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December 21, 2002, 12:45 p.m. Merry Christmas to My Jewish Mother Growing up with a menorah and a tree. By Dave Konig

ike most Jewish mothers, mine had an almost supernatural talent for saying just the right thing in any given situation to drive me completely insane. One example (chosen at random from a storehouse of several million): When I called her with the news that, after years of struggling in the outer regions of show business, I had finally landed a big role on Broadway, she responded, "Well, you keep at it dear, things should work out eventually.…"

Don't get me wrong, she wasn't a pessimist. In fact, she always looked on the bright side — it's just that her brain worked faster than her mouth and sometimes her thoughts came out a little, well, fershimilled. She was a confounding, but fascinating, woman. Opinionated, compulsive, talkative, extremely bright, and extremely short. She read voraciously and indiscriminately; always working on several books at once. And, as if that wasn't enough simultaneous intellectual stimulation, she played elaborate word games with the books she was reading. As she read, she would write down the first word of the first paragraph of each page on a little memo pad and then proceed to make little checkmarks for each time that word would appear in the rest of the book. Her entire life she was always surrounded by hundreds of books and thousands of little memo pads filled with words and checkmarks.

Her spiritual life was equally peripatetic: She was Jewish, we were Jewish, but she had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and a core restlessness that led to a lifelong self-education in theology — and a more-than-occasional dabbling in alternative spiritual paths. For a while she was very interested in Christian Science, the writings of Bishop Fulton Sheen were always comforting to her, and, as an on-again-off-again member of Overeaters Anonymous, she had a more than passing acquaintance with the 12 steps of recovery.

For her, none of this was ever a substitute for Judaism, or a rejection of it. To the contrary, she felt it made her a better Jew; the more she learned and understood about the religions of the world, great and small, the closer she felt to God and the more tolerant she was of her fellow man — and wasn't that the whole point of being a good Jew?

My mother loved Christmas. My parents believed, quite simply, that Christmas was a heck of a lot of fun — especially for kids — and we weren't about to let a little thing like the fact that we were Jewish get in the way of the fun! So, like a good All-American Jewish family, we lit the Hanukah menorah for eight nights, then got up early on Christmas Day to open the presents Santa Claus had left under the Christmas tree. We wished each other "Merry Christmas" (for those under 30, "Merry Christmas" was a happy phrase — people used to say it to each other all the time, up until a few years ago).

A few years ago my mother contracted colon cancer. She was only 67 — it was a bad break for a great gal who had a tough life. In the end she was cared for 'round the clock in an incredible facility: Mary Manning Walsh on the east side of Manhattan. She died on the sixth floor, loved and comforted and eased into the next life by some of the most wonderful people on earth: Gloria, George, Nurse Jackson, Conchita, Theresa. And, of course, prayed for by Sister Noreen and all the loving nuns and priests at this Catholic institution.

It's been five years now. Like a good Jewish boy I think of her at this time of year. Merry Christmas, Mom.

— Comedian Dave Konig starred on Broadway in Grease! and won a New York Emmy as the co-host of Subway Q&A. He just completed his first novel Good Luck Mr. Gorsky. Konig is an NRO contributor.