The December Dilemma

Celebrating Leah’s birthday at Kidskeller (daycare center). Dan is to her right.

It was late fall of 1990. I went through the revolving door of my office building to leave for the day, as I did five days a week. By the time I emerged on the sidewalk, every thought about work evaporated. It was like crossing into another world, one totally focused on Leah and Daniel (my children, aged 3 years and 18 months). If I offered to bring something from home to a colleague at work, let’s say a book, by the time I got to the street, the thought was gone. No chance I’d remember to bring it. The next day I’d arrive back at the office, realize I had forgotten and apologize to my colleague. It was hopeless. My brain was on overload.

In the fall of 1990 Gary was in his second year of his endocrine fellowship, his fifth year of post-medical school training. I was working full time for the New York State Legislative Commission on Expenditure Review. Leah and Daniel attended a daycare center, Kidskeller, that was part of Albany Medical Center, where Gary was in training.

Each day I’d leave work, take a bus to VA hospital where our car was parked. I would take the car to the daycare center and pick up the kids and drive home. Sometime later in the evening, Gary would call and I would put the kids in the car and pick him up. Honestly, I don’t know how our marriage survived those years– at times we were hanging on by our fingernails.

On one particular day, I got to Kidskeller and was getting stuff from Leah’s cubby. As was often the case, there was a note from the head of the program with information about upcoming events. I quickly read it and saw that Santa Claus would be visiting the center in a few weeks. I took a deep breath, folded the note and put it in the bag with Leah’s other stuff. The same note was in Dan’s cubby. I would read it more carefully later that night.

After Gary got home and had dinner, I showed him the note, which asked parents to bring a small wrapped gift for their child so that Santa could distribute it when he visited.  We were not happy. I resented being required, in effect, to get gifts when money was so crazy tight. I also resented having Santa Claus imposed on us – he was ubiquitous already! While some Jews may partake of Christmas rituals, we didn’t. I enjoyed the lights and decorations that brighten the season, but we didn’t exchange gifts or acknowledge Santa Claus and we didn’t want that for our children.

We were surprised that a daycare associated with a medical center would approach the holiday without recognizing the awkward position in which it would put non-Christian parents and children. After discussing it, Gary and I decided that it was likely too late to ask them to change the plan, but we would talk to the director so that maybe other plans could be considered in the years to follow. In the meantime, I would come to the center at the appointed hour with a gift for Leah and Dan and give it to them myself.

The next day I stopped by the day care director’s office and asked if I could schedule a time to meet with her. I told her it was about the center’s plans for Christmas. She readily agreed and we set aside some time the following week.

I arrived at the meeting as relaxed as possible. I knew there was nothing to be gained by going in loaded for bear.

“Amy, I wanted to explain how the plan to have Santa Claus come to the center, and give gifts to the kids, put Gary and I in a difficult position,” I began.

I went on to explain that we didn’t view Santa Claus as a secular figure and that we didn’t observe Christmas. She listened. I think it came as a surprise to her that we were troubled by Santa Claus, as she didn’t see him as a religious symbol at all.

We agreed that there wouldn’t be any change to that year’s plan. She understood that I would come with my own gifts for Leah and Daniel. We also agreed that the center would form a committee of parents and staff to discuss holiday observances and make recommendations for the future. I was pleased that she was willing to do that.

The day of Santa’s visit arrived. I left work, taking my lunch hour, to go over to the center. Santa was scheduled to visit Dan’s room first. The children, who were between 18 months and two years old, were sitting on the floor in a circle. Their care givers and a couple of other parents were spread throughout the room. Dan climbed into my lap. Santa was led in by the assistant director. Santa sat in a chair and read off each child’s name, inviting each to come up and get their present. After some cajoling by an adult, most of the kids toddled up to Santa. Only one or two cried. The adults were smiling and laughing. I gave Dan his small gift. Santa left and moved on to the next age group.

I left Dan and went to Leah’s room. She was with the 3-4 year olds. While some of the kids were still reticent, more of them shared the excitement of the adults. I gave Leah her present. She seemed a bit perplexed, but was always excited to get a gift.

I went back to work, struck by the feeling that Santa’s visit meant more to the adults than the children.

When I went back to pick up Leah and Dan at the end of the day, one of Leah’s teachers asked Leah if she would hang the ornament they had made on her Christmas tree. Leah turned to look at me, not sure how to answer. I smiled and said, ”We don’t have a Christmas tree, but we’ll give it to someone who does.”  Cathy said, “Oh, you don’t? Hmmm.” I took Leah’s hand and we went to get Dan.

Driving home, Leah asked, “Why don’t we have a Christmas tree?” I explained that we aren’t Christian and we don’t celebrate the holiday. We celebrate other holidays. “I wish we celebrated Christmas,” Leah said wistfully. “I understand, Leah. We can still enjoy the lights and stuff. We just won’t be observing it in our house.” I changed the subject, “What should we have for dinner?”

I hadn’t expected to confront this so soon. She was three and a half.

That wasn’t close to the end of it.

(My next blog post will relate what happened with the day care center committee and the following year’s holiday season.)


