My childhood Christmases were always extravagant affairs, orchestrated by my Jewish father, a man who never converted but embraced the holiday with a convert's zeal. He believed a Christmas tree should be visible from orbit, much to my Irish Catholic mother's amusement. I remember falling asleep on Christmas Eve to the sounds of family, Bing Crosby, and the anticipation of the morning's spectacle.
Waking up to a tree blazing with enough light to rival the burning bush was pure magic, attributed, of course, to Santa. This illusion continued until I was ten, the year my brother, Jon, was born. That Christmas Eve, I was invited to join the adults in decorating the tree for him. My father patiently guided me, explaining each step, from the beads and garland to the strategically placed lights and cherished ornaments, some handmade by my mother during our first lean Christmas, commemorated by the orange in my stocking.
Creating that Christmas magic for my brother became my favorite part of the holiday. As he grew older and started questioning Santa's existence, I echoed my father's playful warning: "Be careful what you say about Santa this close to Christmas." This gentle admonition became a tradition, passed down to my own son.
Around this time, I was baptized Catholic, having been raised with both faiths. I began to ponder my father's deep affection for Christmas, despite not sharing the Christian faith. While I never fully understood his reasons, I believe it stemmed from the pure joy of seeing his loved ones happy. It was a testament to the universality of the Christmas spirit, a celebration of family and togetherness.
Today, my son also receives an orange in his stocking, a tribute to my father and a reminder of our family's unique Christmas tradition. Like his grandfather, my son finds joy in giving and seeing others happy. And every Christmas Eve, fathers across the country, like my father before me, work tirelessly to create that same sense of wonder for their children.
