by Howard KohnSoon after arriving at the Takoma Foundation holiday party on December 10 Hank Prensky decided this was as good a time as any to find the right kind of person for a hush-hush ritual that had occupied him and his son Sol at dusk on eight evenings every winter during the past 19 years.
Actually time was running out. In two days the ritual was to commence again.
The right kind of person was someone Jewish, preferably someone Jewish with a young child. Hank approached Franca Brilliant, a Foundation board member.
"Someone in your family is Jewish, right?" he asked.
"We're all Jewish," Franca said, referring to her husband Seth Grimes,
like her a prominent civic leader, and their two children, all members
of Tifereth Israel, a lively egalitarian synagogue in the District.
"And you have kids, right?" Hank continued.
"What's this all about?"
Hank is a real estate agent and well-versed in the upper levels of persuasion. "I've never told anyone," he said, "but I'll tell you the whole story."
He told it with hand gestures and his brand of unreserved charm, harking back to a day in December of 1990 when, as a member of the City Council, he raised a question about why the only seasonal symbol on the main public grounds at Philadelphia and Maple was a 30-foot fir tree decked out with holiday lights, a classic-looking Christmas tree. Why not also a menorah for Hanukah?
Bev Habada, then the city manager, argued that the fir is a year-round fixture in the landscape and, even when sparkling colorfully, evokes traditions not explicitly Christian. But she allowed that Hank had a point and agreed to place a menorah next to the tree.
Here Franca interrupted his story, forcing a distinction. "It's actually a chanukiyah," she said, "not a menorah. People always call it that, but the menorah that stood in the Holy Temple only held seven candles, and a chanukiyah holds nine. You know, eight for the eight days that the oil lasted, and one for the shamash in the center."
Hank blinked and said, "Wow, you really are the right person."
"The right person for what, exactly?"
"The job of the secret elf who lights the menorah. Or the chanukiyah, whatever." He smiled broadly, pleased at his punch line. "Ideally, it should be you and one of your kids."
Franca would say later, "Hank had me going. I wasn't sure what he was leading up to."
She told him she was amenable but deferred her decision until she could consult with her son Ezra, who is ten, an age requiring consent. Ezra's life was already busy. A fifth-grader in the French Immersion program at Sligo Creek Elementary, he had recently completed another season of soccer in the local league and was rehearsing for a Lumina Studio performance of "Merchant of Venice" in which he was playing Froggy, a character who has to be accurate with a slingshot and spitball fired at another character's rear end. On top of that, as his mother would explain, "he has a number of other fascinations such as Nerf guns, well, weapons of all kinds. And artwork - he is always drawing when he isn't playing video games. Basically he's a ten-year-old, totally active."
Franca put the challenge to him. Would he dedicate himself to an everyday routine for the next week and a day, and would he, on evenings when she was late getting home, carry on by himself?
With an adolescent shrug he said he would.
Thus it was that, in the twentieth year of Takoma Park's annual acknowledgement of Hanukah, Franca and Ezra took over the candle-lighting task from Hank and Sol, who was unavailable, gone off to a Massachusetts college for his freshman year.
On a couple evenings Ezra impressed his mom by punctually and self-reliantly walking the round trip from the family home on Willow Avenue to fulfill his new duty. On the last evening of the Jewish festival Franca made it a point to accompany him. Standing on the frozen grass, facing the temporary monument, Franca had to concede that there was a noticeable lack of pomp. There were no matches to strike and no candle wicks to ignite in flames. Instead eight incandescent bulbs shone from perches atop an aluminum candelabra. The ninth bulb was dark.
"All I have to do is turn on a switch," Ezra said, scoffing a bit.
"It has to be the right switch," Franca said.
Ezra aimed a finger at a black plastic toggle, and the ninth bulb flashed on.
Asked if he was willing to return next winter and again flip the same switches, he nodded. "I guess so. It's pretty cool."
