It
was the sixth night of Hanukkah.
The night when the latkes begin to go stale. The night when the dreidels start spinning lopsided, letting
your brother whose dreidel only lands on gimmel unfairly win all the gelt. The night when the excitement from the
first four nights, which carries into the fifth, has died, but the giddiness of
the seventh night leading into the big finale of the eighth when you laugh to
yourself over the fact that your holiday is over a week long hasn’t kicked in
yet. In short, the worst night of
Hanukkah.
And
Harold knew it.
Harold
was a candle. A sixth night candle
to be specific. Each day of
Hanukkah is a stressful day for the candles still in the box. They have no clue whether they’ll be
chosen for the special first or eighth days, or if they’ll be stuck with the
unwanted sixth. Candles want
nothing other than to shed beautiful light, but they prefer to give off warm
illumination when people appreciate it.
And Harold sadly knew he and his fellow sixth night candles would not be
valued.
That
thought process brought Harold to the realization that he had a dilemma on his
figurative hands: he could accept
his fate as an underemployed candle, or he could attempt to bring real change
to the world. But the latter would
take a miracle. Still, Harold was
the goal-oriented type, so he decided he would do all he could to bring some
proper respect to Hanukkah’s sixth night, thus saving his own reputation in the
process.
Harold
was an inexperienced candle, having never been lit before, but his confidence
radiated from him like the shamash on a hanukkiah. He decided the best place to start would be talking to Moshe
the latke.
“Moshe,
you’re an important Hanukkah tradition, right?” asked Harold nervously. He had never been in the presence of a
great latke before. He could smell
Moshe’s importance wafting over him.
“That’s
right. What can I do for you,
little candle?” replied Moshe.
“I’m
worried about tonight.”
“Why
should you be? Tonight will be
just as grand as the past five nights of Hanukkah. There will still be dreidel spinning, latke eating, and of
course, candle lighting.”
“But
that’s exactly what I’m worried about!
The people have been doing those same things for the majority of a week
now. Why would they still care
about those repetitive activities now?”
“Oh,
but that’s the fun of it!” chuckled Moshe. “Hanukkah is about repetition. Remember, the oil for the great menorah lasted not for one
night, not for two nights, not for three nights, not for—”
“But
for eight nights, I know, ” interjected Harold impatiently. “I understand why this holiday is
absurdly long, but I just don’t see why people care so much about it.”
“Give
it time, young candle. Why don’t
you go talk to Rachel the present.
Maybe she can help you with whatever you’re concerned about. Which I still don’t get.”
With
a sigh, Harold left the counter where Moshe sat steaming and walked to the
fireplace. Rachel was lying down
in front of the warm hearth, enjoying the thought of being unwrapped later that
night. She frowned as Harold
approached.
“Are
you a spy?” she asked the candle.
“I won’t tell you what’s inside me, so give up now. And remember, mister, torture is
illegal.”
“Oh,
I wouldn’t dare harm anyone,” said Harold hurriedly. “I was just stopping by to ask you a question.”
“Oh,
sorry about that, dear. I get a
little paranoid right before I get opened. I mean, what if the children don’t like me? What if they don’t think I’m as swell
as their previous gifts?”
“That’s
exactly what I’m afraid of, too!” exclaimed Harold excitedly. “On the sixth
night, everything’s become rote, so you lose some of your holiday importance.”
“I
don’t think it has anything to do with being on the sixth night. I’m just a worrier. Honestly, how could you even put one
night of Hanukkah below the rest?
They’re all so wonderful and unique!”
“But
how can eating the same delicious latkes and opening up the same amazing gifts
still be exciting after five days?”
“I
think you just answered your question, dearie. Now let me ask you how people can still have fun lighting
the same beautiful candles by the sixth night?”
“That’s
what I don’t understand!” shouted Harold in frustration. He stormed away before Rachel could
explain what she meant.
“That
poor candle. He’s being too hard
on himself,” Rachel said to herself.
“Oh, I need to check up on my bow.
It might need to be curled again.”
Harold
had no idea he was so close to understanding Hanukkah. His beliefs about the lowliness of the
sixth day prevented his own Hanukkah miracle from occurring. Still, he was a persistent candle, so
he decided to talk to Sol the dreidel.
Surely he would know.
“Sol,
could I ask you a question?” asked Harold.
