Chroitzmach, A Christmas Story

My mother’s name for Christmas was “Chroitzmach.” It made me wonder how she would wish you a Merry Christmas. I think she would say, “Maury Chroistzmach.” “Oh yeah, I know Maury, Maury Chroitzmach, he went to Hebrew school with me.”

Christmas was a magical time for the only Jewish kid on the block. I visited my Irish Catholic friends; Tommy McLaughlin, Sammy Stubbs, Johnny Tonelli (who was Italian), Ronnie Burns, Frankie Scheffhouser. We played with their Lionel trains, whistles that whistled and smoke stacks that smoked. 

We played miniature basketball pushing levers to operate the model basketball player. Whoever could sink the most baskets in a minute won. Vibrator football was not an X rated game. A vibrating metal game board moved the magnetized runner trying to push through the magnetized linemen while our ears wheezed and hummed along with the vibrating metal board and the smell of ozone invaded our nostrils.

Piling snow outside was a deep white readiness for sledding or for skidding when a kid attached himself to the rear bumper of a passing car. Snowballs whizzed overhead, and the Philadelphia streets became the theatrical setting for snow forts that were threatened by attacking marauders.

There were red stinging ears and red runny noses all around, and the smell of soaked-through woolen scarves and mittens. There was the sound of snow crunching as it was compressed by rubber boots with iced-up metal latches so cold they stung your fingers when you unlatched  them at home.

Deep crunchy watery Snow. Just try to run in this stuff as it turned into into water-ice under your feet. But run we did, sweat pouring down our backs under layers of soaked wool, ear muffs coming loose and falling off, scarfs coming untied.  Running and snow and sweat and wool and ecstatic company.