Originally published in The Baltimore Sun
By Laura Black
As a child, I was jealous of Christmas.
I grew up in Coral Gables, Fla., in the late ‘50s. Only one other Jewish family lived on our street. While my family was still finishing leftover turkey sandwiches and soggy pumpkin pie, our neighbors were inflating plastic Santas and hanging colorful electric lights. I envied the stockings dangling from mock-fireplace mantles and the giant evergreens crowned with gold stars, their branches flaunting shiny red balls.
Our tiny wooden dreidels and shiny brass Menorah didn’t stand a chance.
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