There’s something about holiday baking that makes the season seem brighter.
 
Maybe that’s why I whipped up more goodies than usual this month.
 
I began with my favorite snowballs, also known as Mexican wedding cookies or Russian tea cakes. It really doesn’t matter what one calls them, since they’re all irresistible balls of butter and flour dipped in a liberal amount of powdered sugar. Next was traditional shortbread, but rather than taking out my usual rectangular cutter, I chose another road. Instead, I used a cookie cutter shaped like a Christmas tree, and then, after finding a recipe for simple gingerbread man icing, decided frosting was in order.
 
There was a slight glitch here.
 
I couldn’t find my green and red food coloring, so made do with neon blue. But since we also celebrate the Festival of Lights around here, they became Hanukkah bush cookies.
 
Then came my most ambitious project.
 
We were having a guest for a Hanukkah night dinner, so besides the customary latkes, applesauce and sour cream on the table, I went all in with a three-layer candy cane cake for dessert. I haven’t made this since we moved to Oregon over three years ago and while assembling the ingredients, remembered why: it’s pretty labor intensive.
 
But the cake came out perfectly. Plus, having found itsy-bitsy pieces of red-and-white peppermint candy in the bulk aisles at WinCo eliminated one huge step. So, rather than having to carefully remove cellophane from individual candy canes and then hammering them with a meat pounder, these pieces were ready to go, and only needed to be folded into the batter and cream cheese frosting.  
 
Then came Christmas dinner pie.
 
My choice here was a grasshopper pie, as pictured in full color in Betty Crocker’s Pie and Pastry Cookbook, circa 1968. The creamy filling comes from nearly three dozen large marshmallows melted on low heat in a bit of milk, and placed in the refrigerator to thicken. Whipped cream from scratch is added, and along with crème de menthe and white crème de cacao, the sweetness of the marshmallows was nicely tempered.  
 
By now, I’d located my green food coloring, so added a few drops to the filling, giving it the desired mint green hue. Pouring the mix into a dark chocolate crust I’d baked earlier, this was an image to linger on.
 
I wasn’t finished yet.
 
For the last few Decembers, the Hubster has been jonesing for the chocolate drop cookies his mother made every Christmas when he was growing up in Ohio. While I love nearly all things chocolate, this flavored cookie has never appealed to me (Oreo Double Stuff is the exception).
 
But this year, my spouse did more than wax poetic about these cookies—he researched where the recipe might be; found it, and then sent me the link to it.
 
I knew then that I had to make them.
 
And so, I did.
 
Like snowballs, they weren’t hard to put together, and I topped them with royal icing, which consists of a lot of powdered sugar and a bit of milk to achieve the desired consistency. One recipe yielded over three dozen cookies, and the batch was quite festive after being adorned with red, green and blue sprinkles. Some of these treats will be gifted to the Hubster’s farmer friends, one who works at a creamery and another who supplies us with our weekly carton of fresh eggs.
 
One other thing made this year’s baking feel extra special.
 
When I decided to shape the shortbread into Christmas trees, I took out the identical white plastic cookie cutter that my mother used for hers so long ago.
 
The cutter has to be at least 50 years old and probably cost a nickel. Also, the handle had broken off a few decades back, but I’d never been able to throw it away.
 
This was A Very Good Decision, because the cutter was still quite useable.
 
But something more important and unexpected happened.
 
This simple act made me feel closer to my mom, who passed 30 years ago this coming year. She was quite the baker and I imagine she was closely watching me step-by-step, guiding me so that I’d get these treats down pat.
 
Thank you for that cutter, Mom.   
 
And now, here’s to 2023—a brand spanking new year of adventures, memories and of course, recipes.
 
Here’s wishing that every single one turns out exactly the way we’re hoping they will.   

This is our third December in Oregon, and the third time our holiday tree has come from a cut-your-own Christmas
tree farm.
 
I didn’t get to have this kind of adventure as a kid because we were Jewish and sorta-kinda did Hanukkah instead.*
 
On my part, this wasn’t for a lack of trying.
 
I still remember lobbying for a Hanukkah Bush—for all intents and purposes, a Christmas tree without any Christianity themed ornaments—one year. Using my tween reasoning skills, I explained that it could be small and decorated on
the cheap, with six-pointed stars made from origami sheets and blue and white construction paper chains. There
​didn’t have to be any lights.  
 
