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
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