Why I Never Had Christmas Envy

Christmas is lost on me. As a Jewish girl navigating the holidays, I never had the urge to decorate a tree, visit Santa, or make a gingerbread house. I have never tasted eggnog. I mean what is nog anyway? Since I’m not a huge fan of drinking raw eggs, I probably wouldn’t like it in ‘nog.’ I could not pick mistletoe out in a plant line-up, nor have I been kissed under it. That I know of. And unfortunately, I never understood many of the Christmas carols…especially after my mom marched into school saying I did not have to sing them in the yearly Christmas concert. I wondered, why does Steven get a feast? I thought Frankincense was a cereal. Like BooBerry. As a child, I giggled every time I heard the word virgin in Silent Night. We never had silent nights in our house…we were Jewish! We didn’t know the meaning of silent.

When I grew up, we played dreidel for money, hoarded bags of chocolate gelt which did not taste so good after Chanukah was over, wrestled each other over whose turn it was to light the menorah, and watched my mom fry latkes in not one but three electric skillets at a time. We did not have a Chanukah bush because there was no such thing, as I informed both of my children. We sang Rock of Ages and told stories about Judah Maccabee, and since Chanukah was one of the least important Jewish holidays, it was not about religion. But most of all, Chanukah was never about Christmas. The fact they may have coincided on the calendar was the only similarity we took notice of. Chanukah was Chanukah. Christmas was Christmas. And to me, Christmas means two things: Florida and the Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movies.

Growing up, Christmas began around December 18th, the day my parents pulled my brother, sister, and me out of school to leave for Florida. It wasn’t a treat, it was a given. It was also considered our primary Chanukah present. For many years, my dad drove our big burgundy Chevy Impala, and all five of us sang out of tune along with Glen Campbell, Steve Miller, and Barry Manilow, eagerly waiting for Convoy or Disco Duck to come on the radio.

Christmas meant CB radios, EZ cheese in a can, Pedro from South of the Border, and counting the cows for a promised penny a piece along the stretch of I-95 from Philadelphia to Miami. Christmas meant the Fountainebleu Hotel (pre-South Beach opulence), Jai-Alai, The Rustic Inn, Joe’s Stone Crabs, and Jaxson’s Ice Cream. Christmas meant grandparents, early bird dinners, flea markets, and the wafting smell of mothballs and matzah balls seeping under apartment doors. Christmas meant Coppertone, fresh squeezed orange juice, Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies, and hours waiting in line for smoked fish. Christmas meant sitting around the pool with the same friends we saw just once a year, every year, who also celebrated Christmas in the sunshine state. Those two wonderful weeks were like overnight camp in December. Christmas meant my favorite childhood memories except it didn’t have anything to do with Christmas at all.

Now Christmas means being wrapped in a heated blanket, in front of the fireplace, watching a marathon of Hallmark Hall of Fame holiday movies. My favorites include the beautiful lovesick/divorced/widowed/single woman who finds true love/long-lost relatives/new purpose in a hospital/ her new job/new city/hometown, all in the name of Christmas spirit. They are stories of Joy. Hope. Love. Resilience. Peace. I love these movies and watch as many as I can, tears continuously dripping down my face at the ‘surprise’ endings. I can’t get enough of them. I DVR them all planning to watch in January, saving them for a snow day, except as a writer who works in her pajamas, every day is a snow day. Even in July. I do not know what the attraction is. Am I secretly coveting Christmas? Have I gotten it all wrong about what the holiday represents?

I don’t go to Florida for Christmas anymore. My grandparents and parents are all gone and I’m sure many of our favorite places have been replaced with a giant Costco, probably giving out free samples of eggnog. Luckily, I still spend Chanukah with my brother and sister and our children. Bags of chocolate gelt are taped onto brightly wrapped presents. Busy schedules often lead to us celebrating Chanukah on Christmas Day. Now it is my sister’s and my turn to fry the latkes in three pans simultaneously. The generations have merged together like the colored wax melting into each other on aluminum foil. We sing traditional Chanukah songs and each child gets a turn picking which color candle should go next in the menorah. One for each night, they shed a sweet light. To remind us of days long ago. One for each night, they shed a sweet light. To remind us of days long ago. Joy. Hope. Love. Resilience. Peace.

Perhaps I do have the Christmas spirit after all.