“Can’t
you see I’m busy spinning around?” replied Sol curtly. “I can only take a break from my
pirouettes to answer questions related to the meaning of Hanukkah.”
“That’s
just what I have! I want to find
out how I can help the sixth night of Hanukkah gain the same amount of respect
as the other nights.”
“Oh. That quest. I have heard of this desire from many eager young candles
like you, but none have succeeded.
It is a dangerous road you travel, one full of perilous, hazardous,
risky obstacles that have been designed to prevent any change. But if you are committed to your
mission, I can help.”
“Others
have tried to change Hanukkah, too?
Why didn’t they succeed?”
“They
never could grasp the true meaning of the Festival of Lights. Think about to whom you’ve been asking
your questions. A potato pancake,
a commercialized present, and a gambling top? Do any of those things really relate to Hanukkah?”
“I
suppose they don’t…”
“No,
they have everything to do with Hanukkah!
But you’re forgetting about yourself. You’re a candle, the true mascot of the holiday. Without you, there wouldn’t have been a
miracle to celebrate in the first place.”
“But
the people only quickly light us so they can get on to the fun part of the
festivities, like playing your game.
All the candles are jealous of the dreidels.”
“Well
all the dreidels happen to be jealous of the candles. Sure, we get played with, but our only use is to escalate
competition within families and to be a tool to score some stale
chocolate. Both of which could
happen without us. But the
Hanukkah lights can only come from one thing: candles.”
“Wow. I think you’re right, Sol.”
“Of
course I’m right. Why would I feed
you falsities?”
“I
understand Hanukkah now, but that doesn’t mean the sixth night has regained its
status as a proper night of Hanukkah.
How can I fix that?”
“You’ve
got me on that one. Sorry,
kid. So I don’t feel like I failed
you, I’m going to go back to spinning now. See you around.”
As
Sol restarted his twirling, Harold sulked back to the other candles. They were now in their rightful place
in the hanukkiah.
“Come
on, Harold! Hop in!” shouted Rebecca,
the second candle.
“Where
have you been?” asked Michael, the fourth candle.
“Hush,
children,” said Shlomo the shamash.
“Can’t you see that Harold has a look of consternation on his face? What is the matter, child?”
“I’ve
talked to all the Hanukkah traditions, but none of them could help me solve my
problem.”
“Which
is?”
“I
want to make the sixth night equal to all the other nights.”
“Ah,
yes. The classic conundrum. How can you make a holiday that lasts a
ridiculously long time without lessening the importance of any individual day? It’s an age old question that dates
back to the time of the Maccabees.”
“Are
you saying that it’s just a fact of life?”
“By
no means do I mean that. But it
could become one if no one challenges the established ways.”
“So
what can I do to raise the sixth night up? I already understand the meaning of Hanukkah, but I can’t
seem to apply my knowledge to solve the problem.”
“Think
outside the candle box, Harold.
Then maybe a solution will make itself as clear as the fact that
Antiochus was evil.”
“That’s
it! We’ll change the candle
boxes!” With a smile on his face
for the first time all day, Harold filled the other Hanukkah candles in on his
grand plan.
An
hour later, the candles rested tranquilly in their rightful places in the hanukkiah. Even Harold was sitting peacefully. Below them lay nine scattered candles,
each broken in half.
“I
think we just made a Hanukkah miracle,” Harold said.
“That
we did, my child,” said Shlomo.
“Now that we eliminated one day of Hanukkah by getting rid of the extra
candles, there won’t be the same awkward sixth day. The sixth night can be a celebrated night just like all the
others.”
“I
can’t believe I accomplished two things today: learning the meaning of Hanukkah and setting straight the
record on day six. And in such a
small number of words, too!”
That
night, the people lit the candles, ate latkes, opened gifts, and spun the
dreidels just as they had the past five nights, but they actually enjoyed
participating in these holiday celebrations. They were so confused over the fact that they could now only
celebrate Hanukkah for seven nights because of the missing candles that they
had to channel their bewilderment into something worthwhile. They chose celebrating the Festival of
Lights.
Harold
and his holiday friends had saved Hanukkah.
“How
do you think our change will affect night number five?” asked Harold to the
other candles, as they were burning bright. “Don’t you think it’s kind of in an awkward spot now?”
Well,
saved until next year.
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