Creative Writing Courses designed as a series of lesson plans anyone can do at home!

On this site, we'll offer you FREE SAMPLES of a proven home school curriculum unlike any other, one that home school students are excited to do, and which truly educate a student. We email you your home school courses within one working day, as MS Word documents. Great home school courses await you in world history, American civics, sciences, creative writing and the arts, designed to make your home school student truly win at education.WE KNOW YOU OR YOUR STUDENT WILL SUCCEED WITH OUR HOME SCHOOL CURRICULUM! WE'RE SO CERTAIN, WE WILL EMAIL YOU OUR HOME SCHOOL CREATIVE WRITING STARTER COURSE, A $60.00 VALUE, FOR FREE, TODAY! JUST GO TO THE TOP RIGHT CORNER OF THIS SITE, CLICK THE LINK THERE, FILL IN THE CONTACT INFO AND UNDER COMMENTS, TELL US "SEND ME MY FREE CREATIVE WRITING COURSE!" WE BELIEVE THAT, AFTER YOU DO A CONNECT THE THOUGHTS HOME SCHOOL COURSE, YOU'LL COME BACK TO US FOR YOUR HOME SCHOOL EDUCATIONAL NEEDS!_______________ AN OPEN LETTER TO PARENTSIS THERE ANYTHING A PARENT HAS TO GET RIGHT THAT IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THEIR CHILDREN'S EDUCATION? That's why you've come to this site, isn't it? You're looking. Many of you are looking because you're unhappy with schools or curricula you've used. Many of you have decided you want more control over what your children are learning. In many cases, your children have not been challenged or assisted by available curricula, or were not taught or expected to think for themselves, a skill they will have to master to survive. We understand.For those of you who have decided to home school, we commend you. Home schooling is a big job! CONNECT THE THOUGHTS is a curriculum that was written just for you. It consists of over 100 specialized study guides in Creative Writing, History, Science, various arts and related areas. These were authored over a five year period, over 8,000 hours of painstaking research and labor. This curriculum has, over the past five years, been thoroughly piloted in home school and school situations, and has been used successfully by hundreds of students, ages nine to adults. It is based on ancient and proven ideas in education (many abandoned by educators today), but is current and entirely "of this world". It is a curriculum that constantly asks the student to evaluate the information for themselves, and USE the information in life, so it has immediate application. Please, take us up on our FREE OFFER of a Home School Creative Writing I Course. Hundreds of students have successfully done this same course, and for many, it opened the door to their creativity and desire to write! Have your student do this free home school course for two weeks, an hour a day. Watch them start to write, to brighten up and get excited! We think you'll be pleased with the results. _______________ USE THE LINKS BELOW TO DISCOVER MORE ABOUT THE MANY COURSES WE OFFER!Click here to order Lower School (ages 9-10) courses for home school use!Click here to order Upper School (ages 11-adult) courses for home school use!______________Welcome toCONNECT THE THOUGHTS TMHome School Creative Writing Coursesfrom a produced screenwriter, playwright, and lyricist,an Emmy and Dramalogue-Award winningWriter/Director!These students are each holding a Presidential Recognition for Academic Achievement Award, presented to them in 2003. They won this award in the first year of Connect The Thought’s existence, and as home schoolers. This is an award sponsored by the Department of Education, intended to recognize academic accomplishment._________________________________What do parents, teachers and students say about our Creative Writing Course? After doing the creative writing course, I felt I was ready to conquer the world of writing and literature! It has always been a favorite subject of mine in school, but something always pulled me back. I would have the inspiration to write a story, but I couldn't quite ever put it into words. But after I did the creative writing course, I realized how simply and utterly uncomplicated it was to JUST WRITE, without all the considerations that it wouldn't turn out well, people would think it was stupid, etc. It actually turned out nearly flawless every time! S.G., 15 year-old student__________________________ The best thing about the Creative Writing Course (Creative Writing Course # 1) is that after it’s made you realize that you are, innately, an author, it gets you to see for yourself your own inspiration. You see that you are capable of create. And this course doesn’t just teach you, like a school, it gets you to teach yourself. My biggest cognitions came from my own writing. My greatest cognition came from an exercise that has you write your views on creative and non-creative writing; I realized for the first time what creative writing was to me. M.D., age 17_______________________ My son, who is now 15 years old, has never had much of an intention to be a student or learn. I witnessed this many, many times throughout his life and education. One factor was, he disliked Math, and constantly fought being in a “classroom”. By the time he was 12, he announced to me that he was “done with school and ready to work”. I knew that he didn’t have many of his basics in enough to go out and work. he struggled through 2 ½ more years of school with very little success. One other situation was his complete inability to write or express himself. He’d take a simple test and it would take literally hours. The same thing would occur with writing a short, simple letter – hours later he’d say he was done. When this occurred at his previous school, the personnel would be stunned by his pace. He’d be given timed periods in which to complete the test – to no avail. We tried remedies, but nothing changed this. This was agonizing because I knew he was bright and capable, and could be “brilliant” if he had intention. Then, he began Creative Writing Study Guide #1, as part of his home schooling. I decided to have him do that intensively and just continue until he was actually writing. After about five hours on the study guide, he “broke through”. Suddenly he was writing, and writing them with ease! His father and I are amazed at the change. His esteem is out through the top. Now my son wants to be educated, and started working longer hours of study on his own. He is also doing Connect the Thoughts Pre-History, and has beaten every target given him. I can’t believe the change and resurgence. He is now truly “on the road” to a better life and future. M.Y.H., mother and teacher To read many more success stories, click here._______________________________________________ Our Creative Writing Courses for 9 year-olds to adults, were authored by Emmy-Award winning writer Steven David Horwich, whose works have been produced and published throughout the world. He has also taught writing successfully for over 30 years, and has distilled his methods down so the home school student can triumph as an author. They can be purchased directly over the net and delivered via email attachment in their entirety, within one working day! Each CTT course is broken into lesson plans intended to provide the home school student with structure, and just enough information to steadily improve.After the links that follow are samples from several Creative Writing Courses. These are followed by two of Mr. Horwich's short stories. He has written these inexpensive courses so that others can have the experience of writing with ease, skill, power, and success.Below is a description of each Creative Writing Course. Once you've looked these over, use these convenient links to find out more about CTT, or to make a purchase:To find out a lot more about CTT, click here.To order a Home School Creative Writing Course, click here.