My family had a unique way of celebrating Hannukah.
My mother had made what she called a Hannukah Bag, several feet of blue fabric with eight pockets. Each pocket had a yellow symbol: a Jewish star, a menorah, a lion. These were mysterious to me because they were so perfectly formed, something my mother normally shunned. She preferred most things to be wild, from our hair to the forsythia bushes, so why she liked the correctness of these mini paintings confused me. I couldn’t figure out how she had made it, or why she had chosen these designs. When I reflect now, my guess is she didn’t make it but bought it. This would also be strange, as she disavowed most of the kitschy things Jews buy in order to balance the ever-present Christmas ornamentation, from carols to twinkle lights.
The Hannukah Bag went up just before the eight days began. It didn’t hold presents. It held poems. Our custom was to hide the presents that were gifted each night and then write little poems directing the receiver to go hunting around the house. Sometimes these were profound, but mostly they were little ditties: Liz, Liz, strong and able, something’s hidden under a table. Or for David, who explores the most: something lurking near the toast.
We didn’t do this every night. My parents were actually concerned about the whole idea of eight presents, so some nights there were school supplies hidden in the pockets, or something quite small like a silver dollar or a lucky charm. As we got older, the poems grew in mystery, and the whole endeavor became much more about what we could say to each other in this manner.
When I hold Hannukah parties now, which I do about every 5 to 10 years, I like to have a big crowd. Everyone is directed to bring a wrapped gift they made, or something costing under five dollars, or something they are re-gifting. Then they pick a name out of a hat, write a poem, and hide the package. We stand in a circle, read the poems, and then bedlam erupts as everyone goes hunting.
This year I lost the last family member of my origins, my big brother Richard. It is devastating to be alone in my memories. But happily, I have taught my current family how to do this, even though there is no Hannukah Bag to put the poems inside. That is long gone. But the pockets in time remain.