My mother was so appalled that I never brought it up again.
 
Still, even if we had been in the market for some sort of tree, buying a cut-it-yourself one wasn’t easily doable.
 
Mainly, this was because we lived in Southern California in a beachside city, where the only living pines I ever saw
​were in city parks.
 
So, the kids I knew got Christmas trees from neighborhood pop-up lots, or if they were lucky, at a grocery or hardware store that gave away paper cups of hot chocolate and red-and-white striped candy canes. Other folks bought their trees straight off a train, most likely coming from Oregon.**  
 
Then, while researching this post, I found out that even in my native land of palm trees and the Pacific Ocean, there were honest-to-goodness Christmas tree farms less than a 30-minute drive from our house.  
 
Mostly, these cut-your-own places were directly underneath enormous power lines on land unsuitable for housing, but doable for hardy pine trees.
 
It turns out our local electric utility once offered long-term leases, allowing the trees to grow all year round. One woman remembers her family heading to the same lot, but at some point, the height of its trees was no longer to anyone’s liking. “So,” she says, “we would keep driving and follow the big power lines to find other tree farms.”  
 
The Hubster didn’t need to look up in the sky for a Christmas tree.
 
Born and raised in Ohio, he and his first wife headed to one of many farms near their home. Each farm was about 80 acres, and while not every tree there was for sale, the sheer amount of land offered a lot of choices. And, rather than the Douglas firs or Monterey pines common to the West, these farms were full of blue spruces, whose needles are a silvery-blue hue rather than the dark green color that was familiar to me.  
 
Bow saw at the ready, driving to these farms was an annual custom that eventually included the Hubster’s three now-adult daughters. But after the family moved to Southern California, the tradition stayed behind. When I told my spouse about my recent cut-your-own discovery, he said he hadn’t known such a thing existed.
 
Here in Southern Oregon, the Christmas farm we go to is called Rudolph’s.
 
While one assumes this moniker must have come from a certain red-nosed reindeer, it’s the farm owner’s first name. Balance issues don’t allow the Hubster to do the cutting anymore, but luckily, Rudy has helpers in golf carts who not only saw trees down, but pack them into cars or vans for a smooth ride home.
 
Not bad for $50, cash preferred.  
 
For those who are younger, stronger and definite risk takers, the National Park Service in Oregon offers a much
better deal.
 
Starting in November, the agency sells permits for five dollars a pop, which lets the buyer cut a tree from one of many ranges overseen by the Bureau of Land Management. Some areas allow five trees for this price, but there are several think-about-it-first caveats. One, the roads leading to these BLM lands are unplowed, so it’s paramount that the woods be exited before dark. Two, having tire chains, shovels and a tow chain are also highly encouraged. Lastly, it’s suggested that bringing an overnight survival kit is a very smart move.
 
As much as my spouse loves the forests that surround our home, I’m very happy this isn’t an option for us. 
 
Perhaps more than anything, I’m thrilled that the Hubster’s Christmas farm trek has come full-circle.
 
This Girl Clown is pretty much along for the ride, but it has proven to be a terrific way to kick off the holidays. 
 
 *   This GCD blog from a few years back has more details. 
      hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/my-crazy-jewish-girl-christmas
 
**  Oregon is the number one producer of Christmas trees in the United States,
     selling about 4.5 million trees per year with a market value of $104 million.

Most kiddos can’t wait for Halloween.
 
There’s not a whole lot to not like.
 
Imagine: you dress up like a pirate or princess or hobo, then walk up to the door of a complete stranger, and that stranger smiles and gives you candy.  Then, depending on how closely your parents monitor the situation, you go home and gorge on your well-earned bag of goodies.  If you’re extra careful, the sweet stuff will last for weeks. Then again, older kids might get cold, hard cash from their folks in exchange for all of that yummy booty.
 
Really, no matter how the scenario unfolds, it’s all good. 
 
This was my story as a young girl.  I have photos of my brother and me in costume (he’s a skeleton and I’m a Pilgrim girl, complete with bonnet), standing next to each other.  We’re posing on our tiny front porch in a town south of Los Angeles, smiling and no doubt ready, willing and able to take on the task of knocking on just about every door in the neighborhood.    
 
