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Growing up, every year I had an orange in my Christmas stocking. It commemorated an event I don’t remember. My first Christmas, my newlywed Jewish father and Catholic mother were broke and couldn’t buy me anything else.
By the time I could remember, things had gotten better and Christmas traditions and decorations had become something of an obsession for my father. Although he did not convert, it was through the zeal of a convert that he became the architect of Christmas joy.
Graham family Christmas traditions
My father was of the opinion that home Christmas trees should be visible to the naked eye from space. Even my mother, who is Irish Catholic, would say, “Really? Bobby, more lighting?” The response was always, “Yeah, more lights, Suze.”
Until I was 10 years old, I would retire to bed on Christmas Eve, the tree in my living room still as bare as a pine tree. Between the chatter of uncles and aunts, the clinking of eggnog glasses, and the bass of Bing Crosby below, I would have a hard time falling asleep.
David Marcus (centre) remembers learning how to make Christmas special for his younger brother John (left) from his Jewish father Bobby (right).
When we woke up in the morning, our tree was there, twinkling with such bright light that Moses might have mistaken it for God himself. However, it was never the father who took the credit; it was Santa, of course, who put the magic on the tree.
When I was 10 years old, my younger brother was born and something incredible happened. On Christmas Eve, after John went to bed, I was invited to stay up and decorate the tree for him with my family.
As our adult relatives discussed politics and the previous weekend’s Eagles game, my father told me to step through first the beads, then the first set of lights, then the garlands, then the lights, and finally the ornaments. He showed it to me. This is what Orange’s mother made for him for his first poor Christmas.
David warned his brother not to ask questions about who brought the Christmas magic.
For the rest of my childhood, other than the Star Wars at-toys, the best thing about Christmas was helping to create joy, surprise, and amazement in my older brother’s eyes that morning. did.
As John grew older and wiser, he began to suspect that Santa was the one who turned our living room into a Macy’s holiday window every year. I didn’t want to openly lie to him, but when he doubted I was going to tell him what my father told me.
“You don’t want Santa to say something like that when Christmas approaches,” he would gravely warn. “That could be a big mistake.” So I took that approach with my brother, and decades later with my son.
Looking back, I think my father’s excessive Christmas spirit was rooted in the joy of seeing his loved ones happy and merry.
It was also around this time that I was baptized as a Catholic. My parents taught me both traditions and left me to choose one by the time I was 10 years old. It was only then that I began to wonder why the Jewish fathers loved the birth of Christ so much. Not his Lord and Savior.
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I still can’t fully answer that question. Since my parents are dead, there is no one to ask. Looking back, I think my father’s excessive Christmas spirit was rooted in the joy of seeing his loved ones happy. Mary, even.
And that is why, for a child we call great, born of meager means to Jewish parents, his birth is celebrated even among those who have not yet accepted his divinity. It’s true proof.
Because to us a son was born according to the Bible. And for Dad, the only thing that really mattered was being a dad. Christmas was more than a celebration of the birth of Jesus; it was a celebration of the sacred bonds of family.
It’s been half a century since my first Christmas, and my son puts an orange in my stocking every year. Like me, he misses his grandfather very much, but he also looks like him.
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Throughout December, he asks me, “What should I buy my mom?” Like his father, his son seems to derive the greatest joy from seeing others beam with smiles of joy as bright as his father’s Christmas tree.
This Christmas Eve, across the vast and deep land of America, where children sleep, fathers like me will be toiling under cold, dark skies to create wonders in the morning. . Everyone who strives will succeed.
So, from me and my father, we wish you a merry Christmas.
And be careful what you say about Santa.
Click here to read more about David Marcus
