angels We Have Heard on High” is so stunningly arranged, so gorgeously sung, that I play it throughout the year. Please do not tell my former colleagues. They will put coal in my stocking.
Just to be clear, I am a Jew through and through, and it is probably the most non-negotiable thing about me. I grew up in an observant home, and there is no question that Chanukah is a perfectly wonderful holiday. I celebrate it annually with my eight-tiny-reindeer menorah and a plate of latkes, but really, it just cannot hold a candle—or eight candles—to Christmas. I leave the religious part of the holiday to actual Christians; all I want for Christmas are the accessories.
Although Jews are customarily noted for their collective sense of humor, some in my tribe are unamused when one of their own goes rogue. I wrote an irreverent Yom Kippur column a few years back and got blasted by one of my co-religionists. So, to my Jewish readers who are appalled by my love of someone else’s holiday, I would like to remind you that some of the best Christmas music ever written was composed by Irving Berlin, a Jew. I am sure that anyone who has seen “White Christmas” would agree. I watch it annually; it is my favorite Christmas tradition.
I would also like to remind you that Jesus was Jewish and ended up having a big career as someone else’s God. Apart from becoming a doctor, that is the fulfillment of every Jewish mother’s dream.
So, truth be told, Christmas is our holiday, too. It celebrates the birth of a nice Jewish boy who worked hard and became a deity; it is celebrated with music written by Jewish composers; and Danny Kaye—a Jew—is one of the stars of my favorite Christmas movie, which I will be watching, as I do each year, in about 15 minutes.
That leaves me with just enough time to pop some corn, heat some cider, and settle in for my cherished “White Christmas.” You can find it on Netflix; it just never gets old.
So, before I scurry off to prepare for my annual holiday ritual, I wish all readers of The Berkshire Edge, and those of good cheer everywhere, a very merry Christmas.
