Below The Fold

It’s true. I despised it. Every year, the build up of holiday-fueled angst started about the same time the decorations first appeared in the stores and the malls began playing Connie Francis’ and Beryl Ives’ holiday albums. Long about the week of Christmas, I’d have a melt down and challenge one of the Salvation Army bell-ringers to a fist fight or I’d start unwrapping the picture frames the local Village Inn had gift wrapped in festive green and red wrapping paper.
I would humbug the shit outta anyone within earshot.
Being a Jewish kid on Christmas was a study in overcompensation—further exacerbated by my birthday being at the start of the month.
I never bought the holiday. I mean, of course, being a Jew, the whole Christ saga isn’t a big focal point in our religious instruction—but I had done enough reading to learn all about how the Church liked to play loosely with dates and rituals to proselytize all those heretics and godless heathen pagans, so I was doubly disenchanted. Add that to the fact that nearly every Christian clergy member I asked (and there were more than two…but admittedly less than seven) had a different take on the origins of Christmas trees (and Easter Bunnies, for that matter, but we’ll get to that in the spring), and I was convinced the whole damned holiday was about as legitimate as Secretaries’ Day (or that “nephew” that guy Steve keeps bringing to work functions)…
And it was in my face for a solid month (notwithstanding Jake Jabbs and Dealin’ Doug and their deplorable “Christmas in July” sales), with the only respite coming after a January 2nd hangover.
And then, I fell in love with a (recovering) Catholic.
When Amy first broached the idea of having a tree in the house, I was less than enthusiastic.
I loathed the tree. When we were kids, there were a couple of years my sister and I would have to go to the *Browns’ house every day after school. The Browns were a family of five. The father was a man who was either completely mute or had just given up trying to speak. The mother was a round woman with very thick glasses. She had a turned up nose and short, mousy brown and gray hair that was always plastered to her skull. The three daughters all had varying degrees of… challenges—I remember the youngest only talked in baby talk, and she was like, 9. Anyway, one of the daughters had a birthday around the beginning of February, and they would keep their Christmas tree up until then. Of course, it went up right after Halloween, and by Thanksgiving, they’d have forgotten to put water in the tree stand. The thing would be completely rotten and dead, and we’d have to sit in the family room with it for three hours every day after school. It smelled like mildew, stale cinnamon and plastic, and the mother would rock in front of it in her creaky chair with her knitting, humming hymns pointedly at my sister and me while it withered pitifully away.
So, my only Christmas tree associations had been—to say the least—poor. But then Amy brought out her ornaments—her entire life’s record is contained within those little yarn and wooden trinkets. Her mother always wrote the year on each one—from the Summer of Love, on.
Suddenly, it all came (upon a midnight) clear.
It’s the whole family thing about this time of year. In fact, it’s very interesting how the familial traditions change slightly in each family. For instance, Amy’s stepmother has a Christmas tree for every room in the house—some are much smaller than others—and each has its own theme (like the one for her dog). We spent Christmas out there a few years ago, and I wandered around the house looking at each of her trees with new eyes. All my self-righteous, non-secular disdain was gone. It was really quite something, her attention to detail, and the effort she went to.
As Amy’s parents are divorced, and have been for many years, I also marveled at how they effortlessly they seemed to navigate the often-troublesome waters of splitting time—the family had long ago devised a system where Christmas Eve is spent at her father and stepmother’s house and Christmas day with her mother.
Further, I was welcomed into everything with open arms (and loads of Chanukah gelt). I loved every moment of it.
Now, there is a movement afoot to secularize everything about the holidays. The backlash of this misguided political correctness is that it tries to cram everything into the same box—most ridiculously, the rechristening of the tree as the “Holiday Tree.”
It’s a Christmas Tree. There is no Chanukah Bush or Chanukah Fairy. In fact, I can’t stand it when people—especially Jews—try to adopt these Christmas rituals and turn them into all-encompassing institutions.
They’re not. I celebrate Christmas with my wife and her family because I love them, and I’ve learned to respect the beauty of their traditions. My wife celebrates many Jewish holidays with my family (which is FAR more painful an experience, I promise you … at least it is for me…). And we respect AND appreciate the differences… if only to poke fun at them. If someone wants to wish you a Merry Christmas or a Happy Chanukah or a … whatever they say for Kwanzaa… let them. It’s only a way of telling you they wish joy in your life. Wishing me a Merry Christmas isn’t going to make my circumcision grow back or suddenly turn me into someone who pays retail for everything. If you want to have a Christmas tree, have one. If you want to light a menorah, light one. If you want to… do… Kwanzaa… stuff… then by all means, do so.
Happy holidays?
Merry Christmas.

* Names have been changed