__________________________________CREATIVE WRITING COURSES The CTT home school Creative Writing Courses are best done in sequence, but DO NOT NEED TO BE DONE THAT WAY. If a student has some experience as a writer, they may wish to start at Creative Writing III, which gets all the basics in solidly. A more advanced student may wish to start with Creative Writing V, which offers a thorough overview of different ways a writer can make a living. An experienced writer may skip to one of our Master's Specialist courses in playwrighting, screenwriting, the authoring of novels and short stories, nonfiction creative writing, or poetry and lyrics.Minimally, the home school Creative Writing Courses are for literate students of at least 9 years of age. These courses do not develop grammar. They do not teach sentence structure, or syntax. They teach the student, utilizing his or her own literary skills, to author interesting and convincing well-written stories, and eventually poems, scripts, lyrics, TV projects, and other literary works. CREATIVE WRITING COURSES OVERVIEW The Connect The Thoughts curriculum has a highly developed art component. The gem of the arts curriculum is the Creative Writing program. As a student completes courses, he or she acquires skills in story development, characterization, structure…all the important areas of expertise a writer needs. Creative Writing is considered an advanced English study, and constitutes much of a student’s English Curriculum. We require every student to complete at least three full years of Creative Writing. It improves all schoolwork. THE END RESULT OF CTT'S CREATIVE WRITING STUDIES IS A STUDENT WHO CAN EXPRESS THEMSELVES IN THEIR CHOSEN “MEDIUM”, PROFESSIONALLY AND COMPELLINGLY, WITH CONFIDENCE, ARTISTRY, AND EFFECTIVENESS. CREATIVE WRITING I – START WRITING This course provides the students with key concepts in writing, defining many of the most important terms, and starting the student off in a highly creative direction. The course comes with a Teacher’s Guide, which will assist the teacher at any point where the student may possibly run into a problem. There are no additional purchases needed to do this course beyond the Study Guide, Teacher’s Guide, test and answer guide. This course has proven effective with students reticent to write, and is a tremendous success with students already interested in writing! This course requires no additional materials. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 25-40 hours $29.71 CREATIVE WRITING I I It was discovered in delivering Creative Writing courses to children under the age of 11 that many of them have difficulty thinking in abstract terms, a vital skill to a writer. This course was created to handle this specific problem for this age group. A must-do bridge from Creative Writing I to III for younger students. Around a semester of work. NOT REQUIRED OR RECOMMENDED for students who have no problem developing new ideas, and imagining things that “aren’t real”. This course requires no additional materials. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course To Order Course 40-60 hours $36.41 Click here CREATIVE WRITING III – THE WRITER’S TOOLS The third Creative Writing course is a lengthy one, which starts to provide the student a very complete understanding of the mechanics of a well-written story, while encouraging the student to experience his or her own creativity in a remarkable manner. It is again accompanied by a Teacher’s Guide (almost a writer’s course for a professional writer, unto itself), with methods to unstick a stuck student. The Teacher’s Guide also contains the Test and Answer Key for the end of the course. At least a semester to a school year of work. This course requires no additional materials. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 55-90 hours $47.11 CREATIVE WRITING IV – EMPLOYING THE WRITER’S TOOLS The fourth Creative Writing Course has the student apply the skills mastered in the third course, and provides the student with additional writing tools. By the end of this course, the student is authoring stories of 1,500-2,000 words in length, with expertise. The student will have mastered all the essential skills needed to write convincing and interesting stories. (In the pilot program, students who could not confront writing 10 word-long stories at the start of the first course were very capably writing very lengthy and wonderful stories in excess of the requirements by the end of the fourth course.) This course is accompanied by a Teachers Guide which also contains the test for the course, and its answer key. At least a semester to a school year of work. This course requires no additional materials. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 85-110 hours $55.58 CREATIVE WRITING V – THE FIELD The fifth Creative Writing Course presumes that the student now knows how to write well. This course teaches the student about the different areas in “the field” (the world) where a living can be made as a writer. These include the writing of poetry, lyrics, public relations, screenplays, plays, television series, and technical writing. The student is exposed to the most important and basic tools and concepts in each area, and writes new works that develop his or her expertise in each of these possible areas of employment for a writer. The student is also exposed to a few key tools used by writers to secure work. This course comes with a Teacher’s Guide (again, this reads almost like the second part of a professional writers course), which will help the teacher keep students moving. A semester to a year of study. This course requires no additional materials. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 80-120 hours $55.58 The Creative Writing specialization courses whose descriptions follow start with a decision the student makes. They have now studied writing technique, and know how to write. They have written brief works of poetry, lyrics, technical writing, short stories, TV projects, screenplays, and PR. They first decide IF they wish to continue studying writing. If they wish to stop, that’s okay, as they know more about writing now than most people will learn in a lifetime. If they determine that they wish to continue, they now decide which of these they would first like to specialize in first. SCREENWRITER’S SPECIALIZATION COURSE This course is for those who decide they want to specialize in the writing of scripts for movies. In this course, the student reviews and evaluates over 60 of the world's greatest films, in the order in which they were created. As they study, they develop a sense of the history of film writing, and then they author screenplays of ever-increasing length. This results in five screenplays completed, two of feature length...ready to be sold. (NOTE- There are MANY films the student must study on this course, which is the home-schoolers responsibility to secure. Also ALL SPECIALIZATION COURSES have as a pre-requisite the completion of Creative Writing 1-V.) Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 300-600 hours $144.90 SHORT STORY/NOVELIST SPECIALIZATION COURSE For the student who decides, upon completing Creative Writing V, that they wish to pursue authoring short stories and novels. Constructed in a similar manner to the Screenwriter's Specialist course, the student studies many great short stories and novellas, while authoring short works. The student is exposed to many of the finest writers in the history of literature, breaking down their works analytically in an organized quest for expertise. This is followed by a study of six of the greatest novels ever written, including A Tale of Two Cities, Crime & Punishment, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Time Machine. As the student breaks down these masterworks, he authors his own first novel, following carefully laid out steps he has learned over the past five courses of study. Each Creative Writing Specialist course ends with a section on how the student can start marketing his works. The end result of a Specialist course is a professional writer, in this case, a novelist. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 400-800 hours $144.90 TELEVISION WRITER'S SPECIALIST COURSE For the student who has decided to specialize in the area of television episodic writing. The student comes to an understanding of the unique business of television, mastering the terminology and concepts professionals live with every day. They study over 30 of the most successful series of all time, while developing two complete series concepts and various scripts of their own. Again, the end result of this course is a professional writer in episodic television, who has fully designed several series he wishes to sell. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 250-400 hours $144.90 PLAYWRIGHT'S SPECIALIST COURSE Your student wants to write for Broadway or the West End. This is the course to do! A thorough review of the greatest plays in history is done in conjunction with a highly structured approach to the authoring of one-act and then full length plays of professional quality. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 400-800 hours $144.90 POETRY/LYRICIST SPECIALIST COURSE Your student is the next Carl Sandburg, the next Keats, or Ira Gershwin, or Cole Porter, or Paul McCartney (at least as far as words are concerned)! This is the course. The student discovers the entire history of poetry, and then of lyric writing, and learns the techniques that make for professional and compelling work in this area. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 250-500 hours $144.90 CREATIVE NONFICTION SPECIALIST COURSE Biographies, textbooks and educational materials, speeches, self-help books...there are dozens of forms of nonfiction writing an author can make a living at, which can be mastered and made creative and fulfilling. This course prepares the author to do so, on a professional level. Hours to Complete Cost Of Course 400-800 hours $144.90 _________________To find out more about CTT courses, click here.To find out a lot more about CTT, click here.To order Upper School Courses, click here.__________A SAMPLE FROMCREATIVE WRITING I - START WRITINGThis course contains the most basic information on what writing is. 1. FULLY UNDERSTAND THE WORD: Symbol - When you read or hear the word “cat”, what do you think of? Do you think of the letters in that word, C-A-T? Do you think of the sound of the word? Or does the word “cat” remind you of the actual thing, an animal with a tail and whiskers? And yet, the word CAT is only three letters, sounds which have been put together. The WORD “cat” is not a cat, though it reminds us of one. It’s just a bunch of letters, a sound. Why does it remind us all of a cat? Because we all agree that this word “CAT” will represent or remind us of that animal. Now use the word “CAT” in two sentences. These can be spoken aloud, or written. When you read or hear the word “freezing”, what do you think of? The letters in the word? The sound? Or what a really cold day feels and looks like? Again, the word “freezing” is just a bunch of letters or sounds. Why do we hear or see that word, and think of cold winds, snow, ice? We think of these things when we see or hear “freezing” because we’ve all agreed that’s what this word will mean. Now use the word “FREEZING” in two sentences. These can be spoken aloud, or written. The word “cat”, the word “freezing”, like every word, is a SYMBOL. A symbol is anything which stands for something else. A symbol is NOT the thing itself, but any object or sound or word that makes you think of, or remember something else.A symbol is ALSO AN AGREEMENT that a certain thing will represent something else, usually a big idea, something bigger than the symbol itself.”) WHO makes this agreement? Everyone who speaks your language! EXAMPLES OF SYMBOLS: 1. The American flag is a symbol of America. You think of the United States of America when you see our flag. The flag is not America itself. It is a small piece of cloth. But we AGREE that it represents America, and all the ideas that make America a great nation. The word “flag” is a symbol for the actual thing, a “flag”. The word flag is not a flag, itself. The word is just a word, a collection of letters and sounds. But you think of a flag when you see or hear the word “flag”, because we all AGREE that is what the word represents. Now use the word “FLAG” in two sentences. These can be spoken aloud, or written.2. A pen used by a great writer could be a symbol for the writer himself. You would think about the writer when you saw the pen the author touched, and wrote with. For instance, a pen that was used by William Shakespeare, the man who wrote many great plays such as “Romeo and Juliet”, and “Hamlet”. If I handed you a pen and said Mr. Shakespeare used it, you would think of his creations, and of him. The pen is not Shakespeare himself, it’s only a pen, and in fact, he used a bird’s feather dipped in ink, called a “quill pen”. That quill pen would make us think of Shakespeare. We would AGREE that this pen makes us think of Shakespeare and all his works. Now use the word “PEN” in two sentences. These can be spoken aloud, or written. 3. A stop sign is a symbol, understood by all drivers to mean “stop your car”. A stop sign isn’t actually a wall that your car runs into, which stops your car whether you want to stop or not. It’s a symbol. It represents the idea that “you should stop your car, here and now.” Because we ALL AGREE that this is what a stop sign means, we all stop at stop signs. Now use the words “STOP SIGN” in two sentences. These can be spoken aloud, or written. 4. The word “sandwich” is a symbol for the object, “sandwich”, and the thing you can actually eat. When you hear the word sandwich, you understand what a sandwich is. But you can’t eat the word. You can only eat the object the word represents, a real sandwich, made of bread and other stuff. We AGREE that this is what the word “sandwich” means. Because we agree on this symbol, when you tell someone you want a “sandwich”, they know exactly what you’re talking about. Now use the word “SANDWICH” in two sentences. These can be spoken aloud, or written. 2. EXERCISE: Draw five of your own examples of symbols. First write a word down. Then, an equal sign next to the word. Then, DRAW THE OBJECT OR IDEA THE WORD STANDS FOR. The word is, each time, the SYMBOL of the object or idea. 3. FULLY UNDERSTAND THE WORD: Word - Either a spoken or written symbol, made up of agreed-upon sounds and letters. Now use the word “WORD” in five sentences. These can be spoken aloud, or written. 4. EXERCISE: To a parent, teacher or another student, the student offers five spoken words. (Spoken means “out loud”.) The student then writes down each of the five words, and again, draws an equal sign, and a picture of what each word is a SYMBOL for.To order a Creative Writing Course, click here.____________________A SAMPLE FROMUPPER SCHOOLSCREENWRITER'S MASTER (VI) COURSE: DATE: LESSON # 11: (This is a long lesson, about 3 hours.) 