How to Spell Chanukah...And Other Holiday Dilemmas (5 page)

“You did not!” I said.

“Well, I don't think you can train a guinea pig to do much of anything.”

“No,” said my mother, “I don't think you can.”

But I held GP close to my heart and could hear his little one thumping—or was it mine?—as I climbed the stairs to my room. My mother followed, helping me move the record player and set up everything on the little table across from my bed, so that I could see my new pet at night. My father brought my sister up to have a look, and the four of us stood there peering in, waiting for GP to run on his new, bright-silver wheel. When he just sat there, looking out at us with one eye, I pulled him out of his cage for my sister to pet, and she didn't shy away. Then the three of them went downstairs and I lay in bed, my hands clasped behind my head, watching GP rut and drink water and lick from his bar of salt. For the first time in years, it seemed, I felt at ease. I could hear my guinea pig rutting in his sawdust and I didn't feel alone.

That night we did what I once thought all Jews did: we prepared for Christmas. This entailed watching my father make a fire. We all sat before it, and my father passed my mother a hot mug of mulled wine, which she held like a bear between two paws. While GP stirred alone upstairs—
he's tired, sweetie, a lot went on today
—my father read “'Twas the Night Before Christmas,” beneath his Christmas cards and surrounded by a forest of poinsettias. And as the final pièce de résistance, we went to the kitchen to sing songs on the refrigerator.

Christmas carols. On the refrigerator.

My father would lift us up and my sister and I would sing on top of the refrigerator. I am ashamed to admit how much revolved around that refrigerator—the obvious eating, yes, the picking from leftovers and drinking from cartons, but also drawing with erasable pens, always my father's apology in the form of a shaky young girl's face greeting me and my sister hopefully each morning after nights when he and my mother kept us up with their fighting.

On all other celebratory days, my father placed us on the refrigerator and, as he stood below, looking up to his daughters, we all sang the French national anthem:
Allons enfants de la patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
We looked out at the kitchen, hands held high to our foreheads like sailors.

And tonight, on Jewish Christmas Eve, which wasn't Christmas at all but merely the accoutrements of that holiday, the things that people did on its surface but never what brought them to that surface, not faith or love or a long line of reaching back, not like those days holding our mother's hand on the way to Yom Kippur services to say Kol Nidre, that song so sad and pure it still carries me, nothing serious at all, nothing to hold to, only what we had seen so many people do on television and had read in
A Child's Christmas in Wales,
which was part of my father's ritual on Christmas Day, tonight we sing carols.

I was too big to stand on the fridge and so now I sat, legs dangling to the mustard-colored freezer section as my sister, her hair pulled into blond pigtails, a little gentile, sang “Jingle Bells” on top of the refrigerator at the top of her lungs.

And then, in the lull between songs, my father said, “Let's hang the stockings!”

I remember my mother's angry face, how it turned away from him and from us, to disconnect herself from this tradition she didn't want, that was not ours. And as she turned, my father went to grab her arm, tenderly, to bring her back into the fray of our family, and so he too was turned then when my sister, thrilled to the idea of the stockings and what soon would fill them, walked right off the refrigerator and slammed her chin on the kitchen floor. I watched her from above as her face seemed to explode, facedown, her pigtails sprouting from the back of her head like wilted flowers.

There was screaming and yelling and utter chaos and crying and frantic calls to doctors and hospitals and I remained on top of the refrigerator looking down on it all, remembering our promise, my promise, to the aging hippie at the pet store who let us take my guinea pig because we lied to her and told her that Christmas Eve did not matter to us. Could GP hear the screaming? Was he nervous and scared, did he want to go back to the store?

