dec2015

HOLIDAY
by Cynthia MacGregor
The Christmas Without A Tree
Disappointment in Jewish Household
Really, it’s a wonder we
ever had a Christmas tree.
Although I practice a different
religion now, I was born
and raised Jewish. My father,
although he no longer attended
temple, still wouldn’t eat pork
and totally freaked when a friend
of my grandmother’s gifted me
with a book of New Testament
stories. He took it away from me,
convinced it would instantly lure
me to Christianity.
So it’s amazing that somehow
he allowed the annual evergreen
into the house. I guess he
associated the tree with Santa
rather than with Jesus. Whatever
the reason, it was one Christian
tradition he didn’t bar the front
door against. Not like the caroling
incident.
I must have been around ten at
the time. Despite the fact that
I couldn’t carry a tune, I loved
to sing. Somewhere I’d heard
about the custom of caroling,
and the concept really grabbed me. Going from house to
house singing Christmas songs? What fun!
No amount of begging on
my part could change my
parents’ mind, but I was
crushed. It wouldn’t be
Christmas without a tree!
Of the forty apartments in our building, thirty-seven were occupied
by Jewish families. This fact and my terrible singing voice
notwithstanding, I was sure the neighbors would be thrilled to
be serenaded with Christmas hymns. Yes, caroling was supposed
to be a group effort, but lacking backup, I determined
to go it alone.
When I told my mother what I planned, she was slow to react.
Maybe the sheer audacity of the statement defied belief. In any
case, I somehow slipped out the apartment door unchecked.
Purposefully striding through the hallway, I sang “Adeste
Fidelis” at the top of my lungs as I headed toward the stairwell
so the neighbors on the other floors could enjoy my Christmas
concert, too.
insisted I come home. I burst into
tears, but she was adamant. I’m
not sure if she was more upset by
the concept of a Jewish girl singing
Christmas carols in an almost
totally Jewish building or by the
idea that I would do something as
unheard-of as going caroling solo.
I know which aspect bothered my
father most.
But it was the year we went to
Atlantic City over the winter school
vacation that my parents decreed
there would be no tree. “It would
hardly be worth it,” my mother
explained, “since we’ll be gone so
much of the time.” We were scheduled
to be gone only four days.
No amount of begging on my part
could change my parents’ mind,
but I was crushed. It wouldn’t be
Christmas without a tree!
My mother had a small, clear
plastic “hors d’oeuvres tree,” a
vague tree shape, with sharp points
on which one could impale olives, cheese squares, and other
edibles. Desperate, I co-opted it and cut circles out of red and
green construction paper, which I crudely stuck on the sharp
plastic points. It didn’t smell like an evergreen, didn’t scrape
the ceiling, and had no tinsel – but it was the only tree we were
to have that year. I insisted on setting it up in the living room in
the usual place of honor.
I can only imagine how my mother explained that to
visiting friends!
Alas, we never had a Christmas tree again. We went to
Atlantic City again the next three years, and then my father
died and such luxuries as Christmas trees were simply not in
the budget. I would be 18 and out on my own before I would
have another Christmas tree, but that year I got the biggest
one that would fit in my tiny studio apartment.
I was halfway between the third and second floors when my
mother caught up with me, commanded me to be silent, and
No one was going to take my Christmas tree away from
me again! P
54
DECEMBER 2015