A Shiksa's First Hannukah

On the eve of Hannukah, I called out the door to my son, who was practicing flips and twists on the trampoline as part of his preseason snowboarding routine. He bounced, twirled his skateboard under his feet and landed it.

"Cool!" I shouted. "Could you come inside now, it's almost sundown."

"So?" he yelled back, executing a back flip, "Watch this!"

"I just need you to come in now!"

"Why?"

"It's time to light the menorah."

"Oh, man!"

We sat on the chintz covered couch in front of the fire while I read aloud from A Home Celebration of Chanuka. I read about Mattathias, a fearless priest, who in 170BCE had stood his ground against the Syrian-Greek ruler, Anthiochus. Will lay face down, but I was permitted to stroke the bristly buzz that passed in those days for a haircut.

"So, why is the menorah such an important symbol?"

"What is this, a test?"

I gave him his first ever Hannukah present: a small parcel of foil-wrapped chocolate coins.

"This is called gelt," I explained.

"Is this dark chocolate?"

"I think so."

"You know I don't like dark chocolate."

Next, we stood in front of our brand new wrought iron menorah, a somewhat modern design topped with a glass mosaic Star of David. There were slender multi-colored candles as well. I handed my son a long fireplace match, and gave him precise instructions in candle lighting.

"You light the tallest one in the middle first," I said. "That's the helper candle, the King or shammash. It represents Antiochus - "

"Can't we just light it?" he interrupted.

"Then you light the candle on the furthest right. We leave both candles burning as a symbol of hope in the darkness," I continued. "Ba-ruch a-ta A-do-nai," I chanted, waving my hands over the candles like Mama in Fiddler on the Roof.

"What are you doing?" Will demanded.

"Hush! E-lo-hei-nu me-lech ha-o-lam...Now, let's have a moment of silence for those no longer with us."

"What?"

"Just close your eyes and think some nice thoughts!" I closed my eyes and mused about Fred. I imagined if he were watching, he would be grinning ear to ear.

According to Uncle Gerry, Fred had played the saxophone in the tiny Moss family apartment in the Bronx, producing fiendish noises that had provoked the neighbors on one occasion to call the cops. When Officer Brian Kelly had arrived at the Moss home, he asked young Fred to play his horn. Fred, an ersatz Charlie Barnett, attempted his favorite piece, Tappin' at the Tappa. After the first series of squawks, Officer Kelly suggested that Fred put a sock in it. "Or better yet, a towel."

Somewhere in the place beyond religion and dogma and mumbo jumbo on that first night of Hannukah, Fred was playing Tappin' at the Tappa for his shiksa daughter and his young grandson, whom he would never meet. His sound was as bold and as brave and as startling as the blast from the shofar, sounding the advent of The New Year. He played a riff or two for us. He played his heart out.

My son and I stood together in the kitchen and grated potatoes onto a cutting board to use for making latkes. There would be bagels and cream cheese, a platter of salmon garnished with lemon wedges, some Manischewitz thin matzos and kosher grape juice.

"Isn't this fun?" I asked.

"Not really."

"Oh, stop your kvetching," I said. "Chop some onions."