20. READ AND FULLY UNDERSTAND: 1939 was probably Hollywood’s greatest year. The technicians and writers had mastered the use of sound, and the stories told became complex and fascinating. Additionally, a new element had made its way into film, which opened up even broader possibilities for story telling…color. This led to the making of perhaps the most popular film of all time, one that used sound, music, color, special effects, and Judy Garland to ride into immortality. The Wizard of Oz has songs by Harold Arlen (music) and E.Y. Harburg (lyrics). The songs cannot be removed from the movie without destroying it. The use of color versus black and white is clever, and again, carefully integrated into the story telling. This is truly a great film. 21. WATCH: The Wizard of Oz (1939) As you watch it, write down 250 words covering your observations on: -The Plot -The Message of the movie. -The way actors help communicate the movie. -The way the camera is used to help communicate the movie. -The way sound is used (or not used) to help communicate the movie. -The way lighting is used to help communicate the mood of the movie. -Your reaction to the movie, when it’s done. Write 50 words or more on how color is contrasted with Black and White in the film to help tell the story. -------------DATE: LESSON # 17: (Note – This is a long lesson, and is to be done while other lessons are done. This could take up to 20 hours.) 28. EXERCISE: You’re going to write a script of 10-15 pages in length. Do each of the following steps thoroughly: -Select a message, something you want to see changed in the world, and that you want people to do something about. -Create a plot and characters to communicate your message. (You know how to do all this. Do all the needed steps!) -Decide on the “mood” of your script. Is it going to be comic? Tragic? Dramatic? Kind of silly? -Keeping your message firmly in view (written and posted on your computer, if needed), write a first draft. No more than 15 pages! Make the dialogue fit each characters education, intelligence, and emotional condition. Make sure you describe the people and locations thoroughly, as well as any action. Give your script at least two characters. -Give your script to two other people to read, preferably writing students. When they’ve read it, ask the following questions: “Can you repeat the plot to me? Do so?” “Could you see the action clearly in your mind?” “Could you picture the characters?” “What was the mood of the script?” “Did the script make you want to change anything, or do anything?” (Themessage.) -If the answers all line up with your intentions, then this script is complete, and this exercise is done. -If their answers do not seem to line up with your intensions, then do a thorough rewrite to make the piece work. Then, again, give it to two other people (not the same two!) and see what the response is. Keep rewriting until the piece is working the way you want, with the readers. To order a Creative Writing Course, click here.______________________________TWO STORIES BY STEVEN DAVID HORWICHThese short stories were authored as a part of a collection of holiday short stories. Mr. Horwich has authored 20 of these stories in his collection, ON THE TWELFTH DAY OF HANUKKAH, MY MUSES GAVE TO ME...The first story, LIES MY YENTE TOLD ME, is a comic refelction of Hanukkah's past.The second story,THE WAIF, is a moving testament to humanities ability to move past narrow religious affiliation when someone is in desperate need.PLEASE NOTE THAT BOTH STORIES ARE FULLY PROTECTED UNDER COPYRIGHT LAWS. NO COPY, REPRODUCTION, RECORDING, PRODUCTION OR USE OF ANY KIND IS ALLOWED EXCEPT FOR PERUSAL ON THIS SITE WITHOUT THE EXPRESS, WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR._______________________ "LIES MY YENTA TOLD ME" I was an innocent, gullible, little girl, when the disastrous holiday tradition was started. I suppose it was, at least in part, my fault. You see, I believed. I believed anything and everything the adults told me. If my father told me the sky was yellow, I would have sworn to it. If my mother told me that cows flew, I would have backed her to the hilt. The only daughter of a Philadelphia manufacturer and his esteemed wife, I had lived a sheltered life. As far as I knew, the world, indeed the universe, revolved around myself, my parents, and our relatives. Let me make this really clear to you. My parents were not innately evil, or naturally vindictive. Good Conservative Jews, we went to temple every holiday, and on the occasional Sabbath. My parents gave generously to charity. My mother was president of her temple's Hadassah. My father was on the city's Chamber of Commerce. My parents, my family, were good people. And except for this one particular holiday tradition, from which I have never completely recovered... they were apparently sane people. In retrospect, I actually do not believe the whole thing started with my parents. I think my parents just played along. I believe the entire, diseased routine was begun by my Aunt Sheila, the Yenta. A Yenta is, technically, a matchmaker. Someone employed for a handsome fee by parents, to locate and secure a suitable match for a child in the family. Auntie Sheila was not that kind of Yenta. At least, she never helped me find a mate. I'm single, to this day. Damn the luck. Anyway, a Yenta can also be a butt‑in‑ski, someone who can't help but stick their nose and other features wholeheartedly into your business. Auntie Sheila fit comfortably into this category of Yenta. In fact, looking up "Yenta" in a Yiddish dictionary, I found her picture by the definition. I was seven years‑old when it started. I was a good girl. I insist, I was innocent! Sweet, naive, unsuspecting. How could I know that, under Auntie Sheila's mask of make‑up and powder, and really heavy lip‑stick, waited a demon in disguise? It started that year, on the first night of Hanukkah. The festival of lights. Who knew that my very own Auntie Sheila was about to use this lovely holiday to draw a veil of darkness over such tender eyes, as mine? I had already opened that night's present... I can no longer remember what it was, as that present and all presents to follow that year were to become inconsequential. I was in my gown, and ready for bed. Usually, my mother read me a bedtime story, and my father tucked me in, and that was it. But not that night. No. That evening, it was Auntie Sheila who came up to read to me. Now, I want it clearly understood that at that time, I did not yet have anything against Auntie Sheila, except that I thought she was pretty ugly, and I didn't really want her smushing her lipstick all over my face. I was, however, disappointed to have my normal ritual disturbed so unceremoniously, but that could be survived. If I'd known the whole truth, I would have leapt through the open window of my second story bedroom. But as I believe I've already mentioned, I was an innocent. Auntie burst through my bedroom door like a tempest. Yeah, that's right. A big bag of wind, wearing a lot of cheap make‑up. "My gorgeous, gorgeous Niece! Your parents are preoccupied with the rest of the family, downstairs, as I'm sure you can imagine. So Auntie Sheila has agreed, you lucky girl, to read your bedtime story, tonight! Smile, child, it's a Mitzvah, a blessing. When we're done, you can give me a big kiss, and close your eyes and go to sleep. Okay? Okay." Without allowing me a response, she moved quickly to the bookcase in my bedroom. "Let's see", see muttered, and she looked through my meager, personal library, frowning the entire time. "Not THAT...not THAT ONE...OY!, THEY GAVE YOU THAT?! " She paused. "You like Harold Robbins? I've got him in my purse..." I stared at her. I was a seven year‑old child, for God's sake! "You're right! Ah, look at that punim! Such a face!" (She grabbed my cheeks hard in her open hand, and squeezed. This was quite painful, but I managed to somehow keep smiling. I might have lost a tooth, that night. I don't recall.) "I'll improvise. Besides, it's Hanukkah! We should have a Hanukkah story for bedtime?! Right?! Of course, right!" I didn't know that there were any Hanukkah stories! I admit, my attention perked up immediately. This was the beginning of my doom. Ah, if I had known then what I know, now... Auntie Sheila abruptly settled herself on the small rocking chair next to my bed. The chair creaked, unaccustomed as it was to carrying