Another Week Passes in a Flash

Unfortunately I do not have a new blog post ready. It has been a busy week. I took a NYSSBA assignment that brought me to Attica (not the prison), the school district. And, I have two more assignments coming up in short order. I have also been working on a piece to submit to a writing contest that is Brooklyn-themed.

So, it was Monday before I knew it!

If any of you have thoughts about which of my Brooklyn-based blog posts really resonated or you thought was a particularly strong piece, please let me know! I am planning to use some of the prior blog posts as the basis for the piece (which can be 2500 words).

Oh, and one more thing, I did find out that the submission that I wrote about previously was rejected by a literary magazine. I’m oh-for-three. Discouraged, but not defeated.

I’ll be back next week with a new story.

Ode to Central Park

Views of Central Park in mid-October (photos by me!)

Oh, how do I love thee?


I love the juxtaposition

Nature and civilization

Bird calls and sirens

Steel and glass skyscrapers and majestic ancient trees


Ducks and turtles paddling the reservoir

Birds swoop

Stately pre-war apartment buildings stand guard to the west

Museum mile beckons to the east

Commerce to the south

Harlem to the north


Flora, fauna and culture abound

Beauty in all its forms

For the taking


People of every age and size

Of every skin color

Of every socio-economic level


Running, walking

Laying in the grass

Cycling, rowing

Reclining on a park bench


Riding in a pedi-cab

Or a horse-drawn carriage

Planking on a pedestrian bridge

Graceful moves of tai chi on the meadow


Children’s laughter

So many languages

The wind in the trees

Honking horns

The rotors of a helicopter slicing the air


Let me count the ways.



Adventures with Aunt Clair

Aunt Clair, my father’s younger sister by two and a half years, may be short in stature, but she more than makes up for it with an outsize personality. One of my earliest memories was a weekend where she watched me and my two brothers while my parents were away. As I recall, we named her car ‘Bumpity Morgan.’ I don’t know if that name was a result of its poor suspension or New York’s potholed streets (or both).

I could be mixing different times together, but I recall Aunt Clair driving us in ‘Bumpity’ to the beach in the Rockaways. We were enjoying jumping the waves and collecting shells when the sky grew ominous. Aunt Clair poo-poohed it for a while and we continued to enjoy playing in the water and sand. Eventually it became clear that a storm was rolling in. We gathered up our things as quickly as we could and made a run for it. We got to ‘Bumpity’ just in time to avoid the lightening and fat raindrops. Wet and sandy, we climbed into the car and went back home, having squeezed out the last possible moments of fun. This was a very different approach from my parents. Mom and Dad would have packed up sooner, cleaned the sand off our feet and gotten back to the car with time to spare.

Aunt Clair, 81 years old now, lives in the same rent-controlled studio apartment in Greenwich Village that she has occupied for almost my entire life. When you think of a person who spent over 50 years, living on their own, in the Village, you might imagine someone with idiosyncrasies – you might imagine my Aunt Clair.

Aunt Clair and me, June 2017 Photo credit: Mary Sulzer

She stands maybe 5’2” with curly white hair, there may be remnants of light brown strands from her younger years. Even 40 years ago, whenever I would walk with her, she would remind me that she had to take twice as many steps to keep up – she considered me to be tall! I didn’t think I had a particularly long stride, unless I was next to her.

Like her siblings, she has large, lively blue eyes. Like her siblings, she is razor sharp smart and insightful. She has a hearty laugh – my kids tell me we sound alike when we laugh.

Aunt Clair is feisty. My father loved telling stories about her toughness, even as a little girl. One involved an unfortunate dentist who told the young Clair that the procedure he was about to perform wouldn’t hurt. Well, it did. Clair was indignant, claiming that he lied, so she kicked him in a particularly sensitive spot and climbed down from the chair.

Making your way in New York City as a single woman wasn’t easy. I remember hearing about a mugging where Aunt Clair refused to give up her purse. I’m not sure how that ended up, I think she ended up bruised, angry and minus her pursue. Though my Dad admired her spirit, his message to me was not to do what she did in that case. He advised, if in a similar situation, to not fight back and risk serious injury. Aunt Clair didn’t (and still doesn’t) find it easy to back down.

I learned that I had a bit of her spirit when I had an experience going into the subway. It was 1980 and Gary and I were going down the stairs to the station, Gary was ahead of me. I had a backpack on and I felt it being jostled. Without thinking, I spun and said loudly, “What the fuck are you doing?” There was a young man with his hand on my knapsack. He looked startled and he turned and ran. Gary had stopped, but the incident was already over. I surprised myself, it was an instinctive reaction. I guess I was channeling my inner Aunt Clair.

Some of my fondest memories of time spent with Aunt Clair involved bicycling. Clair biked around Manhattan long before the city made any accommodations for riders.  She continued to bike, even to chemotherapy appointments when she was in her late 70s!

When I was college-aged and home for the summer, I joined Aunt Clair for a bike tour of Manhattan. This was no ordinary bike tour. We started in Central Park at midnight! Earlier that evening I went with my parents to see an off-Broadway play. We drove into the city from Brooklyn with my bike was strapped to their car. Aunt Clair met us at the theater when the show was over. We retrieved my bike and went to her apartment to drop my stuff off and then headed uptown.

