"The real magic was that of our own Hanukkah lights, spread over eight days of celebration."”

DENTON, TEXAS — I grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in Chicago. One grandmother lived, with my aunt and uncle, in an apartment across the hall from ours. My other grandparents lived about three blocks away, just past the synagogue we all attended. 

Holidays were family affairs, always attended by candle lighting and good food.

This time of year, even in our strongly Jewish neighborhood, there were still a few Christmas decorations. My sister and I eagerly sought out these strange but beautiful lights, including the wondrous Christmas tree in the apartment upstairs, which held amazing candle-shaped lights that actually bubbled!

But the real magic was that of our own Hanukkah lights, spread over eight days of celebration with one set of grandparents or the other. My earliest memories involve my paternal grandmother—the one who lived three blocks away—teaching me the blessing of the Hanukkah lights, and the songs that go with the holiday.

Times are so different now, and my grandchildren are 1500 miles away. Though we almost always lived in places with few other Jewish families, my son learned those same blessings from me and has now passed them on to his daughter.

We now have our own family tradition: from the time Ezri was three, we have managed to find one evening each Hanukkah when we can place a video call and simultaneously light our menorahs and sing the blessings. This year, Ezri is 12, and will light the candles in the Toronto menorah on her own, with her father beside her.

And the 2000-year old celebration of the survival of the Jewish people goes on.