an unobstructed view

our first christmas

As soon as I met Michael, I knew I would marry him. He was the editor of our high school yearbook. I was a year younger, a working grunt on the staff. It's been almost fifty years since our first date, and still, I remember it clearly. On April 5, 1969, a Saturday night, we went to dinner and the movies. Going to the movies back then was an event. Lincoln Road on Miami Beach was lined with grand theaters. You dressed up. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, an organ played music, red velvet curtains opened to reveal the screen. It was magic. We saw each other every day that summer, and by the time Michael headed to college in the fall, we were lovesick in the way only teenagers can be. Sappy. Weepy. Melodramatic. The morning he flew to Ann Arbor, he dropped a Peter, Paul and Mary record by my front stoop. I opened the door and found the album leaning against it. On the back cover the title "Leaving on a Jet Plane" was circled in ink. I played the song over and over, my chest heaving, the tears streaming down my cheeks. The four months we were apart were agony. Michael hopped on the first plane as soon as his last exam was over. It was long past midnight when he threw a pebble at my bedroom window, trampling my mother's hibiscus bushes, to let me know he was home.

We kissed on my front lawn, slobbering like puppies, breathing in each other's hair, skin, voice. It was time, we knew, to take our relationship to the next step. It was time for our parents to meet. My parents, Herb and Shirl, were Jewish stereotypes. They were short and squat, as if someone took normal people and squashed them in a trash compactor. Dad was balding, chain-smoked, belched with his mouth wide open. Mom had her hair teased and lacquered from one week to the next. She lived in her housecoat. Her eyeglasses had fins. While Michael's parents were only a few years younger, they seemed a generation apart. Gerry was over six feet tall, had blond hair that crept over his collar, a diamond stud in one ear. Zoe was thirty-seven and wore go-go boots and miniskirts. It was the age of Woodstock and the Beatles, the pill and LSD. A lot of parents got sucked into the vortex, acting more like children than adults. Michael rebelled by wearing zippered cardigans and loafers. He majored in Economics. He picked me. It was his parents who made the first overture. Every year, they had a holiday party in their home where they invited all their family and friends. Sure, they lit a menorah, ate Chinese food on Sundays, nibbled bagels with a schmear. But these remnants of Judaism were more like a vestigial tail. Something that hung on without rhyme or reason. They were more gentile than most gentiles I knew. When I entered their home with my parents that night, the ceiling was roped with green and red lights. In the corner of their living room was an eight-foot evergreen. A pile of presents sat underneath. On the stereo, Bing Crosby was singing. My father looked like he needed oxygen. "Did you know," he said, "that 'White Christmas' was written by a Jew?" My future mother-in-law was the first one to greet us. She wore an outfit, I later learned, that she sewed herself and reserved for this once- a-year party. The cleavage was low, the hem high. A vision in red with white trim. Imagine Mrs. Claus as a hooker. "Did you know," said my father, "that 'Let it Snow' was written by a Jew?" Zoe was tanned from years of sunbathing. When she smiled, her teeth dazzled. "You must be starving, " she said. "Let me fix you a plate." On the table sat a honey-cured ham that looked like it was slammed with a tennis racket. My parents kept a kosher home. Not only was pork forbidden, but we never ate milk products with meat. Sitting next to the ham was a vat of mashed potatoes with a yellow lake of butter floating on top. "Wow," I said with all the pep I could muster. "Everything looks delicious." "I'll give you the recipes," said Zoe. "A ham's the easiest." My mother was as red as Zoe's outfit, fanning herself with a paper plate. In the background, a familiar voice was singing "chestnuts roasting on an open fire." "Did you know," said my father, "that Mel Tormé was a Jew?" Michael took my hand and ushered us from one relative to another. Sitting on the couch by himself was Uncle Peter. He was working his way through a bowl of cheese straws laying on his lap. Tall and lanky, his body was curled into the cushions. In between bites, he sang along to the music. He had a clear strong voice and harmonized with himself, singing bass, baritone, alto—a one-man barbershop quartet. "When he's stoned," whispered Michael, "he likes to sing." "Where's your brother and sister?" I asked. They were nowhere to be seen. "They're hiding," said Michael. "Things get worse before they get better." Suddenly, I remembered George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life. The lucky bastard. How nice it would be to glide from room to room, unnoticed and invisible. The scent of cinnamon and cloves led us to the kitchen. Michael's father was standing over the stove, whipping up dessert. While Zoe cooked the mainstays, Jerry was the real gourmet. Trifles. Strawberry shortcake. Nothing was beyond his reach. That night he was dressed for comfort. It was another homemade outfit—a head-to-toe linen muumuu. There were Birkenstocks on his feet. A big guy, Jerry looked like a cross between Moby Dick and a Hari Krishna. "I'd shake your hands," he shouted, "but I'm elbow deep in meringue." "Did you know," said my father, "that 'I'll be Home for Christmas' was written by a Jew?" From nowhere, a little old lady walked up. Mildred was dressed to the nines in a black velvet pantsuit with a string of pearls around her neck. In her hand was a rolled newspaper. She swatted Michael's father on the head. "God forbid you get dressed up!" she barked. "Get a haircut! Put on some shoes!" "Grandma's the ghost of Christmas past," whispered Michael. "She's always trying to roll back time." Newspaper in hand, she headed to the couch to beat up her other son. Peter looked up, lifted his hand over his head, and prepared himself for the blow. "Grandma's the religious one," said Michael. "She sent them both to a yeshiva. Somehow it didn't take." There were many other dinners to come. I can't say that things got easier or that our parents ever had anything in common. My father died. Michael's parents got divorced. But life has a way of circling. Fast forward to 1990. Mildred had lived long enough to see her first great-grandson bar mitzvahed. She watched as Jonathan stood in front of the congregation and recited the ancient prayers. She watched two hundred guests fill a ballroom. She watched the band take their places on the stage as the lights dimmed. Then Michael grabbed her arm and whirled her to the dance floor. Somewhere a voice crooned "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You." My son stood by my side. "Did you know," I said, "that Michael Bolton was a Jew?" Silver streamers hung from the ceiling, shimmering like tinsel on a tree. Lights twinkled. Saxophones soared and swooped. It was magic.

Marlene Olin's stories have been published in over thirty-five online and print journals. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Miami, she attended the University of Michigan. Marlene presently lives in Coconut Grove, Florida with her husband. She has two children and two grandchildren. She recently compiled a collection of her stories and finished her first novel. Her Twitter handle is @writestuffmiami

For more work by Marlene Olin, check out her page at our Online Sundries site.