We had a family tradition. On Christmas Eve, we gathered in the family room to drink eggnog and open just one present. Then Daddy would read the Christmas story. We would watch a holiday special on TV until it was time for the midnight Candlelight service at church. So on Christmas Eve, 1974, we poured the eggnog, selected just one gift to open and gathered in the family room. We opened our gifts, laughing and squealing with delight. My sister had received a lovely blue skirt. She left the room to go upstairs and try it on. We turned on the TV for the M*A*S*H* Holiday episode. And then we heard Susun shout: “Mom! Your plants are on fire!!” (Mom had put hanging and potted plants in the big bay window on the landing.) “That’s a sick joke, Susun!” Mom called back. “No, really, Mom!” Susan screeched, “Come and see!”

We hurried to the stairwell and sure enough, it looked like the plants were on fire. But… the flames were just reflected in the big window panes. We crowded each other as we ran up the stairs to a horrifyingly beautiful site: The entire upstairs ceiling was engulfed in flames. I remember them swirling through the designs on the Victorian-era plaster. And we all stood there, staring, immobile.

Then there was a series of popping sounds! My daddy came to life, wrapping all of us in his arms and turning us around, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” We ran back downstairs and heard him say, “Call the fire department!” Remember now, this was 1974 and we didn’t have 911 or cell phones. I clearly remember the conversation on the way to the kitchen where the only phone was wired. Our conversation sounded quietly frantic, bred of our panic:

Me: We have to call the fire department.
My sister: I don’t know the number.
My brother: Look it up.
Mom: Give me the phonebook.
Me: Here’s the phonebook.
Mom: Move over so I can reach the phone.

Before she could call, the popping sounds upstairs became louder and there was a huge crash! Daddy began shoving us, “Get out! Damn it! Get out of here NOW!” It was like he shot us through a cannon as we dashed from the kitchen at the back of the house and straight out the front door. We heard sirens, and the fire trucks, lights flashing, wheeled around the corner. Our neighbors had called when they saw flames billowing out of our roof. It looked like the entire roof was ablaze. Friends and neighbors gathered around us. The men ran in and out of the flames carrying boxes from Daddy’s office, so he could continue to make a living. The firemen finally put a stop to that, explaining that it was understood the men were trying to save Daddy’s livelihood, but the fire crew was trying to save everyone’s life!

And the fire raged on. Mrs. B made hot chocolate, the H’s brought cookies and sandwiches and our friends all joined together in a sort of eerie lawn party as we watched, helplessly. At 10:30pm, I remembered we were in the program at church. The Fire Chief told Daddy to go ahead and take us, there was nothing to do here, and the fire crew could only save the houses next to ours.

So off we went to church, in our jeans and sweatshirts, perfumed with smoke. The news of our fire had spread and people had brought food, blankets and pillows. Friends and family offered help. They offered furniture, dishes and an office space for my dad. But we had no where to put all of it and people had to take things back. Daddy rented us a couple of hotel rooms where we went after church. We were in shock and we weren’t at all sleepy, but we didn’t know what else to do. My sister began to cry. There was a knock on the door.

Behind a very large basket was our family friend, Phil. His wife, Nancy was behind him and their three children as well. Danny was my age, Susan was my sister’s school chum, and Sally Jo was in my brother’s class. They had gone to their department store thinking we might need some items from their inventory. Daddy invited them in, Phil put the large basket on the floor and the children began to hand out the contents: Toothbrushes and toothpaste! Pajamas! Under wear! Bathrobes. Razors and shaving cream. Laundry soap. Shampoo and deodorant. Brushes and combs. Makeup for the girls, school and wrok clothes, the hottest Converse Hi-tops for the 12-year old boy… Everything to serve our immediate need.

“We can’t let you do this Phil,” my daddy said. “It’s how you make your living.” Phil replied, “Sam, you know we Jews are practical people.” “And I appreciate it,” Daddy replied, “but let me pay you as soon as I get my checkbook replaced.” “No, my Friend,” Phil answered, “Considering the season and that you’ve lost all your Christmas presents, let’s just call it a gift from Uncle Hanukkah!”

In the end, it took five fire trucks seven hours to douse the fire. Our house was a total loss. We figured out how to survive. We learned that there is no Uncle Hanukkah. Just like there is no Santa Claus… But whatever name you call the human Spirit of Giving, the lesson for us was that it belongs to no faith, no culture, no color but compassion.