But then I started third grade and everything changed.  To my young mind, it wasn’t for the better.
 
If I have to blame anyone, it would be Danny Kaye.
 
Let me explain.
 
Years and years before Audrey Hepburn and Angelina Jolie, entertainer Danny Kaye was the first Goodwill Ambassador for UNICEF—short for The United Nations International Emergency Children’s Fund.  Initially taking on this intensive, globe-trotting role in 1954, Kaye traveled the planet in this capacity, from India to Africa, for more than three decades.  Dispensing speeches and hugs, he was the first entertainer to bring the plight of the poorest and most vulnerable children of the world to the rest of us.
 
And Kaye seemingly loved every minute.    
 
That might be because he considered the ambassador gig to be the most rewarding of his long career in show business.  Although known for starring roles in movies that include The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Hans Christian Anderson and White Christmas, Kaye’s daughter Dena says her dad also knew exactly how to engage children on an intuitive level.   
 
“Children are the same the world over,” she remembers him saying.  “They may have a different culture, but an ache or a laugh is universal.”  (Watch Kaye in action here, at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdA_MLi2FCY.)
 
So far, so good.
 
But then came Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF. 
 
Begun as a local event by a Presbyterian minister in Philadelphia, the program involves children collecting small change instead of candy on Halloween.  Eventually, this tiny once-a-year fundraiser morphed into a worldwide event, and now
boasts millions of kiddie participants around the world.  In its present incarnation, it has also raised about $175 million
for UNICEF.
 
In my case, dozens of empty orange containers were brought to the synagogue I attended a week or so before October 31.   I didn’t start religious school until third grade, and that first year, on the Sunday closest to that delivery day, we were shown a movie starring Danny Kaye in his role as UNICEF ambassador.  In so many words, we were told that this is what we were expected to do on Halloween night. 
 
Collecting candy was no longer an option.
 
This idea especially appealed to my mother.  She didn’t like candy in our home to begin with because it caused cavities, and back then, there was no such thing as dental insurance. Also this way, she could teach her children about charity and the value of helping others.  She felt it was never too young to learn such lessons.   
 
On a grown-up, in-theory level, this makes a lot of sense.
 
But to me, a slight eight-year-old armed only with an empty orange box (and no bag for sweets; I was told not to ask), it was a daunting night.   
 
Still, I was a child who Wanted to Do Good, and I was also a child who Wanted to Make Her Parents Proud.  So for three years,  after watching Danny Kaye each of those years, I trudged through our working class neighborhood on Halloween, pretty much hating every minute, collecting money for an organization that I really didn’t know much about, except for what Danny Kaye had told me.  (Today, the irony of a woefully unprepared child collecting funds for another defenseless population hasn’t been lost on me.)      
 
More than a few people refused to give me any coins; I didn’t know until years later that this was still a time when lots of folks weren’t exactly keen on the UN. 
 
In particular, I remember a grouchy old man (although he was probably younger than I am now) screaming at me, accusing me of being a Communist (what was that?), and slamming the door in my face. (For whatever reason, my parents never went up to a house with me, preferring to stand on the adjacent sidewalk.)   
 
But the final straw came right after the third Halloween run, when I returned my change-laden box to Sunday school. 
 
It was then that a classmate told me that she had gone trick-or-treating for candy.  In fact, she always had.  Her parents—and as it turns out, pretty much all of the moms and dads—had simply stuffed their own stray coins into the orange containers that were brought home. 
 
I felt like I’d been played, and let’s face it, I had.  I’d been forced to go collect money when no one else in my class had.
 
After that revelation, I refused to carry the orange box ever again.  Of course, I was older by then, so more able to stand my ground.  But the memory of that horrible container has stayed with me, and sadly, permanently stained the idea of Halloween being a happy, kid-friendly holiday.    
 
Yes, I learned that it’s important to give, especially to those less fortunate.  But I’ve taught the same lesson to my now teenage daughter in other ways. 
 
So in case you’re wondering, this means that when she went trick-or-treating, she went for candy.  If she has children, I hope she gives them the same delicious choice.  There are plenty of other times throughout the year to give, and to give generously.
 
Heck, if so desired, that definitely includes a big-hearted donation to UNICEF.    
 
