Dreidels on the Brain by Joel ben Izzy Read Free Book Online

God, before I went to sleep, “you heard my dad. Snow would still be nice, but the real miracle I want is for my dad. So he can walk. And dance”—then I added—“just not around me.” That’s when I came up with a plan I thought would seal the deal. “And in case my prayers aren’t enough, I’m going to ask Cantor Grubnitz to pray too.”
    It seemed worth a shot. Who knows, maybe God actually
likes
opera?

    Then, this morning, as I opened the door to walk to school, do you know what I saw?
    Snow.
    That’s right. Snow.
    Everywhere.
    Well, it wasn’t exactly snow. But it was frost, and lots of it, which is practically snow. It covered our lawn, the cars, the mailbox. Tiny icicles hung from the branches of the elm tree in our front yard, and you could feel there was more to come. I checked the barometer on our porch—still between 29 and 30, but now it looked a little closer to 30. I stepped out of the house to explore what was
almost
a winter wonderland.
    Everything was covered with ice, and as I walked, I could see my breath, which I tried to blow into rings of smoke, like Bilbo in
The Hobbit
. I couldn’t do it, but it was still pretty cool. Not just cool, but cold. I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets and started walking to school, picturing my father dancing and singing, like Tevye from
Fiddler on the Roof,
with his new golden joints.
    Frosty as it was, it wouldn’t actually count as snow until there were flakes falling from the sky. I needed to see at least one—or two, so I could compare. That’s one of the amazing things about snow: Every single flake is different. Even if you have six million of them, they’re all different. I walked up Kimdale Drive, looking to the sky for that first flake.
    Mr. Culpepper says that if you’re going to tell someone a story, you need to tell them where it’s happening, and I haven’t done that. Here I’ve been going on and on about Cantor Grubnitz and dreidels and golden hips and chopped liver and everything else, but I haven’t told youanything about where I live, here in Temple City. I’m like “the butcher who backed up into his meat grinder” Mr. Culpepper always talks about, “who got a little
behind
in his work.”
    It’s called “setting the scene,” and Mr. Culpepper gave lots of examples from
Tom Sawyer,
which we’re reading in class and takes place in a town called St. Petersburg on the banks of the Mississippi River.
    Describing a place is no problem when it’s exciting and colorful like St. Petersburg, with riverboats and haunted houses and buried treasure. But “setting the scene” is harder here in Temple City, because it is the least interesting place in the world.
    Even the name “Temple City” is a cruel joke—there’s no temple and no city. All right, that’s not technically true. There
is
a temple, but we don’t go there. It’s like the joke my dad told me about the Jewish guy who gets stranded alone on a desert island in the middle of nowhere. Twenty years later a passing ship rescues him. Before he leaves, he takes the crew on a tour of the island to show them everything he’s built. “Over there is my house, and that’s my store, where I sell myself coconuts. Here’s the school, where I would send my kids if I had any. Finally, here’s one temple—and there’s the other.”
    â€œWait a minute!” says the captain. “I can see why youhave a house, and maybe a store, and even a school for kids you don’t have. But why
two
temples?”
    He pointed at one. “That one,” he says, “I wouldn’t set foot in.”
    So, we don’t go to the temple in Temple City. When we want to be Jewish, we
schlepp
across town to another temple three suburbs over. But don’t be fooled: Temple City isn’t named for the temple. It’s named