Growing up in a predominantly Catholic town greatly influenced my perception of religious practices. I was equally aware of Friday being the meatless day as of the welcoming of Shabbat, the welcoming of the day of rest and of long nature walks. Sunday was dominated by the melodious sound of bells from every church and the great cathedral.
When we celebrated Pesach and counted the days to Shavuot during Sefirat HaOmer, it was the counterpart of the observance of Lent, Easter and Pentecost.
Whether you dressed up for Purim or for Carneval did not matter — as long as you wore a costume and had fun!
However there was one exception to this ecumenical behavior: When winter arrived, a time of separation began. My mother would pointedly say, “This is their yontif,” their holiday season.
When the Advent calendars were displayed in the windows, we children would enjoy seeing a new picture each week, without the desire to compete. We would admire the festive displays downtown, the Santa Claus surrounded by kids, without the need to participate. There was no competition: This was their yontif.
For us children it was the time of vacation, free from homework, to enjoy ice-skating, riding sleds downhill, and coming red-cheeked in from the cold to the warmth of family, moving close to the tiled stove fixed in my memory, where apples placed atop spread an aroma I can still smell today.