Christmas Passed

My first experience with Christmas wasn’t until I was in high school. Sure, I knew what it was and it was hard to deny its presence once the pumpkin patches turned to tree lots, but I only had a high level concept of the event gleaned from beloved TV specials and movie classics like A Christmas Story. I imagined it was something like a combination of a Thanksgiving Day feast, a well-stocked birthday party and a ride on “It’s a Small World” (with slightly less repetitious music). Whatever it was, it sounded awesome and I wanted a piece of it.

I realized I was on a different life path when my mother would make her annual trip to our elementary school to embarrass the crap out of me and my sister,… or, from my mom’s perspective, “to share ethnic diversity” in the form of potato latkes with our Christian / Catholic counterparts. Turned out we were the only Jews in the entire district so my mother saw it as her duty to spread the word of God and try to make Hanukkah sound cool. Not an easy sell down on the school yard.

Historically Hanukkah was more of a minor festival, somewhere between Easter and Groundhogs Day. It was meant to celebrate the miracle of a deep fryer that kept the home fries cooking for over a week while the chosen people hid under their table trying to wait out some particularly persistent Mormon missionaries that came knocking at the door. Ok so maybe the fryer was an oil lamp, the table was a temple and the Mormon’s were Maccabees, but you get the idea. The telling of this tale is not nearly as catchy as “the birth of our lord and savior”. The first Christmas would become such a defining moment that we would change our very measure of time from that point forward. The first Hanukkah,… they may have invented shadow puppets, who knows, I wasn’t there, but you see the disparity; Hanukkah is like the Coors Lite to the rich thick Guinness of Christmas.

My parents tried to up the game and keep up with the gentiles. We got some blue string lights and decorated a Hanukkah bush. My dad, being the handy electrician, made a 3 foot wide menorah with light up candles that we would set in the front window, just in case people were wondering where that one crazy Jewish family lived. Like all Jewish (American) parents they would try to play up the fact that we got eight nights of presents while our friends only got one.   That might sound great in theory, but think about Christmas morning when you’re faced with a pile of presents and then have to wait so everyone can take turns opening one present at a time. Imagine the torment of waiting your turn,… now imagine opening just one single present and then being asked to wait entire day before you can open another; That would be Hanukkah. To make matters worse a lot of those early presents were nothing to write Santa about, they were either necessities such as socks and underwear, or just plain sucky gifts like coloring books with some B-list cartoon characters like “Dastardly and Muttley”. I can remember waiting all day for the sun to go down so my mom could light the candles and then waiting again after dinner for the candles to finally burn out. Then, and only then, were we ready for the big event. We’d retire to the family room as my mom dug around in the closet for a suitable present du jour. The day long torment and anticipation culminated in this one exciting moment; “Yay, my very own Hot Wheel! I’m going to sleep. Wake me at sundown”.

Don’t get me wrong I do have many fond memories of Hanukkah as well. The Sunday brunch that my mom would host with fresh bagels and an assortment of weird salads and Jell-O concoctions that were all amazing together. Teaching my friends how to gamble with the dreidel and eating the chocolate gelt (coins) as we played. The few times when the final big present was a trip to King Norman’s Toy Store at the mall and we got to pick out our own present.

But still I always wondered what lay behind the curtain, how did the other half,… or the other seven-eighths live? I got to see the aftermath growing up, going over to my friends’ houses following the big day while still on Christmas break (before schools changed the name to “Winter Break” so as not to offend). They all had amazing piles of loot to show off, not to mention a healthy dose of candy and other random leftovers that still littered the living room days after the tree had been pillaged. Everyone was happy in the post-holiday glow. Everything about it seemed magical, and a night much better spent then our traditional Christmas Eve of Chinese food and a movie. “Wanna see my Hot Wheel?”

When I was in high school, one of my friends, Pat invited me over to experience their family ritual. Pat was the youngest of four kids, and each of his siblings was married or engaged by this time. Combine that with a couple of grandkids and a few other friends and relatives and you got one very full house. For them Christmas Eve brought the sentimental exchange of gifts between family members, opening all of the presents under the tree. On Christmas morning Santa would leave a fresh batch of special bonus presents to round out the holiday.   It was a warm, cozy, boisterous night filled with love and laughter. It was everything I’d ever dreamed off, with one small exception; as welcome as they made me feel it still wasn’t really “mine”.

I celebrated my first Christmas about five years later when I’d turned 21. Appropriately it was spent with my first real girlfriend. We went out on a blustery morning to pick out a tree of our own. We decorated our tree together (something I’d never done before) as we drank hot cocoa in holiday mugs. I put presents under the tree. I listened to Christmas carols freely. I embraced the holiday.

After I was married there was no turning back. Christmas would explode all over the house on the first of December. I happily hung lights from the roof (at least as much as I could reach with a ladder), lined the windows and sprung for some festive lawn ornaments.   When kids came along they enjoyed both holidays; a sampling of Hanukkah throughout the week, including a traditional first night dinner of brisket and latkes with doughnuts for dessert and then a full Christmas experience with all the trimmings.

At this point I can’t imagine a year without Xmas. Even after the divorce, with some of the established customs disrupted and kids only appearing on alternate years, I still enjoy all the moments leading up to the big day. For me it’s not about religion; I celebrate the spirit of Christmas; peace on earth, goodwill towards man, all that sappy stuff. I don’t go to Midnight mass and I don’t have to trade in my mezuzah for a crucifix. I still love and respect my heritage and all that comes with it. But there are only so many times I can listen to the one Hanukkah song by Adam Sandler on the radio while I could play A Charlie Brown Christmas on a continuous loop. It warms my heart, and this is a time of year to share your heart with your friends and family in whatever way feels best to you. So Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night,… l’chaim.