But I’ve also come to believe this: a night designed for wearing silly outfits and collecting candy is neither the time nor the place for such an activity. 
 
And that’s especially true when tasked with the smallest, and the most powerless, among us.
 
What are your Halloween memories?  I look forward to hearing your comments and stories!  

Yup, it was a day for tons of celebrations, and yup, millions across the country answered the call to do so a few
​weekends back. 
 
Indeed, it was a holiday that I loved as a kid. 
 
After all, school was out and the sun stayed up for hours.  Plus, what’s not to like about grilled burgers, baked beans and homemade potato salad; dressing up in red, white and blue, and the most exciting part, getting to set off sparklers in the back yard?
 
These used to be my little girl Fourth of July memories.
 
But now that we have three dogs—Hank, Rusty and Sadie—those kinds of days, but most especially those nights, are gone.
 
In case you didn’t know, that’s because those of us who consider our dogs family have learned that the booms and flashes of fireworks mean The Season of Dread. The same is often true for cat and bird lovers, and it’s not exactly festive for the one in eight human veterans who suffer from PTSD. 
 
As a matter of record, a recent New York Times blog reports that at least 40 percent of dogs experience noise anxiety come July. The article goes on to quote sad stories of dogs who, upon experiencing fireworks, hide in places so tight they get stuck (one friend’s Rhodesian Ridgeback mix cowers behind toilet pipes, then flips out even more upon discovering that she can’t move); gnaw on door handles, and even crash through windows, literally running for miles to escape.
 
The same friend whose big girl cowers in her bathroom also once worked for animal control in another town a few hours
​from mine. 
 
“July Fourth was always bad but the day after was actually the worst,” she says.  “That’s when we got the most reports of dogs so completely freaked out that they were found running on freeways, usually far away from their homes.”  My friend adds that these were the fortunate ones, since many more were found dead by the sides of roads, victims of nocturnal hit and runs.  
 
So far, we’ve done a lot better here at the Grant homestead.  Still, it’s a trying time for humans and critters alike.  
 
It doesn’t help that all of our dogs are rescues, and that two carry significant baggage.
 
My goofball hound Hank is the lucky one, not only because he was fostered as a puppy and put into my arms at six weeks old,  but because he also spent those first months snuggling with his mom and siblings, and along the way, learned crucial doggie social skills.  Rusty is a drop-dead gorgeous Aussie shepherd, but not as blessed.  Born in a puppy mill, his first owners kept him crated nearly all of the time, and there is also evidence of him being hit and kicked. So, even on his best days, Rusty is a hot mess of nerves and anxiety. 
 
But when it comes to the Fourth of July, Sadie suffers most.
 
A majestic Antolian shepherd (think German shepherd with golden retriever ears), animal services rescued her when she was about a year old from a desert field several hours from us. For reasons we’ll never know, she and a few other dogs were abandoned for who-knows-how-long, and left to completely fend for themselves in every way. 
 
At some point, someone loved Sadie because she is protective and affectionate, but she was also 30 pounds underweight when we met.  She’s especially frightened when she hears coyotes baying, often pacing, barking nonstop and frantically running in circles.  Fireworks cause the same reaction, except more pronounced.   
 
And once Sadie becomes hysterical, the other dogs join in. 
 
But since Fourth of July fireworks aren’t going to end anytime soon—even though they’re illegal here with a hefty fine attached—what’s to be done?
 
First, given that the folks who set off these noisemakers are inconsiderate louts to begin with, and sometimes even think our dilemma is funny, we can’t ask them to stop (yes, I’ve tried).  So out of necessity, we’ve found other solutions, a mash-up of old and new, with mixed results.
 
We set the radio dial to classical music in the living room, which helped a bit. We also kept a fan running in our bedroom, creating white noise for the two dogs who sleep there.  And although we haven’t tried this (yet), other pet lovers swear by calming wraps and “thundershirts,” which work the same way that swaddling does for infants (can anyone recommend one?).
 
But ultimately, in order for anyone to get any rest, we resorted to pills.
 
