Illumination

by Jason Tudor

Near the heavy wooden door, stuck to the door jamb is a ceramic container with a prayer written on a rolled piece of parchment. The container is slightly longer than a pack of gum, and mounted at a slight angle. As I pass through the door, I kiss two fingers and then press them against the cool ceramic beacon.

The door opens. The smell of fried potatoes pours through my nostrils. Popping oil crackles in a pan as my wife smiles and greets me with a hug. Small bowls of apple sauce and sour cream line the counter, flecked with raw, grated potato. Under my left arm is a box of jelly-filled donuts. Some of the powdered sugar still sticks to my fingers, an indictment of my trip to the bakery.

The sun is almost down. Our daughter runs in from her room. From a small cardboard box resting on the worn Maple dining table, she removes two colored candles. She pinches them with careful nimble fingers, slipping one into a spot on the far-right side of the silver candle holder. The other is set in the center, slightly above the other.

"It's ready, Mom!" she yells, just as my wife walks in with the play of potato pancakes. The other food follows. Warmed by the heat of the radiators, the room is bathed in glowing orange and pink as the evening sky flickers its last and the sun dips below the mountains

I light the middle candle and hand it to our daughter. My wife leads us in the prayer as my daughter's small arm reaches up to light the first candle. As it flicks to life, we finish the last few words, which, despite being in a language as old the pick-up line Adam gave to Eve, always ends in "Amen." The center candle is returned, and we place the candles and their holder in the window next to pictures of my father, mother-in-law and sisters.

This is the first night. Our daughter is anxious to open her first gift. Furiously ripping off carefully knotted ribbons and intricate wrapping paper leads to an expression of joy unlike any I've ever seen as a father. My wife and I kiss again, and then kiss our daughter, who is now lost in the splendor of her new gift. Soon after, we dive into the meal, glimpsing every so often at the candles. They remind us of the miracle. They remind us that these days are about dedication. They remind us of sacrifice. They remind us of triumph in the face of adversity and faith when none was to be had. This first night is the first blessing.

This scene may be familiar to you in another setting, and its elements are probably no different: family, good food, friends and gifts. For me, this scene plays out when the sun goes down this Wednesday night and plays out for the eight nights that follow.

Hanukkah dawns. Happy holidays.

Estate planning 101

by Susan Utley

Photo credit: thedigeratilife.com

Last week my husband attended a retirement seminar and returned home from work with a wealth of information on IRAs, health insurance options, and estate planning. That last item led to a discussion about who to trust to protect our assets if something should happen to both of us. The conversation involved such things as power of attorney, executors of the estate, and what should or should not be left behind to our beneficiaries. My husband’s focus was not with material possessions like who should inherit his watch or his twelve-piece collection of Holiday Budweiser steins, but with the importance of spending every dollar we earn and leaving nothing behind but a pile of credit card bills. I, on the other hand, had more pressing concerns.

While I gazed through the glass doors of my china cabinet, I realized that not only would my sister be the proud owner of my coveted set of Depression era Iris & Herringbone dishes, but she would also inherit the thick layer of dust I have allowed to accumulate on top of the serving pieces. I also considered how delighted my daughter would be to receive my Department 56 Snow Babies on the Farm collection. That is until she discovered the dust bunnies lurking under my bed where the Snow Babies are stored.

It was then that I realized in horror that it would be my mother who would inherit the ring around the toilet in the spare bathroom and the contents of my sock drawer which contains multiple pairs of socks adorned with my favorite cartoon characters. This thought prompted a new concern. As my blood pressure rose and my heart began to race, I looked down at the outfit I decided to throw on when I got home from work: a shredded Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, pink capri sweatpants, and Scooby Doo knee-high socks. It occurred to me that if I dropped dead to the floor from a massive heart attack, my obituary would most certainly read, “It is suspected she suffered from a case of early onset dementia.”

At that moment it became clear to me that the only people we could truly trust with our estate was ourselves and each other.  Following a quick change of clothes, I retreated to my writing studio to delete from my hard drive the story I wrote last month about a highly dysfunctional family living in Virginia who shoots raccoons from the deck with paintball guns...in the nude. Whoever advised, “write what you know” certainly did not consider posthumous publication and the resulting public humiliation.

So while my husband spends his time focusing on the financial end of things by running up our credit card debt at Costco.com, I will attend to the more important issues of dusting my china, scrubbing toilets, and vacuuming under my bed. As for my sock drawer, I have decided to hold onto my Scooby socks as my husband assures me that if we are ever in a car accident, he will remove them from my feet before the paramedics arrive. Now that, my friend, is trust.