And I was selfish in that moment, as my mother rushed upstairs and out of her robe and slippers and into her jeans and that green down coat she still wears, and as my father carried my sister down to the garage, in that I did not want to go but wanted, for the first time in my life, to be alone, to be completely separate from them: they are them, I am me. I thought this
then
. Who will care for GP if I leave him there all alone in the attic? What if something is really wrong and we don't come back? He will wake up to nothing, no voices below coming through to him in the dark or dawn, and I knew so well what that would feel like that I fought my father as he came back up from the garage to take me down from the refrigerator. Once down, despite my flailing, I crossed my arms and refused the coat my mother held for me to climb into, until my father raised his voice, pointed that damn finger he would spend his life pointing at me, and dragged me into the Volare, where we sped off into the night to Sibley Memorial Hospital, an emergency room filled with the wreckage of all the miserable individuals Christmas Eve brings, each of them destroyed outside and in by this holiday my father wanted so badly to make his own.

T
HERE IS NO
moral here—as in, this is what happens when you try to be someone you are not. The nurse did call the police, believing my sister's fall to have been not what my parents named it but child abuse. Who puts a child on a refrigerator? My mother stepped up in front of her husband when it was clear that the line of questioning was more than simple procedure.

“This really is not as it seems,” I remember her saying over and over again.

My father was angry, but for the first time I saw him rendered unable to show it. “It sounds strange, but it's a tradition we have,” he said between clenched teeth.

At the end of it all, my sister was most upset by the socks they put on her hands so that she wouldn't scratch at her stitches—ten of them, in her chin. We had all watched as the doctor sewed her up, her impossibly young face, her eyes fluttering open and closed, as wrecked as my mother's old cracked dolls. We drove back to our house in silence and I, me, because now this story is mine, thought of my guinea pig, and how I had let him down. Forever, I thought, our first night of separateness would come between us.

T
WO YEARS LATER
we got a dog—a cairn terrier we called Toto, if you can believe it—and GP lost his allure. At my mother's suggestion—
you have to walk and feed and brush Toto now!—
I donated GP to our school, and he lived among the snakes and gerbils as he had in that pet store, which is now a Brazilian restaurant. The denim store is now part of a Whole Foods. How could that animal have been so important to me one moment, and then the next, nothing?

I can't understand it, as I am now a person who rarely goes anywhere without my own dog, a springer spaniel who I would throw myself in front of a car for, run into that burning building that so terrified me as a child, to save. After that incident, Christmas became more a part of our lives. Perhaps my mother could no longer fight it. Still we lit the candles each Chanukah, but Christmas Day grew larger, to the point where our Jewish relatives would come for what they soon termed Christmakah. There would be ham and glogg and fruitcake: Who didn't want to try on something they had spent their lives outside?

That's what it always felt like: like trying something on. But what was real? I grew more troubled not by Christmas, per se, but by what I would do with it. Out of that childhood, I went on to Brandeis University and then to teach Jewish American literature and to write fiction out of that tradition. Is it some strange Hegelian dialectic? My parents gave me many gifts, but none of them were about being Jewish in the religious sense of the word. Our Jewishness was everything my family was not: it was quiet, celebrated without ceremony, not easily held to.

When I look back at it now, I see it less in the festival of lights, the nights our family was stitched together tipping one candle to another, two equal flames from one, proof that there is always enough—love? light?—to go around, but more in the funerals of my great-grandparents and great-aunts, and then traveling down and down to my grandparents and uncles: a gathering of people, sharing food and memories and, as it grows closer and closer, unbearable grief.

And yet Christmas is part of my family history now. What will it mean for my children, when and if I have them? What will I pass on? Because somewhere in a child's room—mine?—there will be a cabinet, a box, a trunk stashed far back in a closet that will have my mother's terrifying dolls, my father's brushes, stiff with very old paint, and a photograph of my sister and me, holding hands beneath the mistletoe, smiling up at our father, who I'm sure is the one behind the lens.

JILL KARGMAN

The Only Dreidel in Idaho

S
INCE
I
GREW UP IN
M
ANHATTAN, THE LAND OF
J
EWY
J
EWSTEINS, FELLOW 212'S GASP IN HORROR WHEN
I
TELL THEM
I
HAVE SPENT EVERY
C
HANUKAH SINCE BIRTH IN
I
DAHO. AS
N
EW
Y
ORK STARTS TO CHOKE ME IN
D
ECEMBER, WITH THRONGS OF FANNY-PACK-WEARING TOURISTS IN SWISH-SWISH SUITS GLUTTING
Fifth Avenue, I am always desperate to get to the wide-open Rockies, free of crowds and full of sky. But can you import this treasured Jewish holiday from loxland to landlocked Idaho? I have learned that you can.