Hank and Rusty got Benedryl, and it did seem to help.  They moved slower; went into a deeper sleep, and were nonresponsive to the smaller booms.  Sadie needed more of a boost, so our veterinarian prescribed Xanex, as well as the more powerful sedative Acepromazine, also called Ace, which was new to us.  We felt it necessary to use one night, but found the results negligible.  (First given to people in the 1950s as an antipsychotic, but now almost exclusively given to animals, many animal behaviorists have come to believe that Ace does nothing to calm suffering pets.  Rather, they say it makes them unable to move or exhibit any other outward indications of their fear, equivalent to a “chemical straitjacket.”  I don’t think we’re trying it again.)   
 
Then there’s Sileo, the first drug ever specifically approved by the Food and Drug Administration for canine noise aversion. An injectable, flavorless gel that’s squeezed between a dog’s cheek and gum, a single dose is about $30 and must be administered by a vet.  Given Sadie’s size, we were told she would need at least three doses.  It’s an expensive option, but one we may have to consider down the road.    
 
Amidst all of this, there’s some welcome news. 
 
This past year, the town of Collecchio, in Italy, decided that its pets are more important than the booming of fireworks.  So, the local government enacted a measure that now requires all of its citizens to use silent fireworks.  Germany has also banned fireworks near refugee shelters in order to reduce trauma, so perhaps a positive trend is emerging.
 
As for this American girl clown, I’m sad that I can’t attend any Fourth of July celebrations.  But the trade-off is so worth it that, really, it’s an option I don’t much think about anymore. 
 
After all, our sweet dogs are our kinfolk, and I love them just as fiercely as I do my daughter. 
 
And for now, all is well.  
 
At least until New Year’s Eve.
 
What do you think about dogs and fireworks, and what advice can you give this girl clown (besides moving to Collecchio)?  I look forward to your comments and stories, as well as great Fourth of July memories!   

 ​Maybe it’s because they don’t cost anything, or maybe it’s because you can do them without ever leaving the house.  Or, it might be that since everyone around you seems to be doing them, you’re compelled to do the same.  
 
And I’ll admit it: once upon a time, and for more years than I’d like to remember, I did them, too.
 
But now, I no longer make New Year resolutions.
 
For one thing, those January determinations always ended up being pretty much the same ones, every single year, and also pretty much ended up not how I had hoped they would. 
 
At the top of the list, always, was dropping a few pounds, followed closely by eating less and exercising more.  There has also been a desire to be kinder and more forgiving, and for those closest to me, I know I still have to work harder
on the latter.  And although I’m a lifetime worrier, I’m aware, too, that reining in this part of my personality would make me way less anxious, and probably way more happy, all around.  
 
I didn’t stop my resolutions only because they didn’t stick.   
 
They always did—for a little while.
 
There was the year I faithfully sprinkled flax seed on nearly everything I ate, even though it tasted like crunchy dirt.  Most recently, and this particular tweak actually lasted for a couple of years, I faithfully attended Zumba classes twice a week.  Even a dance dork like me could do most of the moves, and I absolutely felt more energetic. 
 
But I obviously wasn’t that committed, because when the teacher quit due to health issues, I made no effort to look for any new classes.
 
As it turns out, this sort of maybe-I-will, maybe-I-won’t attitude about New Year’s resolutions is how a lot of other people operate, too.  
 
A few years back, Dr. John Norcross, a leading university researcher on New Year’s behavior (nope, I’m not making this up), had two assistants call hundreds of potential participants for a study about January resolutions.  All of the calls were made over the last five days in December, with 400 people eventually agreeing to take part.     
 
Based on their responses, Norcross then divided those folks into three groups.
 
The first group said they never made resolutions.  The second admitted that they didn’t necessarily make resolutions in January, but thought they might later in the year.  The third said they were definitely planning on making resolutions at the New Year.
 
Focusing on the latter two groups, here’s what Norcross discovered.
 
With the group who thought that resolutions might be best made later in the year, he found that two weeks after making those determinations, more than half were sticking to them.  Yet six months later, only four percent were successful.
 
But with the group that made their resolutions at the New Year, 71 percent were successful after two weeks.  Perhaps even more astonishing, 46 percent remained committed at the six-month mark. 
 
In other words, those who made their resolutions in January were 10 times more likely to keep them than the people who made their resolutions at other times in the year. 
 
While no one knows exactly why this is so, perhaps it’s because the New Year creates a sort of “pocket” for our mass culture—the most popular time for Americans to stop, think and reflect about making positive changes.  It really is a time that the rest of the year doesn’t necessarily accommodate.      
 