Someone asked me what my primary motivation in life was. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that directly. I know for some it’s as simple as faith. For others it can come from inspiration born of tragedy; an inner artistic voice that cries out to be free; a drive to be better than a sibling or to rise above the means of your parents. I don’t ththrowback_thursday1_largeink any of these really apply to me. It’s like I’m missing a compelling back story that would account for where I am today and lay out everything I have yet to accomplish.   The answer that I came up with is something more indirect. I love watching kids playing the games I’ve made or see people read comic strips I’ve drawn. At home this extends to just watching my kids thrive and be happy. Knowing that something I do can positively affect someone is the most satisfying motivation for me. Then I wonder, as I do about everything, is that enough? Is that a real motivation? How does that help me when I have no timelines or deadlines? I think I have trouble inspiring myself with the indirect motivation that maybe someone will someday see this something I’m spending hours on and appreciate my creation. It should be more internal shouldn’t it? Or maybe more transcendent? More inspired? More soulful? Like others with an artistic voice I should want to create simply for the sake of creating. The mere act of creation should bring me peace and joy. Nirvana. Lacking that how does one change their primary motivation,… or improve upon an existing one? Maybe I need to focus on the “positive affect” and keep that as a mantra whenever it comes time to draw. Maybe I need to find motivation to find a better motivation.


Give Me a (Lunch) Break

It was a beautiful autumn day for the pumpkin patch field trip. I was volunteering for the first time with my daughter’s kindergarten class. It also happened to be the first time in a while that I’ve been in direct proximity to other parents of young children. Last time I was among this crowd I was in my late 30’s and even then I was one of the elder parents in attendance. Now, nearly ten years later, the age gap is more significant and the discrepancy between nouveau-parents and seasoned veterans is more painfully clear.

A perfect example of this discrepancy was packed in the children’s lunch bags. Mind you now, this was a field trip and specific instructions were given to provide each child with a fully disposable, simple sack lunch. However, the array of selections that emerged from this directive was anything but simple.

First out of the bag was the “snack” course; a sliding scale of acceptable snacks ranging from the clearing unnatural up to the neurotically pretentious. A sample scale that looked something like;

Candy corns: festive yet clearly more candy then corn ->

Gummy bears: potentially made with some measure of fruit juice and ground up horse gelatin ->

Fruit roll ups: random fruit scraps smooshed into shoe leather ->

Fruit cups: random fruit scraps preserved in an inexplicably thick syrup – more corn then fruit->

Fresh fruit: unprocessed apple slices, or grapes sectioned into non-chokey bits ->

Fancy fruit: melons and tropical selections carved into flowers and butterflies reminiscent of an Edible Arrangement mail-order catalog.

The variety of choices is exhaustive, “Let’s see, I could either give Timmy a healthy portion of organic gluten-free rice chips with sea salt or a bag of Cheetos.”

The choices were no easier when it came to the “entrée” or “sandwich” course which, traditionally, had been something standard like a PB&J or a bologna and cheese.  Instead this fanciful lot had elevated the simple sandwich to something far more grandiose. Bread is cut into dinosaur shapes and smiley faces or pressed together to form a sealed pastry. Peanut butter is replaced with Nutella or Almond paste (or similar substitute in the face of potential nut allergies). Jelly is replaced with fruit compote or fresh berries. Some skip the pretense of assembly all together and go with a deconstructed sandwich ensemble as a culinary statement on consumer excess and obesity in American youth.

You begin to wonder what the true motivation behind all of this high-minded high-maintenance preparation is. I understand wanting to feed your child a healthy meal balanced with the proper nutrition, but does that nutrition require custom Tupperware to keep the colorful collection of treats safely segregated? Is there good reason to replace the suggested brown paper bag with a wood inlaid Bento box that transforms into a mini oven to warm your moist towelettes until post-meal cleanup? Are they trying to prove to the world that they are better than their parents by not packing the smelly tuna sandwiches that stunk up their lockers when we were kids? Or do they just have too much sleep-deprived, nervous, parenting energy that they need to burn off with origami cloth napkins and fresh pressed orange juice? Granted I’m not tossing my kids a snicker’s bar and a diet coke for lunch but it doesn’t reach the level of grandeur that I was seeing on display on those rustic picnic benches. There is a reality that sets in over the years. A delicate equilibrium is reached to balances parental controls between hovering helicopter parent and dismissive distracted parent. For example, even in the farm environment I can be content with a simple hand washing with soap and water, rather than a full body dousing with that jumbo sized pump disinfectant strapped to your belt. That spoon that touched the dirt floor will not be scrubbed and sterilized, but rather brushed and dusted, even though I’m well aware the one forceful breath will not sweep away any lingering country germs.

What happened to the good ol’ days when parents would go on and on about the character building hardships of life, walking miles to school in the snow, uphill, both ways? How do we expect these kids to pass the torch of malcontent when the worst they must endure is being forced to eat from a second string Bento box (toilette warmer not included) and endure full sodium soy nuts? I can only imagine that the parents pushing these fanciful lunches are the same people that strap their toddlers to leashes and hand out toothbrushes for Halloween.  Optimistically one can only hope that their kids will one day prevail and go on to tell stories of how they swindled their fellow classmates out of Twinkies by overselling the nutritional properties of kale chips.