Leave a Plate of Matzoh for Santa

"Is it even? Trim just a little bit more off of the left side. No, no, that's too much? OK, is it even now? Take just a little, little, little bit more off. Yes, yes, that's perfect."

Sound like a trip to the local beauty parlor or barbershop? Well, not to me. Those are the words of my Jewish mother during the annual and often tedious ritual of sculpting the Christmas tree into an evergreen tower of perfect symmetry. My mother, with little guidance from her Catholic husband or his family, must have taken her cue on how to "do Christmas" from the window dressers at Macy's.

Our house was transformed into a Christmas menagerie, with my mother ever directing my brothers and me: "Michael, now I know there is another box, you know the one, with the Three Wise Men in it, go look, huh?" She'd ask, "Gary, see if you can find the angel. No, not that one, the one for the top of the tree."

With my mother, brothers, and me packing and unpacking boxes and sculpting the Christmas tree, you may ask, where was my Dad? You know, the Catholic guy. You see, Dad really wanted no part of the whole operation. I always had a sense even then that this was much ado about nothing for him. That was certainly the case in the home in which he grew up. Occasionally, you would find Mother at the base of the staircase calling up to him, "John, John, are you coming down to help with the Christmas decorations?"

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