It may also be that by being mindful right about now, those who stay committed to their goals come to find out that long-term success truly doesn’t have much to do with super-human, teeth grinding willpower.  In fact, given that this sort of resolve is supposed to be in motion 24 hours a day, seven days a week, it is, simply, impossible to maintain.   
 
Instead, those who stuck to their programs probably realized it was all about accomplishing small goals and
small wins, which are generally easier to stick to.  Consequently, these little changes often end up the more
lasting ones, which also does the most good.   (Learn more about Norcross’s study with this entertaining
video, at www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqbAsr6wN_I.)      
 
Then, there are folks like me.
 
While I’m no longer a card-carrying member of the New Year Resolutions Brigade, this doesn’t mean that I’ve completely given up on trying to be A Better Human Being.
 
So, for the second January in a row, I have tried something else, something that Norcross and his team didn’t study.
 
I have surrendered. 
 
This doesn’t mean being a wimp, and lying down whenever an obstacle rears its head.  Rather, armed with grace and humor, I try to be aware and open to whatever changes, good and bad and in-between, the coming year will bring.
 
In my world, this translates into relinquishing my tight grip on what I think I should do, and instead, try to flow with, be open to, and most of all, enjoy what’s happening along the way.  Given that the only constant in life is change, I’m finally recognizing that life is (and always has been) a little less clear, a little less clean, and a little less controlled that I’d like it to be. 
 
In fact, to be human means that not only will our circumstances change, it’s also okay to allow ourselves to be changed by them.  By letting go of the old, we can also make way for the new, and at the same time, perhaps even try to “re-pattern” negative habits.  Of course, it’s easy to resent the changes (especially, most especially, the ones that I don’t initiate) that come my way. 
 
So, instead, I am trying my best to looking forward to “re-weaving” all sorts of new journeys… filled with wonder, surprises and smiles.
 
It’s really the only resolution I need. 
 
Do you make New Year’s resolutions?  I’d love to hear your thoughts and stories!     

I’m going to take a leap of faith here and say that most kids love Christmas. 
 
First, school is out for two whole weeks.  Second, there are presents.  Don’t forget Christmas trees heavy with ornaments; dazzling light displays, and singing along to songs of the season.  Oh, and the food:  creamy egg nog and smooth chocolate fudge, rich butter cookies, and other astonishingly decadent goodies that appear only at this time
of year.
 
I hated Christmas when I was a child.        
 
Not only that, it wasn’t until I reached my 30s that I was finally able to make peace with what’s supposed to be the most joyous holiday of the year.
 
The reason is simple. 
 
I was a Jewish girl who grew up in a thoroughly Christian neighborhood.  
 
Despite these obvious demographics, as well as the fact that my family was what I today call “California Jews”—i.e. undeniably not hard core when it came to practicing our religion—my parents refused to bring a tree, and none of its accoutrements, into our home.  That included presents.    
 
But perhaps because my mom and dad also understood that there was no escape from this all-encompassing month—Christmas was, and still is, everywhere—we did acknowledge the holiday.
 
In a decidedly oddball sort of way. 
 
This meant that my mother spent weeks baking dozens upon dozens of butter cookies with cookie cutters shaped like Christmas trees and silver bells.  Strangely, my brother and I also had photos taken of us in the lap of a big store Santa Claus, although we both knew that he wasn’t magical and requests to him would go unanswered.  Mom mailed out Christmas cards, too, and even took a tiny glass tree out of storage that sat on top of our television set for
most of December.
 
There’s more to this schizophrenia.
 
Next to the little tree, my parents placed a Hanukah menorah. 
 
Sometimes we would light candles, but if the hour got too late and we forgot, well, we’d make up for that the next night. If we did remember, we still never recited any prayers beforehand.  You’ve probably guessed by now that there weren’t any gifts to acknowledge the Festival of Lights.  
 
Instead, in those times before Black Friday and Cyber Monday, my mom and I would hit department store blowout sales immediately after December 25.
 
We’d wind up hauling a few shopping bags full of dresses, skirts and blouses home. So, if a classmate happened to ask what I had received for Christmas, it was a no brainer to say those clothes had been under the tree.
 
This tactic worked well until fourth grade. 
 