such significant dimensions. But then, even the rocker stopped complaining, and was silent. Traitor. My Auntie seemed to stare off into space for a moment. Then a sudden clap of her hands, and a smile, and she was ready. "I've got a story, just for Hanukkah. Sit up straight, you'll hurt your back. Are you ready now? Good. This story is called The Nutcracker Blintz. It goes like this. Once upon a time..." "Auntie...", I interrupted, trying to sit with my back straight against the headboard of my bed. "Don't you mean that Christmas story, the one about a Nutcracker PRINCE?..." My Aunt sat back slowly in the rocker, and folded her arms. I sort of withdrew into my pillows, figuring that, for some unknown reason, I was probably in trouble. "Who are we, the Billy Graham family? Do I look like the Pope, to you? And who are you? Hans Christian Meshugaman? Who's telling the story, here? You or me? Of course, me. Besides who came first, the goyim, or the Jews?! C'mon, Miss Smarty Pants, answer me that! The Jews, of course! So, where do you think the Christians stole their stories from? Us, of course! The story I'm about to tell you is the REAL STORY, EMMIS! This is the TRUTH! May I burst a blood vessel if this is a LIE!" The curse of all curses! A burst blood vessel! She had to be telling the truth! I was licked. I sat very straight, and with a childlike sigh of patience, prepared to meet my fate. "The Nutcracker Blintz". You'll love it." "Once upon a time, there was a blintz. A cheese blintz. But this was no ordinary Blintz, no. This Blintz had been enchanted... by Irving, the Hanukkah Fairy. Yeah, that's right. Not THAT kind of fairy, the OTHER kind of fairy." "Anyway, this Cheese Blintz, whose name was Harry, came to life after midnight. He knew that he was doomed to be eaten at the next day's Hanukkah feast, but Harry the Cheese Blintz didn't care. And why didn't he care? Good question. He didn't care because how many blintzes are brought to life in the first place, right? Of course, right. Have YOU ever seen a living Cheese Blintz? No, of course you haven't! It was a Mitzvah!" "You may be asking yourself why Irving the Hanukkah Fairy would choose to bring a cheese blintz to life. And the answer is, I don't know. But when you're a Hanukkah Fairy, I guess you get to do whatever you want, drive whatever car you want to drive, eat fatty foods, and bring blintzes to life. Go figure." "So, Harry the enchanted Cheese Blintz went oozing around the house. He was alive, you know, but he didn't have legs. And he left a sort of sticky, buttery trail, but let's not get into that." "Before he could get out of the kitchen, he rolled over a walnut, that had already been broken by the lady of the house, in preparation for tomorrow's feast. "Oy!", thought Harry the Blintz, not realizing that he had nothing to do with the cracking of that nut, "Oy! I have cracked this nut! I am one powerful nut-cracking pastry!" Auntie stopped, nodded firmly, and smiled expectantly at me. I said nothing, too confused to respond. After a moment, she continued. "All over the house Henry oozed." "Wasn't his name Harry?", I asked. Auntie frowned, extravagantly. "Don't interrupt. Through the kitchen, into the living room. Harry looked up at the Menorah and smiled... as much as a blintz can smile. Up the stairs, and finally to the little girl's room." I had started to buy into Auntie's lie. I blurted it out, in a moment of childhood insanity. "There's a little girl in the story?", I cried aloud, with what I'm certain was beautiful and touching naivete. "Is the little girl like me?" Auntie glared a moment, having no patience for these disturbances once she was on a roll. "What do you mean? Of COURSE there's a little girl in the story! There's ALWAYS a little girl in Auntie Sheila's stories! Now, straighten your legs, I don't want you should get a cramp. And be quiet." "Anyway, as I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted, Harry the Cheese Blintz saw the little girl sleeping in her bed, and he was immediately filled with undying love for her, that would never die." I was about to speak, but she cut me off at the pass. "Yes, I KNOW undying means that it will never die. Did your parents ever tell you that you talk too much...? That's better." "So, anyway, it was at that moment that the Mouse King, and his clutch of rodent assassins, snuck into the girl's bedroom, and started toward her bed. But Harry the Cheese Blintz would have none of it. He coughed out a sort of a gurgle, which was the best war chant he could come up with, and certain of his strength, as he HAD cracked a walnut into pieces, he attacked!" "Several of the mice were immediately disabled. It's hard to fight back, when you're laughing hysterically. However, the Mouse King, whose name was Sydney and who had a serious gas problem, which is another story, HE did not laugh." "Drawing his sword, which was actually an old, unsanitary toothpick dragged out of the trash, The Mouse King proceeded to chop Harry up into tiny pieces, and generously share him with his troops." "That's it, the end, it's time for bed." I was alarmed, to say the least! Poor Harry the Cheese Blintz had died for love, and that was it?! And what about the GIRL? I mean, with Harry gone, who would save her! Auntie Sheila shook her head. "The mice had already eaten!", Auntie cried out. "How many times do you think a mouse can eat in one day? You ever LOOK at a mouse? They have little, tiny stomachs. One, two bites, tops." "Henry...Harry, whatever, he had saved that little girl's life! And his name was remembered amongst blintzes for generations, Amen. And look at us! Aren't we two intelligent women, sitting here talking about a dead blintz? So Harry didn't do so bad! Did you brush your teeth? Then go to bed." Auntie Sheila smushed lipstick all over my face, turned out the lights, and closed the door. I couldn't sleep that night. Not because I could hear my family celebrating Hanukkah, downstairs. But because I felt betrayed! The Nutcracker Prince was stolen! From us, the Chosen People! The real story, about a noble Cheese Blintz named Harry, was virtually forgotten! I thought about this long and hard, that night. I stayed awake as long as I could, and fancied I could almost hear Harry in my very own bedroom, gurgling softly, and watching over me. The next day, head held high, in the middle of new math and without warning, I announced to my fellow second graders that the Nutcracker Prince was a fraud! Several of the children started to cry, and one big boy picked a fight with me. But I shouted the story of the Nutcracker Blintz over the fray, and stood my ground. Mine was the TRUE story! It had been stolen from the Jews, and perverted, and I wanted everyone there to know it! Mother picked me up from the principal's office. She said my black eye would go away, eventually. During the drive home, I asked my mother if she'd ever heard the story of Harry, The Nutcracker Blintz. She said no, and seemed about to laugh. But then, her face grew long, and she seemed to almost choke out the words; "Listen to your Aunt. She's been around." That night, my parents went to a show. Auntie Sheila volunteered her services as baby sitter. Bedtime came, and my parents left the house in a whirl. Traitors. So there we were, Auntie Sheila and I, in my bedroom again. I glared distrustingly, balefully in her direction. I was in no mood for another bedtime story, but was very willing to set aside my normal routine, and merely fall into a dreamless, harmless coma. Aunt Sheila smiled, seemingly oblivious to the wave of hatred I was shoving in her direction. "That's quite a shiner you have. Got into a big fight, did you? Good? Of course, not good. Get in bed, I'll tell you another Hanukkah story." I stopped her. "My principal told me you lied. He said that there's no such story