Purim had barely begun before I missed my childhood Purim

"I’m going to Florida for Purim,” I overheard her tell her friend, wheelie in hand. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Do it? I’d wondered. What was so difficult about Purim?

You see, I was still a tad sheltered, all those years ago. I thought everyone did what we did.

Ma prepared a few shaloch manos. Maybe a hedonistic four, at most; Ta leined Megillah at the early minyan, before he was abducted by tax season. We proudly donned our cowboy gear, then loaded into the car.

And off we went to Boro Park, leaving home behind.

Purim was a day of visiting babis and zeidies, nénis and bácsis (that’s “aunts” and “uncles” for you non-Hungarians). No morahs. No rebbeim. No classmates. No friends. To be honest, I was so oblivious, I didn’t even know kids gave each other shalach manos. Ma, smart woman, kept us in the dark about that.

We sat, docile, on a variety of couches, left out of the conversation since we didn’t speak Hungarian. It was during these Purim visits that I became familiar with Ma’s aunts and uncles, who I could always rely on for some gelt. The year I was ten I earned my biggest haul — $28!

We ate the seudah at Babi and Zeidy’s house. Ta took the subway over. Cousins piled atop each other. When we sleepily arrived home, there would be a pile of shalach manos left at the door, cellophane shining in the moonlight. We took them in, oohed and aahed over the nosh inside (Ma had gone “healthy” so this was the only junk we’d get all year), and went to bed.

Ma felt absolutely no guilt that she hadn’t reciprocated. (Because here’s the secret: Many people love giving shalach manos, but aren’t necessarily keen on receiving it. It’s almost Pesach.)