That year, long before diversity became every school’s mantra, my class made Christmas ornaments.  Bright white Styrofoam spheres were passed out, along with sequins and pins.  But when I proudly brought the decoration home, my mother had a fit.  She even called the principal to loudly complain that not everyone at the school had a Christmas tree, and not everyone celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ, thank you very much. 
 
Now even my teacher knew how different, and somehow, how ashamed, I felt.     
 
The years passed and I left home for college, joined a circus, returned to college and snagged a journalism degree, then moved to New York City to write.  With the eyes of an adult, I could now see that for millions—perhaps even the majority of Americans—Christmas wasn’t about any particular religion (although for millions of others, including my Christian husband, it is).    Rather, it was much more of a time to reflect, and act on, good will, peace and kindness. 
 
Still, it somehow didn’t feel right to buy a Christmas tree. 
 
But it was also pointless for me to have a menorah since I hadn’t been inside a synagogue for decades. 
 
Then—and this took a few more years—I had an epiphany.    
 
I realized that even though I’d felt like an outsider for decades, I still longed to feel the sweetness and joy of the season. 
 
And now, I could.  Yes, there was finally a way to be okay, even happy, when Christmastime rolled around.     
 
I could create my very own holiday template, and with it, my very own holiday traditions. 
 
One of the first things I did was buy a tree. 
 
By then, I had also learned how the Christmas tree came to be—and that it had absolutely nothing to do with the
​birth of Christ. 
 
In fact, bringing nature inside has long been part of a Pagan, pre-Christian ritual that saw its adherents garnishing their homes with evergreen shrubs.   (Cutting down entire trees would have been considered far too destructive to the beauty of nature—which this early religion was devoted to.)  Indeed, one way of recognizing the important mid-winter holiday was to display the scrubs, which often included decorating them with bits of glass and metal.  It wasn’t until centuries later that Christians added a baby in a manger and stamped the celebration as theirs.   
 
Eventually, too, I baked cookies, but not every year and not nearly in the quantities my mother had.  Sometimes I even put a string of outdoor lights around my doorway.  With the wisdom and self-confidence that comes with age, I knew that this act had nothing to do with worshipping a man born in Bethlehem.  But it had everything to do with saying the lights simply made me happy.     
 
So it was that by the time I had my baby girl, I knew her December 25 would bear no resemblance to the ones I only wanted to forget. 
 
She would have a big tree, and there would be presents underneath it.  There would certainly be many ornaments, including one acknowledging her first Christmas.  And there would be lots of photos of her on display, all wearing cutie patootie outfits topped by a Santa hat. 
 
Most of all, I wanted my daughter to experience one of childhood’s very best days of the entire year.
 
And that was Christmas morning,
 
She would likely have a hard time going to sleep, restlessly dreaming of reindeer hoofs on our roof.  She would definitely wake up very early, and then run to the Christmas tree in the living room. There, she might find a new bicycle, and lots of other gifts lovingly wrapped, waiting for her tiny hands to tear apart. 
 
On my end, I couldn’t wait to watch.        
 
And because of who I am, and where I came from, yes, we would have a menorah. 
 
But it was my turn  to do it my way, so that meant that this candelabra would have its own special spot, with small dreidels and a special cloth, festooned with Stars of David, accessorizing the area.  There would be full-on Hebrew prayers every evening for those nine days, too, with my daughter lighting the candles every time.  I would also learn to make potato pancakes from scratch, served with homemade applesauce and sour cream.   Sometimes we would read the story of how Hanukah began.  And there would be presents here, too, mostly books.   
 
There are plenty of other folks just like me—people who have mindfully chosen to not repeat the Christmas playbook of their childhoods.    
 
Some prefer poinsettia bushes instead of a tree, while others always give to a favorite charity rather than exchange presents.  Kwanza is now in the mix, and I also have Christian friends who believe that celebrating Hanukah is pretty cool, too.  It heartens me as well to see many others who define this season as one of community service, and do that walk with grace.     
 
Really, it all comes down to this:  you can pick and choose, add and subtract, and create your own December rituals.  Make it big, or make it small.  Make it traditional, or create a new spin or two. 
 
Most of all, make it fit you.    
 
How did you celebrate the holidays as a child, and how about now? I’d love to hear your stories!