as The Nutcracker Blintz". Auntie Sheila grabbed her heart, and quickly fell into the small rocker. She gasped. She wheezed. She palpitated. She drank some fizzy water and felt better. "Are you telling me that my mother lied to me, and her mother lied to her?! Because, little girl, that story has been in our family, passed down through the generations, for thousands of years!" I looked at my Auntie, who had a sort of pained expression on her face. Thousands of years, I wondered? Did they make blintzes, thousands of years ago? "Besides," she suffered on, "What do you MEAN, no such story? Did I tell you a story last night? Of course I told you a story! So obviously, there IS such a story! True? Of course, true! Pass the seltzer." She drank her fizzy water. I had to admit, she had a point. There WAS such a story, because she HAD told it to me. Quietly, I apologized. With a firm smile, Auntie placed me in bed, and pulled my covers up to my neck, if a bit too snugly. "There's a draft. Now, another ancient Hanukkah story. Sit up straight. This one is called Rudolph, The Red‑Nosed Rabbi, and it's my favorite!" "Wait a minute", I interrupted, alarm bells shooting off in my head. "Now, Auntie Sheila, I know that story is about one of Santa's reindeer!" "Oh, so you know everything now, do you? No, you do not know! You BELIEVE reindeer can fly? Reindeer? Do you know how many fleas can live off a single reindeer? Do you know how many diseases reindeer carry?! Reindeer?! I've always thought more of you, than that! Besides, they stole THIS story, too, like they stole all our stories." I frowned. Displeasure was my only defense. I grimly fingered the water pistol under my pillow, but gave it up as hopeless. She was bigger, and probably faster than me. Auntie merely frowned back, and kept going. "If you're so smart, do you even KNOW the story of Rudolph the Red‑Nosed Rabbi? Of course, you don't! An ancient, venerated story like Rudolph the Red‑Nosed Rabbi, and you've never even heard it! Now, show some respect for your elders, and listen." I didn't know what to say, she was so adamant that I was kind of scared. I sat straight, and gritting my teeth, I listened. "Once upon a time, far away in Russia, where it always snows and people eat a lot of herring, there was a Rabbi." "This holy man was wise, very wise, but he drank a little too much Manischevitz, if you know what I mean. No? Someday, you will. Anyway, his nose was always a bright red, and seemed to glow in the dark. Well, one particularly dark Hanukkah, Irving the Hanukkah Fairy was trying to locate his yamulkah..." I now understood. These stories were so much hog‑wash. A kosher brand of bologna. All of them. Lies. That year, for each of the eight nights of Hanukkah, my Auntie Sheila the Yenta gifted me with a story. There was "Feivel the Snowman", and "The Little Dreidel Girl", and "The Little Hanukkah Bush", and perhaps the most embarrassing of all, "A Hanukkah Carol", about Hymie Scrooge and his three dancing gefilte fish. Yes, I understood. I knew every one of her stories were stupid fantasies, created by my feverish, possibly senile Auntie Sheila, right there on the spot. And being as she was not gifted with the most original of imaginations, each tale had been borrowed, and perverted. I understood that these little ramblings were the lies of our family Yenta. But I also understood that my Auntie, who had no children of her own, was family. I understood that she had given her life over to me, for eight nights. She had watched over me, entertained me, smushed a half ton of lipstick in my face, and made up eight really dumb stories, just for me. And in her unique way, she had loved me. My Auntie Sheila repeated this performance, the following Hanukkah, and every Hanukkah for the next six years. She would show up late in the afternoon, the first day of the holiday. My parents would contrive some excuse to leave us alone. And my Auntie would concoct some ludicrous tale, about talking yamulkahs, or sneezing menorahs, or whatever. That seventh year, Auntie Sheila passed away. I reluctantly confess, I missed her stories, if not her lipstick. She had always gone out of her way to admire my girlhood, and my budding womanhood. She had offered me a myriad of obnoxious, moronic fictions, a trust that she and I shared in private. She had been my friend, as well as my Aunt. I have kept up the tradition she began. I now spend my Hanukkah nights in institutions which care for Jewish children, those without homes or families. I sit by a different child's bed, each night, and tell them the story of "The Nutcracker Blintz", and watch their little eyes light up with either wonder, or profound distrust. It is a lovely tradition, which I shall continue until the day I die. One other thing. I have not been able to bring myself to eat another blintz, since the first Hanukkah my Yenta told me a pack of lies.To find out more about CTT courses, click here.To find out a lot more about CTT, click here.To order Lower School Courses, click here.To order Upper School Courses, click here._____________________________ "THE WAIF" The boy, Jesus, picked through his hundredth trash can of the day, and wondered at his fate. That particular morning, Jesus found himself on a street, in a small, middle‑class suburb of the San Fernando Valley. The boy did not know the street's name, since he had never been taught to read, in any language. Jesus knew it was cold. He knew it was winter. And he could also see a long line on each side of that street, a line of black and green trash cans. As his father had taught the boy to do, Jesus pushed a borrowed shopping cart from trash can to trash can. This was not an easy task for the child. He was small and slight, even for a seven year‑old boy. Though it had four wheels, the cart did not roll smoothly, or straight. Jesus pushed the cart as quietly as he could, as his father had taught him. It wasn't as if the boy had any choice. He did as he did, as he had to do, every day. He moved slowly from trash can to trash can. He opened each lid, held his nose for as long as he could, and looked carefully for bottles and cans, or maybe pieces of leftover food which the ants and flies had not yet poisoned. Each day was spent in this way. At the end of the day, he'd push the cart to a store, and for a few dollars he would sell the bottles and cans he'd collected. Then, he would eat something small, at McDonalds, or anyplace that would not mind so much that he was filthy, that his clothing and face and hands were black with grime. If they allowed him, before eating, he would carefully wash his hands and face in their bathroom, as his father had shown him to do. When he scraped the filth of Los Angeles from his face, it could almost be seen that he was a handsome boy. He had large, brown eyes, capable of wonder, when they were not blinded by hunger or exhaustion. Under the hardened crust that covered his head was soft, dark brown hair. His smile, though rarely offered in those days, was soft and sweet and childlike. For Jesus was, of course, a child.More often than not, the restaurant manager refused to serve the boy, though Jesus was not there begging like so many others in the parking lot. He was there to purchase his meal for the day. He would never beg, because his father had said it was wrong to do so. Sometimes... rarely... someone who worked at the restaurant would look at the boy and sigh or shed a tear, and then offer him food for free. But Jesus always insisted they take what little money he had. He would not accept charity. Jesus would usually eat on the street, embarrassed by his appearance. He was unwilling to disturb the people in the restaurant, in their clean clothes, with their clean children. For they were good people. His father had told him so. After finishing his hamburger, or whatever