Yes, it's true: thirty-one menorah lightings in the capital of potatoes, though no one there has ever heard of a latke. If you mentioned the word, they'd probably think it was a kind of hat or something. Let's face it: the state ain't exactly chock-f o' brethren — that is, unless you're talking about the crazyass skinhead and neo-Nazi compound-dwelling kind. Granted, my fam is hardly in some David Koresh – style arms-bearing militia — we ski in Sun Valley, a century-old resort with old-world glamour that's also heavy on rough-around-the edges rustic charm. But as my friends have often pointed out, if we were to get into our rental car and drive an hour in any direction, we'd be exiting the tiny pocket of blue in a blood-red state: the oversized-sunglass-and-Prada-ski-outfit set from the Hollywood scene would quickly seem far away, the giant Rocky Mountains a symbol of the drastic shift in social and religious spikes.

If you Google “Jews” + “Idaho,” not surprisingly the top sites
are all related to antidefamation or, more horrifyingly, are blogs by various Neanderthals ranting from their log cabins about Anne Frank's diary being a hoax or claiming that 9/11 was, like the Plague, the Depression, and Every Bad Thing Ever, caused by those horned Jews. According to research conducted by Idaho State University professor Jim Aho, potato country is second only to Montana in our fifty states as the worst bastion of radical “Christian patriot” groups, home to countless maniacal factions like the Order, Aryan Nation, and the Tabernacle of Phineas Priesthood, all of whom celebrate Hitler's birthday. You're thinking: Gee, what a great place to light them candles and say Happy Chanukah!
L'chaim,
people!

But despite nearby bonkers mountainfolk, the place has an enchanting charm that keeps calling us back every year, beginning with my dad's first trip as a bachelor with friends over four decades ago. Because I'm so lucky to live in the melting pot of the planet, the capital of the world, the Big Apple, I normally never have any weird moments of self-consciousness about being Jewish. I love my synagogue, frequently weave Yiddish or my mom's Ladino into sentences, talk openly about our Shabbat services or holidays, and have the company of “one in four, maybe more” Jewish peeps on the same twelve-mile isle.

But when I'm in Idaho, I suddenly feel like Woody Allen eating at Annie's WASPy Wisconsin dining table, complete with full Hasidic curlicues. It's not like I ever had Grammy Hall – style face-offs with outward anti-Semites; it's subtler than that. Never has there been an actual run-in with a real-life knuckle-dragging,
swastika-tattooed freak show, à la countless Web sites I encountered. But sometimes feeling alien is on a less pronounced level; let's just say a
kippah
in Idaho feels about as common as a jockstrap in a convent. And going from what Jesse Jackson once called “Hymietown” to a place where nary a wall is sans moosehead is a shock to the system.

“
Okay, all ten bags are here!”
my dad says, counting aloud, as we move our luggage to a corner. I spy a crunchy couple with just the packs on their backs looking at us and can practically feel the eye-roll on deck. We are the East Coast brats who show up at holiday time with all our crap, instead of “keepin' it real” with one duffel. But what can I say? Traveling with kids is not so easy. It's not like I'm bringing extra après-ski outfits and D&G fur-lined moon boots, just some unglam stuffed animals, bottles, formula, and diapers; we need a bunch of things from home to make the transition seamless.

After the endless schlep (which also raises a question from my Jewish friends: Why the haul?) we are finally checked in. Hey, I hate the trek; I wouldn't do it if it wasn't really worth it — but once we unpack and exhale, I feel solar systems away. Gone is the jam-packed gritty island I live on. It's instantly different here. It is stark. It's quiet. It's whiter than white — and not because of the heaps of glittering snow. I'm talking the highest concentration of blonds outside Scandinavia. I am now in the land of quasi-albino Nordic mountainfolk.

