I smile whenever I am asked the every-year question that intrigues some people:
What do Jews do on Christmas?
This story, which I have related before, takes me back about 18 years. I was a reporter at the hard-left Jewish Journal.
The editor was one of the grimmest men attracted to journalism in the previous century.
He was the consummate liberal – single, aging faster than peanut butter in a roaring oven, elitist, sniffy, a dutifully practicing kvetch, with a temper purchased at a nearby pet store.
The scene was late afternoon on Christmas Eve, and the cast of not untalented characters in the newsroom would have fit comfortably inside a Damon Runyan story.
My editor’s rocky temper – he did not like me or my politics and I liked him and his politics considerably less – reminded me sternly of my home life. I recall several evenings when my wife let her guard down. She spoke. Not necessarily to anyone, least of all me.
The hour was 5 o’clock. The editor laid aside the latest New Yorker long enough to encourage, or order, us to complete our stories.
He had a vital mission to fulfill, a duty, as he saw it.
By the dinner hour, the slightly bulky, shlumpy, non-athletic editor of the Jewish Journal whizzed across the newsroom as if a Muslim terrorist were hotly pursuing him.
“What is your rush?” one of my braver colleagues called out.
Almost panting, Mr. Editor explained that he needed to dash to his Westside home, clean up, dress and toddle off to, you will pardon the cultural bridge-crossing, Midnight Mass.
“I love the music,” he muttered, haplessly, defensively.
Your normative Jew, he was not.