it was he could afford that day, Jesus would carefully toss the debris into a trash can... though he would keep a few napkins if he could, to clean his face in the morning. Then, returning the borrowed cart to the store, he would take his small backpack, and look for a corner, somewhere. A sheltered spot out of sight, away from the gangs that roamed even this nice part of the city. Out of the wind, if possible, near some source of heat. Maybe the porch of a store, closed for business early. Or a shelter that might take him in for a rare night, out of the damp, cool air. Jesus would unroll his blanket, all that remained to him of his father. The brown, woolen cover was dirty, but it was still warm and comforting. With his backpack for a pillow, he would curl up in a tight ball, trying to stay as warm as possible, his body aching from every possible joint and muscle. And he would slowly fall asleep. He had been living alone, in this way, for over six months. The boy realized that he was not well. Several of his teeth had fallen out in the past few weeks, and his stomach always hurt. One day, looking into the mirror of a restaurant bathroom, even Jesus came to realize that he had grown thin, alarmingly thin. And he knew about death. In Guatemala, he'd seen his mother killed 'accidentally', by rebel guerrillas who called themselves "peace fighters". It had been that same night, after the funeral, that Jesus and his father had placed their few belongings in backpacks. That had been two years ago. The passage through Mexico and into America had been very difficult. His father had paid a man the last of their money, to drive he and his son across the Mexican border, along with a dozen other people who were making this same journey. The truck had been small, and cramped, and there had been little air in it, or light. But when the truck had stopped, it had opened it's doors in a free land. That's what Jesus' father had told the boy, even as the men who had driven the truck had pushed it's passengers into the dirt, and then driven off. It had taken many months for the boy and his father to work their way up through San Diego, to Los Angeles. But those had been good months. His father had worked at any odd job people would offer him. He was not an educated man, but he was naturally skilled with his hands, and did much gardening. He repaired peoples fences and roofs, loaded trucks. He worked very hard. And though they did not have a house, rare was the night they slept outdoors, rare was the day they did not eat at least one good meal. Things were harder, in Los Angeles. There were many there like his father, who were looking for work. There was little work, and after several months, Jesus and his father had begun their new life, that of the cart and the trash can. Yes, it had been a beautiful Spring day, when Jesus' father had been taken away from him, forever. That house had looked like every other house on the street. Jesus and his father were looking through cans, being careful to remain silent so as to never disturb the good people inside. They were all good people. His father had told him so. But the gate to the house was open. The dog had rushed out suddenly, without any warning. It was a huge dog. It cried loudly with fury, with a death hunger. It's teeth were sharp and it's jaw opened wide, and it's mouth seemed to eat the sky. The dog was followed by a man... an old, white man, with white hair. The man had a gun, and looked crazy. Jesus' father had shouted at the boy in Spanish. "Run!", he had screamed at his son. "Run now! As fast and as far as you can! Do not come back! Do not come back!!!" And then, howling, the dog had leapt on top of his father. The old, white man had screamed, and leveled his gun. Jesus never knew where, or how far he ran, that day. He could barely see through his tears, through the blindness born of terror. The first few moments he ran, he'd heard the dog, and his father's cry. Jesus had turned a corner, and was running, his backpack bouncing hard against his shoulders, when he heard the gun explode. The boy had always done as his father said, and so he ran, as far and as fast as he could. He ran, until his lungs and feet burned with fire, and then he fell onto the grass, under a tree, and he lay down, gasping for air. He waited for his father to join him. He waited. He heard sirens after a while, and so he hid behind the tree. He waited. That night, Jesus had walked through the streets of Los Angeles, and had quietly whispered for his father, into every dark crevice and corner. He'd been answered with silence. The next morning, without thought, he'd done as his father would have done. He'd secured a cart, and began his rounds through the neighborhood. A different neighborhood than yesterday's. Jesus never saw his father, again. Many months had passed. It was nearing Christmas. Jesus knew this, for most of the houses he passed were decorated with beautiful lights, and the stores and restaurants were filled with happy people, dressed in colorful, new sweaters. The boy stood outside a plain house, one of the few in the San Fernando Valley without the lovely, twinkling lights. The street was quiet. This particular house seemed uncared for, the yard filled with leaves and a few branches which had fallen from the trees, weeks ago. The lawn needed mowing. The house needed painting. His cart had clanked and rattled, and still, the street seemed empty. And so, Jesus again went about his innocent business. The boy was involved in looking carefully through a large black trash can in front of this small, plain house. He did not hear the front door of the house open. He did not hear anyone approaching. He was surprised, then, when the woman spoke softly to him. The lid to the can slammed shut, and Jesus backed away, standing protectively near his cart. She did not speak Spanish, not a word. She was pale and white, like the man who had taken his father away. It must be understood that, though Jesus' father had told him the people in these houses were good people, up to that very moment Jesus had no reason to believe this. He looked carefully at the woman. She was white, yes, with bright red hair, and though she was not a young woman, neither was she old. She wore a long, green robe that looked warm. She was a little overweight, and walked with a small hobble. But she smiled gently, and held out toward Jesus a small plate with food on it. She said something in English which Jesus could not understand. The boy was hungry, very very hungry. And for perhaps the last time in his life, he trusted his father's teaching over those of the world. Good people. Hesitantly, offering up one of his rare, shy smiles, the boy reached out his hand. With a small nod of his head, he accepted the plate. Jesus completed the meal... the first bacon he'd had in many months, the toast, the juice... and he offered with a small voice, as his father had taught him, his blessings. The woman did not understand, but she nodded, and started back into her house. With a little wave of her hand, she closed her front door. She was surprised then, when looking out her window a few minutes later, to see Jesus carefully lifting an old, dead tree branch from her lawn, and dragging it toward the trash cans. The boy worked quietly. He picked up papers that had blown into her bushes, and as many leaves as his two, small hands could hold, and tossed them into the trash. After about thirty minutes of this, satisfied that he had worked off his debt, the boy returned to his cart and started slowly down the street. Tears in her eyes, the woman ran from her house. She shouted, and the boy turned toward her. She approached him slowly, spoke, and pointed back at her house. The boy had seen such reactions, toward his father. Assuming that the woman had other work for him, Jesus