Photo credit: Snapshot for Sore Eyes – Central Park at Night

Hundreds of people were gathered with their bicycles at the Bethesda Fountain which is located mid-park at around 72nd Street. Central Park begins at 59th Street and stretches to 110th, south to north. East to west, it encompasses two avenues across (Fifth to Central Park West). It was odd to be in a place that most people thought of as dangerous at that hour. In those years, I wouldn’t have gone into Central Park by myself in broad daylight. It felt exciting and adventurous to be there amongst so many fellow cyclists.

We rode around the park, stopping periodically to hear about its history. We left the park and rode along the east and then west side of Manhattan. We rode through the theater district all the way down to the deserted financial district. The financial district felt like a movie set, with the skyscrapers seeming like two dimensional facades. It was so quiet, it was eerie. At that time, there were no residential buildings in the area, so there weren’t restaurants (other than those that catered to the lunch crowd) or clubs or theaters. It was a ghost town during off hours. We were able to ride in the canyon of Wall Street without other traffic, pedestrian or vehicular. I got up close and personal views of the architecture and sculptures in a part of the city I had only seen on a rare school trip.

Our tour concluded at sunrise at Battery Park. A hazy sun rose over the mouth of New York harbor. We rode back to the Village, got breakfast at a brasserie and ended the adventure with a nap at her apartment. Midafternoon she drove me and my bike back to Canarsie.

It was not my only adventure with Aunt Clair.  We took other bike rides together – on Martha’s Vineyard and in Boston, too. She introduced me to walking across the Brooklyn Bridge – we bought wonton soup and ate it midway across – long before it became a ‘cool’ thing to do. I’ve seen plays, movies and ballets with her. We’ve eaten many meals at wonderful hole-in-wall restaurants in her neighborhood. I learned so much about the city, and about being independent, from my time spent with her.

I was fortunate to grow up in an unusual family – made up of interesting, quirky and intelligent people. Aunt Clair’s feistiness, strong opinions and independent streak could sometimes create friction with other family members, especially my Dad (who shared some of those same qualities). But, I have been lucky to have her.


On Turning 58

Tomorrow is my birthday. I have ambivalent feelings about birthdays. A legacy of my Nana and Zada is my belief that one should celebrate whenever possible, since there is plenty of heartache in this world. I also believe that even though showing appreciation for the people you love should be a regular thing, and not dictated by the calendar, birthdays, holidays and Mother’s Day, etc., are good reminders. I don’t think there are that many of us walking around feeling over-appreciated.

On the other hand, in my family we didn’t make a big deal out of birthdays – only milestones, like 13 for my brothers and 16 for me. There is an amusing anecdote about my brother Mark’s 11th birthday. As noted in previous posts, my grandfather was a baker and he would bring home surplus goods from the commercial bakery where he worked. One year there was a birthday cake that hadn’t been picked up and it was fortuitous because it was also Mark’s birthday.  Zada brought home the large, day old cake with white icing. So what if it said, in pastel blue letters, ‘Happy Birthday Manny’ on it?  And, so what if it was a little stale?  It would have been a shame to let the cake go to waste. We lit the candles and sung a very off key version of the birthday song and had a good laugh about it.

There was a small part of me that wished we observed birthdays like other kids’ families. Some even stayed home from school for the day! That was out of the question in our family.

My birthday often falls on or near the Jewish high holy days. The story I heard was that my mother thought she was having indigestion from Rosh Hoshana dinner, when in fact, she was in labor. Apparently, her labor with me was fast and furious and I arrived before they had a chance to administer the anesthesia. In those days, they knocked women out when delivering babies. I emerged, all 9 pounds 15 ounces of me (!), without the benefit of her being unconscious. Poor Mom!

For the most part, I like the fact that my birthday falls during the Jewish New Year celebration – as long as it doesn’t fall on the actual day of Yom Kippur (our day of fasting). The high holy days ask us to reflect on the year we finished, make amends for our sins and consider how we will do better in the year to come.  As someone who is introspective to begin with, it is a good fit with my birthday.

The problem, though, with birthdays and the high holy days, is the other reminder they provide: time marches on and, as we get older, it seems to march faster and faster. Sometimes I get overwhelmed by our total inability to control it. The number 58 doesn’t mean anything really, I am the same person. On the other hand, I’m freakin’ old!

I look at my mom, who is still young at heart. There are real issues, limitations, imposed by aging, but if we are lucky enough to have a sound mind (or relatively sound :)), there is no reason we can’t be engaged and interested in the world. There is always more to learn. My parents were/are great role models in their continuous quest for knowledge and insight.

Having observed Yom Kippur this past weekend, I approach my birthday with gratitude. We were fortunate to have Leah, Daniel and Beth with us for the holiday – the first time in many years that we have been able to be together. Unfortunately, I also had an ear and sinus infection, but I reveled in our time together. As residue of the holiday, tomorrow I will still be thinking about how I can make myself a better person, a better family member, friend and citizen of this troubled world. And hopefully take a moment to celebrate, too.


Shana tova.