It’s the night before Christmas. It’s raining in Connecticut. I’m on one couch, my mother is on the other. Jeopardy is on again. We still can’t answer the questions.

According to NORAD, Santa Claus is somewhere over Europe delivering presents. But you wouldn’t know it by looking at our house. We don’t have a decorated tree, Christmas stockings, cookies and milk waiting for Santa.

Of course, I am Jewish, but I celebrate Christmas. According to my mother: my mother’s, mother’s father’s mother wasn’t Jewish so therefor we’re really not Jewish and can celebrate Christmas. Her logic is suspect and her memory has never been accurate, but on days like this I’m thankful.

Christmas isn’t about religion. It’s about Santa Claus, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman and magical Elves making toys at the North Pole.

And as a little kid, whose parents were divorced, living in separate houses, and never speaking, it was the one time of year, that my parents together indulged my imagination, to make the fantasy world of Christmas come to life.

And while those days have long passed, the memory of Santa and his reindeer landing on my roof, sliding down our chimney, to leave presents underneath the tree for me and my sisters, remains.

And for that, I love Christmas.

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