shrugged, parked his cart out of the way of her driveway, and lifted his backpack. He followed her watchfully into her house. She had him remove his shoes at the door. They were crumbled and filthy, and he quite understood. Though the outside of the house was decayed, the inside was beautiful. There was dark, heavy furniture, and large, soft chairs, a couch with flowers, and a big television. The kitchen window was open, light spilled in, and it was sweet and warm. On the wall above the couch was a large photograph, framed in gold. There was this same lady, a few years younger. And with her, a nice, gentle looking man with gray hair. And a young, handsome man in a suit. On the table by the couch stood a small, metal object. An unusual candelabra, it held several tiny candles, which burned brightly. When he was still a child, Jesus had seen the large candles burning in the Church, and had been touched by their beauty. But he was older now, and the light of such tiny candles neither interested or warmed him. The seven year‑old placed his backpack down gently, just inside the door, and politely asked what it was the nice woman needed to be done. She only looked down at the child with a sorrow even he could not fail to grasp. He smiled a moment for her benefit. He knew that his appearance had to be frightening to her. The woman smiled softly after a moment, and led the boy to her back yard. There were leaves and old, dirty lawn chairs, tossed around a small swimming pool. Jesus understood. He was very tired by the time he'd completed the woman's yard, many hours later. But as the sun set, he looked about with pride. The chairs were now clean. The leaves were gone. The cement was bright and white. He had earned his dinner, and the woman was ready to reward him with a feast. But first, she led him into her bathroom. There stood a hot bath. The water steamed, and the boy stared in wonder. The woman again smiled, motioned him on his way, closing the door behind him. He had not bathed in several months, though he'd attempted to wash himself daily. This was a luxury beyond imagining, and even as he stepped into the hot water, tears came unbidden to his eyes. He wept quietly, so as not to disturb the woman. He was not in a hurry to leave the water, and she did not come for him. He soaked until the water was cold, and washed his hair several times. He had even fallen asleep in the tub, for just a moment or two. The towel she'd left for him was blue, and large, and very soft. As his father had taught him, he cleaned behind his ears. There was a new toothbrush, set at the sink. And toothpaste. The boy understood that these were for his use. But his clothes were gone! The woman had removed them while he slept. And in their place was a beautiful pair of blue jeans, and a nearly new, blue shirt. A warm shirt, with long sleeves. Jesus was amazed, but he put these clothes on, feeling something close to ecstasy. The boy who stepped from that bathroom bore slight resemblance to the homeless and hopeless derelict who had entered it, an hour earlier. Here was a clean boy, with dark hair and eyes. A tired boy, but for the first time in a long time, a contented, little boy. And so, to the feast. The woman offered Jesus a seat at her table, and he accepted. There waited a meal unlike any he'd known since his mother's death. A salad, and chicken, potatoes, vegetables, and ice cream. The woman did not eat, but merely watched with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, as the boy wolfed down enough food for two his size. When he at last looked up, the boy realized that the sun had set, that it was dark outside. He knew that now, he should quickly return his cart, and find a place out of the wind in which to sleep. As he rose from her table, he thanked the woman. As his father had taught him, he offered her God's blessing, and started for his backpack. But it was no longer by the door! His blanket... the only thing of his father's that remained to him, it was gone! He turned to look at the woman. She stood slowly, and motioned him to follow, as she started out of the kitchen. The boy unhappily followed the woman down a small hallway, and into a small room. A boy's bedroom, with toys and banners of the sort that boys surround themselves with. There was a small television set. There, on the floor, carefully set aside, was his backpack. And there, in the corner of the room stood a bed, with clean sheets turned back, and soft pillows. On top of the bed was his blanket. Only now, it was clean, and freshly washed, and sat ready for use, as if new. With a motion, she showed the boy how to turn the lights in the room on and off. Then still smiling, she softly closed the door. The boy asked no questions. He didn't know her language, and she didn't know his. But he slowly set himself atop the bed, and noticed that his body didn't hurt him so much, and his skin wasn't sore and itching, and he wasn't bleeding from anywhere. And even as he stared about those strange toys and banners, Jesus pulled his blanket up around his head, and sighed deeply, and fell into the deepest sleep he'd known since arriving in America. Later that evening, the woman with red hair and a slight limp, sat in her living room and said the Chanukkah blessings. She then looked up at the family portrait on the wall. Her husband had died of cancer last year, and her son had moved out of the house a long time ago. Strangely, she found that something inside her, which she had believed to be dead and buried with her husband, was breathing and alive. The first few days, Jesus insisted on working for every small favor she showed him. She fed him well, and kept him in clean clothes, and insisted he brush his teeth. He slowly recovered the natural energy that seven year‑old boys should each be blessed with. She learned some of his words, and he learned some of hers. After the first few days, she had located some of her son's childhood books, and started reading to Jesus each night, before bed. He accepted this offering with awe and humility, and tried harder to learn her language. One night, he asked her what the small candles were for, and she sort‑of understood, and showed him pictures in a book, explaining a thing which she called Hanukkah. For Christmas, she offered Jesus a new jacket, beautifully gift‑wrapped. She never once filed for his adoption, out of fear he would be deported. She merely raised the boy as her own. After several years, she applied on his behalf, for his citizenship. It became clear to Eva, for that was the woman's name, Eva Blum, that the boy had been raised a Catholic. She saw no reason to question his parent's wisdom, and so continued to raise him as they would have. He attended Sunday School, and learned his Catechisms. He was Baptized, though he'd probably already been. So it was that in the Blum household, both Hanukkah and Christmas were observed, every year. Together, the boy and the woman would put up Christmas lights and a small tree, and they would place the Star of David atop the tree, and together, they would light the candles each of the eight nights of Hanukkah. The woman did not know what her husband would have thought of these celebrations, or for that matter, what Jesus' father would have said. But she did the best that she could, and it was sufficient. The boy grew up well, and remembered his family with love, even as he honored Eva. It was many years later, as a young father himself, standing over the grave of his assumed mother and guardian, that Jesus suddenly remembered, suddenly realized that his father had been right, those many years ago. Yes. There were good people inside these houses.To find out more about CTT courses, click here.To find out a lot more about CTT, click here.To order Lower School Courses, click here.To order Upper School Courses, click here.