I do not know at what age my Christmas memories began, but I do remember being very young and in awe of a very large – and very well decorated – Christmas tree in our family room. I even remember peeking down the stairs late one evening and seeing my mother standing extremely close to Santa Claus. OK, you might not find that an unusual memory, except my family is Jewish.


Apparently, my parents thought it was easier to decorate and give gifts for both Chanukah and Christmas than to try and explain why religiously they only celebrated the "smaller" holiday, although I must have sensed that. (Children usually do.)

And, I remember exactly when I came to the realization that Santa was not real. I was five years old and in the hospital with pneumonia and in the middle of the night, a Santa came by giving out Christmas gifts. I must have sensed his presence because when he arrived at the foot of my bed, I sat up and immediately told him that I could not have any Christmas gifts. He questioned why not (maybe thinking I was going to state I had not been good all year, which probably would have been an accurate statement), and I told him it was because I was Jewish.

He leaned over my bed, pulled away his fake beard, and whispered in my ear, "It's ok – so am I." And without his beard, I immediately recognized him as one of the doctors who had checked on me several times during my stay. We smiled at each other, knowing that we had a special bond, and he left me a gift.

Now, older and wiser, I have come to the conclusion … Santa does exist. You just have to believe …

Photo of Red's beloved stuffed sheep

Photo by Red

I've always loved stuffed animals. And the softer and plusher, the better. They're like family. Only, in some ways, better, but I won't go down that road. Not today, anyway. Some children outgrow their love for stuffed animals (or do they just stopping admitting it?), but not me. And although I've stopped adding to my collection over the years (ok, make that decades), there are always those favorite ones that are loved just a little bit more, squeezed a little tighter, hugged a little longer.

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Photo by Walik on iStock


Red's Head assets.rebelmouse.io


It's funny. When the New York Islanders were in the semi-finals of the Stanley Cup, your post about how ice hockey brought back warm memories of you and Daddy, brought back a vivid memory for me, too.


Black's Head Black assets.rebelmouse.io


I have never known you to be interested in ice hockey. Full stop. Or, should that be "full hockey stop"?


Red's Head assets.rebelmouse.io


Cute. And although we both skated as kids, and Daddy tried teaching me the hockey stop, I never could do it. But my memory has nothing to do with professional ice hockey or even skating. Instead, it's how you handled a bunch of high school ice hockey players.
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Photo by Dave Phillips on Unsplash

I'm not sure where they come up with these "holidays" but today's National Creative Ice Cream Flavors Day … although I can't remember the first time I had a creative ice cream flavor. Growing up on Long Island in the 1960s, my ice cream memories are of your traditional flavors bought in non-descript half-gallon rectangle cartons (not even tubs) from the grocery store. Or, as a special treat or celebration, a coffee ice cream soda (not sure you'd consider "coffee" a "creative flavor") at Krisch's in downtown Massapequa, Long Island (it's still there!). Occasionally, I'd get an ice cream sundae at Friendly's, but I wasn't overly creative – vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and extra cherries.

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