New old traditions

As you all probably know by now, my parents were brought up in the Jewish tradition but converted to Unitarianism, under whose flaming chalice and bubbling coffee urn my brothers and I were raised. We celebrated major holidays, at least the cultural rituals of them. We celebrated Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, had latkes on Hanukkah. Sometimes the Unitarian Fellowship or a family friend would hold a Seder dinner on Passover and we would participate.

Then we grew up. My parents divorced and remarried. My brothers married and had children and developed their own rituals. We still got together for major holidays, but everything was changing. “Santa Claus” was held at my younger brother’s house, usually not on Christmas, my older brother’s wife made the Seder and after inviting us once, for some reason never asked us back again. I could make latkes whenever I felt like it, and now that I was with my Jewish husband, the Easter Bunny simply stopped coming to my house.

At some point in my thirties, while I still craved the rituals, I felt disconnected from them. It wasn’t enough anymore to go through the trappings just so I wouldn’t feel left out.

I wanted more meaning.

I didn’t feel – nor did I want to become – connected to any major religion. It didn’t feel right for me. Neither did it feel right to go back to Unitarianism, as my older brother had.

But come Christmas and Easter mornings, I felt a palpable hole in my psyche. I wanted a community, a special meal, something to make me feel in step with the rest of the world.

For a while Husband and I tried to develop our own traditions. We’d go to the movies on Christmas Day. Stuff like that. But nothing really stuck.

Then we moved into our own house. And our neighborhood embraced us. Which has been wonderful. These people, who have become friends, welcomed us into their homes and into their families to share their Christmas dinners, their Thanksgiving leftover potlucks, their-any-old-occasion-get-togethers.

But Easter had, at least for me, become a kind of untouchable. Our neighbors seemed to go their separate ways for that holiday. To me it felt like it should be a family time. Those who didn’t have family in the neighborhood (three families on top of the hill here are related; holiday dinners are always at the daughter’s house) went away to in-laws, siblings, etc.

And we were left alone with Easter Parade and pretty much nothing else.

But last Saturday night one of our neighbors called to invite us to Easter dinner, which was being held at another neighbor’s house. Husband took the call. It was 9:00 PM. I was doing my ritual pre-bed routine, reading in the dining room alcove. So I heard about a quarter of the conversation. Part of my heart sank. We’d already made sort-of plans to go to the movies and see “Thank You For Smoking” (a sure-fire Easter Classic).

But Husband is more sociable than I am these days and agreed for the two of us. And asked if we could bring something.

Pause.

“You want some kind of noodle dish.” I heard him say.

And my heart sank again. I knew the first exchange we would have when he got off the phone:

Him: Can we make some kind of noodle dish for dinner at Diane and Carl’s?

Me: You mean, “Can I make some kind of noodle dish…”

And I’m lousy at cooking under pressure. And we didn’t have anything in the house. And did he even consider that there are probably no grocery stores open on Easter Sunday?

“So I’ll make it,” he said.

Which is another thing I love about my husband. Before my injury, I was the one doing the bulk of the household work. Now that I’ve dropped the Wonder Woman routine, he’s been taking on more responsibility around the house. It’s not always done perfectly, and don’t even ask me the last time our house was dusted or vacuumed (I think my mother did it sometime during the summer), but God bless him, he’s learning how to cook.

And he’s learning not to put pressure on me.

So the next morning, at the full zenith of my mood-swing teary hell, he called his mother. She suggested a few dishes he could make.

“What’s in baked ziti?” he asked me, staring into the pantry closet.

“Things we don’t have in the house,” I said.

“So I’ll go out.”

I reminded him what day it was.

Finally he found a store that was open and got the ingredients.

And he came home and started cooking. And I helped him. And the day was looking up. And the ziti turned out wonderfully (although he complained that it could have used more marinara).

I even had fun at the neighbor’s. If I grumped out and went to the movies, I would have missed it. I would have missed their warm hugs, their hilarious stories, their irreverent humor about what really happened to Jesus’s corpse, and, which would be worst of all, I would have missed watching four really cool kids race around the front yard hunting for all the Easter Eggs their Dads had helped to hide. And all of us grownups standing outside in the sunny, breezy afternoon, making jokes and snickering at the kids for not finding the eggs hidden in plain sight.

I felt involved. I felt like I had a community.

I’ll see the movie sometime, but I wouldn’t have traded Sunday afternoon for anything.