“IIIIIII'm dreeeaming of a whiiiiite Christmas,” croons Bing Crosby's voice on the hotel lobby speaker. Given our surroundings, those lyrics are a double entendre.

“Merry Christmas!” greets the concierge as we come downstairs for some ho-cho and cookies.

“Look at da Cwishmish twee!” my daughter says, sprinting to examine the china (and Made in China) ornaments that bedeck the pine.

The East Coast P.C. greeting “Happy Holidays” (cause, huh, what other holiday would there be?) is not heard in these parts. And even in the chic resort town of nearby Ketchum, lawn ornaments featuring Jesus 'n' Co. line the roads, along with rooftop Santas and full sleighs, complete with all eight reindeer and architected stable crèches bigger than many Manhattan apartments. There are Virgins. There are Wise Men. If the soundtrack to a jammed Times Square on New Year's Eve is Frank Sinatra, then the holidays in Idaho seemingly have a constant “Pah-rum-pa-pum-pum” on repeat. The Sun Valley Company, owned by Mormon Earl Holding, employs apple-cheeked carolers to roam the resort singing “O Holy Night” while ringing bells and heralding the Dear Savior's birth. But hey, it is America; I mean, I know every word to every Christmas carol, ain't nothing wrong with that.

Listen, I'll be honest: I love little twinkling lights and the smell of pine trees! Bring on the Ho-ho-ho-ing old dude with prezzies, I can handle that! What is semistrange is that inescapable feeling that we are somehow . . . freaks. There was a time as a kid where, upon spinning an imported East Coast dreidel, I remarked that it was probably the only one spinning in the state at that moment. When you know you are part of a group that is extremely rare, you start to feel a little paranoid, to think that if you scratched the surface of the smiles and mistletoe, you could find someone who loathes the Tribe.

For example, as I listened to the chime-filled songs of the perma-smile octet, I couldn't help but wonder if caroler No. 7 thinks we will burn in the eternal hellfire of Satan's bubbling lava pit of despair and torture for killing that poor tot in the manger.

A platinum blonde steps out of the horseshoe of singers for her solo.

“Santa baby! Just one more teeny little thing,”
she croons with a bright smile.
“A ring! And I don't mean on the phone . . .”

Oh, and
we're
the materialistic ones! Just kidding. But seriously, the notion of closet Jewphobia is somewhat confirmed when you peruse some of the local aforementioned blogs. “The Romans did it” obviously ain't being bought (special shout-out of thanks, Mel Gibson!).

And yet we unpack our menorah and blue and white candles in this Charlton Heston – loving place where every single human says “you bet” instead of “yes.” I'm not kidding. We all sit down to get lunch after we arrive every year, and we always say we haven't officially settled in Sun Valley till we've heard our first
you bet.

We are in a rough 'n' tumble western tavern with ceiling-high beer bottles, expired license plates, and taxidermy galore. There is an old pinball machine that eerily harkens back to Jodie Foster in
The Accused
. Females are scarce. Football is on the TV, and flannel abounds. But the blackened-chicken burgers are the best on the planet.

“Can I please get some fries with that?” I ask.

“YOU BET!”

We all grin at one another; the waiter has no clue it's a fam inside joke.

“Oh, and a large Sprite, please?”

“Yoooou BET!”

My husband literally snarfs up his water laughing.

In the evenings, we all gather in my parents' room before going out — my mom corrals us to come and “do Chanukah.” We have our family tradition of lighting the candles, singing Chanukah songs, and opening presents my mom has expertly packed with piles of tissue paper, lest the Bloomie's box get damaged en route. The tradition my parents started when we were children is actually semi-Thanksgivingesque, as my brother, husband, mom, dad, and I each take a turn lighting a candle, saying what we are thankful for in that moment.

“Light da pink one!” my daughter requests, as I set the wick aflame when it's my turn.

“I am thankful we are all here together,” I say, getting emotional, as my brother lives in Los Angeles.

