Susan Senator

Almost time to flush November. December is better, it even sounds like the word “Decent.” Although, December is a funny time of year to be a Jew. You really feel like a minority. You get the sense of being an outsider. It’s like finding out about a big party you didn’t get invited to. You know you’ve got your own little, intimate party of menorahs, dreidls, chocolate coins, and songs in the minor key about lights that lasted eight days (hard to appreciate when our little colored candles last 45 minutes and our light bulbs last six months) but they all kind of pale next to the onslaught of red velvet, deep green, fake snow, lights, shiny presents, and music in the malls. Yeah, we’ve got Adam Sandler, but they’ve got Bruce Springsteen.

But more and more, I only feel psyched for this holiday. I have a place to go for Christmas dinner: Ned’s father and stepmom’s house in New Hampshire. I know exactly how it will be, what we will eat, who I will see there, and I’m glad. I’m like Nat; give me a social story about how I’ll feel and when it will end, and I’ll be okay. We even get to dress up.

At Christmastime, I feel like, well, if we’ve got to lose our leaves, flowers, and warmth, at least we lose them to a tidal wave of color and shopping. We get a long vacation, we get a lot of happy, excited Christians — always a good thing for the majority to be happy when you are a minority — we get to revisit old classic television like “Rudolph” and “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “The Grinch,” and “Charlie Brown Christmas.”

I was all grumpy at the Stop and Shop the other day — even though they’ve renovated it, it’s still an armpit of a supermarket, always out of things I need, plus I hate food shopping because there is always so much to get and so much to carry inside. I hate walking in through my basement, pass the termite-eaten wood, thinking of all the renovating we are never going to get to, thinking of how the stairs up to the kitchen always look worn out and dirty, even when freshly vacuumed, thinking about all this food I just bought but I have no idea what to make for dinner. I was hearing the end of some real stinker of a Christmas song — probably some goopy thing from the ’50’s, the one about the Winter Wonderland and Parson Brown, for crying out loud — when suddenly I heard those familiar little piano-key Jingle Bells along with a very deep voice saying, “ho ho ho,” and I had a hot flash of joy realizing that Bruce’s “Santa Claus is Comin’ To Town” was beginning. Now that is one classy, classic Christmas song. It makes me so happy to hear Bruce get all wound up and giddy, laughing and out of breath from Clarence’s clowning. It is the best Christmas song there is.

I don’t know where this is going, I’m just glad November has.
And now, for your listening pleasure, a blast from my past.