At Christmas, cops, Chinese cuisine and a fallen firefighter hero

Ah, Christmas memories. Crouched in the back of a CPD squad car cruising through Englewood. Diners crowded into a busy River North Thai restaurant. The great rose window of the Rose of Sharon Community Baptist Church, backlit by flame.

Not your average Christmas memories. Then again, I am not your average Christmas celebrant. In fact, I’ve never observed the holiday in my life. Never woke up and scampered downstairs to see what Santa left me. Never lived in a house with a tree. Not once. I’m a Jew. We don’t do Christmas.

OK, not generally. Some Jews do. They figure the holiday is secular enough, why not join the party? Why miss out on fun, even if it’s somebody else’s fun? And I don’t judge them.

OK, maybe I judge them a little. Cookies and carols are one thing. But a tree? Really? A “Hanukkah bush”? It’s like wearing a medal for a battle you didn’t fight in.

What I have done, quite religiously, is work on Christmas. This year, needing to blow off a week of vacation or else lose it — and never losing vacation is close to holy writ for me — I deliberately took off the week of the 15th, so as to be back now, to lighten the load for my colleagues who have presents to wrap and mistle to toe and whatever else must be done to commemorate Jesus’ birth.

When I started at the Sun-Times, I’d work the night shift at Christmas, 6 p.m. to 2 a.m., grumbling mightily, trying to hide the fact that being in the newsroom on Christmas was great. You got paid double-time. There were platters of cookies and cold cuts. Not many people around. Often a bottle tucked somewhere. I remember sitting at the slot — the U-shaped central news desk — with … thinking hard … Jim Merriner, maybe? Silently sipping bourbon in white Styrofoam coffee cups. Listening to the police scanner crackle at midnight.

Being me, I tried to take advantage of the opportunity, wondering who else works Christmas. I spent Christmas Eve of 1986 riding around Englewood in the back of a police cruiser with a pair of rookies. Writing the story gave me a lot of respect for police officers. I was scared, running up the stairway of a pitch-black six-flat, and I was with two cops.

Another Christmas I visited Asian restaurants and interviewed Jews — and Muslims — happily chowing down. One said that eating Chinese food on Christmas was a Jewish tradition. Prompting a rabbi to phone me a couple days later to express outrage that I had somehow maligned Jewish traditions. I said something along the lines of, “Rabbi, don’t you see that you complaining is a worse insult to Judaism than the thing you’re complaining about?” Leading to further complaints, meetings and apologies, teaching me a valuable lesson: Save candor for people you respect.

Leading to the fire, I’m fudging a little. It actually occurred Dec. 22, 1989. Close enough for Christmas. The night burns vivid in memory. Running out of the newsroom behind photographer Brian Jackson, cameras bouncing off his hip. The rose window of the church, backlit by flames, which shot 70 feet into the air. It was dark. Ten below zero. The hydrants were frozen. Stained-glass windows melted like taffy. Neighbors wept. A hose snapped. My feet got soaked. Another reporter, Ray Hanania, hauled me into a little grocery where I sat with my wet stocking feet pressed against a radiator. The owner brought me hot mint tea in a juice glass. The church roof collapsed, trapping a firefighter. The other firefighters wouldn’t leave until he was found. Firefighters dug through the rubble with their hands, searching, faces streaked with soot, mustaches caked with ice. A crane was finally brought in. They found him about 11 a.m. the next day.

The lost firefighter was Kelvin L. Anderson, 27. At his funeral, Mayor Richard M. Daley said Anderson “truly was a hero to each and every one of us.” Anderson, a former Marine, never had the chance to celebrate another Christmas, or get married, or have children. A reminder to savor as much warmth as you can this Christmas — even if it’s not your holiday, I suppose. Your Hanukkah bush is forgiven. The cosmos doesn’t care, why should I? If 2025 taught me anything, it’s that life can turn real dark and real cold real fast. Nothing is guaranteed. So OK, whatever your faith, turn on the lights, crank up the music, take a belt if there isn’t a compelling reason not to, and eat those cookies, even if you shouldn’t. Enjoy life however you can, while you can. Merry Christmas.