It was all so simple.
My mother would fry the traditional potato latkes (pancakes) of Hanukkah in sizzling oil, grating the potatoes by hand against her old metal grater. Her fingers often bore the nicks and scratches for weeks afterward.
My father’s role was to hand out “Hanukkah gelt,” shiny pennies, nickels and dimes, to my sister and me. He did it with great ceremony, a chubby bespectacled man suddenly turned Shakespearean actor.
But the main event was the lighting of the candles on the sturdy little brass Hanukkah menorah, the candelabrum that came out of hiding from the dining room buffet each December as we marked the celebration of The Festival of Lights. The holiday celebrates the re-dedication of the holy Temple in Jerusalem following the Jewish victory over the Syrian-Greeks in 165 B.C.E.
But like most kids, my sister and I were far less interested in the Hanukkah history than in our immediate world. We loved to linger at the dining room table and watch those candles burn down each night.
When my husband and I had children of our own, we tried to preserve those simple traditions. We even managed for a while. But the potato latkes my mother had made from scratch now came from a packaged mix. And nickels, dimes and pennies didn’t do much for our three daughters. So occasionally, they scored tangible trifles wrapped in mass-merchandised Hanukkah paper.
At least that old menorah ended up in our house when my mother got herself a new one. I loved it more as the years of accumulated candle wax created an abstract sculpture overlaying the brass.
I can’t remember precisely when the Hanukkah mood morphed from pleasure to panic, but suddenly, there were three married daughters, three sons-in-law, seven grandchildren, eight days of Hanukkah.
In a high-level family conference, we found a solution: a Hanukkah gift swap/Pollyanna with names pulled from grandpa’s hat in late fall each year. One gift per person. A price limit of $10. And no switchies.
The ante has been raised to $15 over the years, but the premise is otherwise inviolate. We gather for a raucous home party during the first of the eight nights of Hanukkah, pass out the gifts with appropriate hoopla, eat potato latkes in excess and still distribute Hanukkah gelt to the littlest ones.
That settled, several years ago I began my own tradition. I spend weeks each Hanukkah season preparing a letter to and about each grandchild, now from the 21-year-old down to the 9-year-old.
I catalogue conversations we’ve had, the stories they’ve told me, the names of their friends, their favorite books, their endearing and not-so-endearing habits, bedtime rituals, school anecdotes, even favorite articles of clothing.
Several Hanukkahs ago, with a snazzy new digital camera in my hands, I began to illustrate my ramblings with photographs. The grandkids object to my obsessive picture-taking, but I won’t surrender.
And then I store it all away in what is becoming my bulging “Hanukkah File.”
At first, I thought I’d easily deliver these Hanukkah histories to them when each grandchild was 13, considered the age of entry into adulthood in Jewish tradition. And when several reached that milestone, I found that emotionally, it was a wrench. I wanted more private time with my chronicles of them.
But a deal is a deal. At 13, the delivery of the earliest years is made.
And what does all of this have to do with Hanukkah? Nothing. And everything.
The older grandchildren now understand why they didn’t get the mountain of gifts their little pals may have received over the years. They recognize that they were not deprived, they were — and are — deeply loved and amply gifted by their parents.
They begin to figure out why their grandmother asked them endless questions, and sometimes frantically scribbled down their answers on scraps of paper, eager to get every word.
My Hanukkah gift to these seven was not — and is not — what they may have expected. And because they were exposed to the galloping gift frenzy of the season, they have shown — and expressed — disappointment.
They want, in our youngest grandchild’s immortal words, “cool stuff” for this eight-day potential gift bonanza. And they’re not getting it from me.
Not yet.
The older grandkids, who still are subjects of my annual observations, assure them that they’ll understand later. That they’re hopefully getting something even better than cool stuff.
They’ll get memories, history and reminders of who they were at 3 and 5 and 8, recorded by someone who loved them beyond all reason.
And for the most part, I’m keeping my credit cards locked in their compartment in my wallet, and using my loving memories as revenue instead.
My annual gift of my grandchildren’s lives, frozen in time, seems perfectly right for Hanukkah, the season of history, heritage and miracles. ••
Sally Friedman can be reached at pinegander@aol.com