We pass the candle around the family to light all of them, each person articulating their gratitude: how blessed to be able to be healthy, to have kids, and even just to travel. In a resort town, everyone is high on life; it's a special time of feeing alive and refreshed, leaving the stress of “real life” behind.

There is a soothing calm to the placid pace. No one's in any big rush. Natch, this does suck when you literally wait twenty minutes after asking what the soup du jour is only to have the waitress return to tell you it's “the soup of the day!” But bratty New Yorker impatience aside, the mellowed meter is in sync with what I want Chanukah to be — enjoyed not in a fierce frenzy but as a slow time where you can drink in the flickering candles and actually have time to watch them burn down. The wax spills over onto the tray, and my fastidious mom always starts scraping it away with an expired credit card so as to have the slate clean for the next night, while all of us go, “Mom, please! Sit! Stop scraping!”

Because New York is so far away — two plane rides and often a two-hour bus trip from Twin Falls, thanks to an airport that is shut half the time — our friends are mostly West Coasters. One family from L.A. became our add-water-and-stir insta-pals — because they were Jewish, there was a natural click, as if we were part of a club that, perched in the Intermountain West, has very few members. But this year I learned that there are more than I thought. With my Googling fingers at the ready, I did some research.

Shocker of all shockers, the first Jewish governor in the United States was elected in . . . Idaho! Swear. Moses Alexander, in 1914. To say I was floored at this discovery is not an understatement. I literally had to be spatulaed off the carpet. Next I found that the oldest synagogue west of the Mississippi is in Boise! Ahavath Beth Israel, founded in 1895! Jaw-on-sisal. While the best guesstimates still put the statewide Jewish population at under a few thousand, I was elated to find that we weren't the only ones crackin' out the menorah by a long shot. I used to always feel very former Soviet Union with our secret lighting, wondering if the housekeeping staff in our hotel walked in and saw our holiday corner they'd think we were doing some peculiar cult ritual in our perky hotel room, which was decorated in cheery peachy colors, not unlike a tampon box.

As a child, when the holidays fell on the earlier side (try explaining the schizo nature of Chanukah calendar placement to a confused Christian sometime), we would celebrate in New York. Sometimes it would be for a few days and then we'd celebrate the rest in Idaho; sometimes it would be one night. Aside from the psychological difference between toasting the festival o' lights in a place with millions of Jews and doing it in a place with seemingly zero, our whole ambience could not have been more distinct.

There are no synagogues in Sun Valley. When we were in New York, we'd go to our temple, and the religious-school children (
moi
from grades two through seven) would light candles and sing songs as familiar faces packing the pews looked on. Our temple, Central Synagogue, on Fifty-fifth Street, is the most beautiful, majestic place in the world — just the space is enough to make you feel humble and religious, and upon entering I have always felt in the presence of something amazing. (Funnily enough, the other equally humbling sight is the endless view of the mountains at the top of Baldy in Idaho.)

Then there's my temple's close-knit community — warm and caring, our interactions always accompanied by music. The services always call on everyone to introduce themselves to their neighbors in the pews, so that should people enter alone they will not leave as strangers. The enormous room with the soaring ceiling always felt accessible and even cozy, with the lights turned down and only the flicker of candlelight to ring in the holidays.

Back at home in our apartment, we would gather in the living room for our own mini-service and present opening. We had my mother's antique silver menorah — it's a Sephardic heirloom that is hundreds of years old. It feels linked to the past, to the traditions of all the family members who lit it before. It lived shrouded in blue felt, and I saw its zippered special case throughout the year as I rummaged to steal a piece of chocolate from my mom's candy stash, which lived in the same small hall closet. Aside from boxed confections brought by guests, this closet housed the familiar blue boxes of candles (the box all American Jews would recognize, without a graphic design spruce-up in over thirty years) as well as other Judaica pieces: kiddush cups, prayer books, special plates, and piles of our family-friendly Haggadahs, which yield a Seder that does not exceed thirty minutes. Which my family lovingly calls McSeder.