And the tradition continues with a new elf: Ezra Grimes. photo by Julie Wiatt
As for Hank's mystifying and wonderful doggedness at keeping secret his own role all these years, he would say, when pressed, "That was part of the original deal. I didn't want someone on the City payroll to have to be paid to do it. Besides it was an honor. That's how I always felt. And the fact no one else knew, that made it more of an honor."
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"And you have kids, right?" Hank continued.
"What's this all about?"
Hank is a real estate agent and well-versed in the upper levels of persuasion. "I've never told anyone," he said, "but I'll tell you the whole story."
He told it with hand gestures and his brand of unreserved charm, harking back to a day in December of 1990 when, as a member of the City Council, he raised a question about why the only seasonal symbol on the main public grounds at Philadelphia and Maple was a 30-foot fir tree decked out with holiday lights, a classic-looking Christmas tree. Why not also a menorah for Hanukah?
Bev Habada, then the city manager, argued that the fir is a year-round fixture in the landscape and, even when sparkling colorfully, evokes traditions not explicitly Christian. But she allowed that Hank had a point and agreed to place a menorah next to the tree.
Here Franca interrupted his story, forcing a distinction. "It's actually a chanukiyah," she said, "not a menorah. People always call it that, but the menorah that stood in the Holy Temple only held seven candles, and a chanukiyah holds nine. You know, eight for the eight days that the oil lasted, and one for the shamash in the center."
Hank blinked and said, "Wow, you really are the right person."
"The right person for what, exactly?"
"The job of the secret elf who lights the menorah. Or the chanukiyah, whatever." He smiled broadly, pleased at his punch line. "Ideally, it should be you and one of your kids."
Franca would say later, "Hank had me going. I wasn't sure what he was leading up to."
She told him she was amenable but deferred her decision until she could consult with her son Ezra, who is ten, an age requiring consent. Ezra's life was already busy. A fifth-grader in the French Immersion program at Sligo Creek Elementary, he had recently completed another season of soccer in the local league and was rehearsing for a Lumina Studio performance of "Merchant of Venice" in which he was playing Froggy, a character who has to be accurate with a slingshot and spitball fired at another character's rear end. On top of that, as his mother would explain, "he has a number of other fascinations such as Nerf guns, well, weapons of all kinds. And artwork - he is always drawing when he isn't playing video games. Basically he's a ten-year-old, totally active."
Franca put the challenge to him. Would he dedicate himself to an everyday routine for the next week and a day, and would he, on evenings when she was late getting home, carry on by himself?
With an adolescent shrug he said he would.
Thus it was that, in the twentieth year of Takoma Park's annual acknowledgement of Hanukah, Franca and Ezra took over the candle-lighting task from Hank and Sol, who was unavailable, gone off to a Massachusetts college for his freshman year.
Hank and Sol Prensky, the retired Hannukah elves. photo by Julie Wiatt
On a couple evenings Ezra impressed his mom by punctually and self-reliantly walking the round trip from the family home on Willow Avenue to fulfill his new duty. On the last evening of the Jewish festival Franca made it a point to accompany him. Standing on the frozen grass, facing the temporary monument, Franca had to concede that there was a noticeable lack of pomp. There were no matches to strike and no candle wicks to ignite in flames. Instead eight incandescent bulbs shone from perches atop an aluminum candelabra. The ninth bulb was dark.
"All I have to do is turn on a switch," Ezra said, scoffing a bit.
"It has to be the right switch," Franca said.
Ezra aimed a finger at a black plastic toggle, and the ninth bulb flashed on.
Asked if he was willing to return next winter and again flip the same switches, he nodded. "I guess so. It's pretty cool."
And the tradition continues with a new elf: Ezra Grimes. photo by Julie WiattAs for Hank's mystifying and wonderful doggedness at keeping secret his own role all these years, he would say, when pressed, "That was part of the original deal. I didn't want someone on the City payroll to have to be paid to do it. Besides it was an honor. That's how I always felt. And the fact no one else knew, that made it more of an honor."
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