luggage to a corner. I spy a crunchy couple with just the packs on their backs looking at us and can practically feel the eye-roll on deck. We are the East Coast brats who show up at holiday time with all our crap, instead of âkeepinâ it realâ with one duffel. But what can I say? Traveling with kids is not so easy. Itâs not like Iâm bringing extra après-ski outfits and D&G fur-lined moon boots, just some unglam stuffed animals, bottles, formula, and diapers; we need a bunch of things from home to make the transition seamless.
After the endless schlep (which also raises a question from my Jewish friends: Why the haul?) we are finally checked in. Hey, I hate the trek; I wouldnât do it if it wasnât really worth it â but once we unpack and exhale, I feel solar systems away. Gone is the jam-packed gritty island I live on. Itâs instantly different here. It is stark. Itâs quiet. Itâs whiter than white â and not because of the heaps of glittering snow. Iâm talking the highest concentration of blonds outside Scandinavia. I am now in the land of quasi-albino Nordic mountainfolk.
âIIIIIIIâm dreeeaming of a whiiiiite Christmas,â croons Bing Crosbyâs voice on the hotel lobby speaker. Given our surroundings, those lyrics are a double entendre.
âMerry Christmas!â greets the concierge as we come downstairs for some ho-cho and cookies.
âLook at da Cwishmish twee!â my daughter says, sprinting to examine the china (and Made in China) ornaments that bedeck the pine.
The East Coast P.C. greeting âHappy Holidaysâ (cause, huh, what other holiday would there be?) is not heard in these parts. And even in the chic resort town of nearby Ketchum, lawn ornaments featuring Jesus ânâ Co. line the roads, along with rooftop Santas and full sleighs, complete with all eight reindeer and architected stable crèches bigger than many Manhattan apartments. There are Virgins. There are Wise Men. If the soundtrack to a jammed Times Square on New Yearâs Eve is Frank Sinatra, then the holidays in Idaho seemingly have a constant âPah-rum-pa-pum-pumâ on repeat. The Sun Valley Company, owned by Mormon Earl Holding, employs apple-cheeked carolers to roam the resort singing âO Holy Nightâ while ringing bells and heralding the Dear Saviorâs birth. But hey, it is America; I mean, I know every word to every Christmas carol, ainât nothing wrong with that.
Listen, Iâll be honest: I love little twinkling lights and the smell of pine trees! Bring on the Ho-ho-ho-ing old dude with prezzies, I can handle that! What is semistrange is that inescapable feeling that we are somehow . . . freaks. There was a time as a kid where, upon spinning an imported East Coast dreidel, I remarked that it was probably the only one spinning in the state at that moment. When you know you are part of a group that is extremely rare, you start to feel a little paranoid, to think that if you scratched the surface of the smiles and mistletoe, you could find someone who loathes the Tribe.
For example, as I listened to the chime-filled songs of the perma-smile octet, I couldnât help but wonder if caroler No. 7 thinks we will burn in the eternal hellfire of Satanâs bubbling lava pit of despair and torture for killing that poor tot in the manger.
A platinum blonde steps out of the horseshoe of singers for her solo.
âSanta baby! Just one more teeny little thing,â she croons with a bright smile. âA ring! And I donât mean on the phone . . .â
Oh, and weâre the materialistic ones! Just kidding. But seriously, the notion of closet Jewphobia is somewhat confirmed when you peruse some of the local aforementioned blogs. âThe Romans did itâ obviously ainât being bought (special shout-out of thanks, Mel Gibson!).
And yet we unpack our menorah and blue and white candles in this Charlton
Undenied (Samhain).txt
Debbie Macomber
Fran Louise
Julie Garwood
B. Kristin McMichael
Charlotte Sloan
Douglas E. Schoen, Melik Kaylan
Jocelynn Drake
Anonymous
Jo Raven