When I was a grogger-twirling celebrant back in my youth, Purim was a more modest, low profile holiday. Yes, we had a costume ball, but the girls' costumes were limited to old tablecloths and cardboard crowns, and the boys wore sheets simulating Achashvueros’ royal robes. My mother assured me that the real Mordechai wore khaki pants. Who argued with their mother in 1940?

We were no drama critics, but we understood the flaw in the Purim performance. Not enough characters for 300 contestants at the Costume Ball! (And don't mention Haman - would you wear a hangman's noose?) It took fifty years before Purim became more inclusive to feature a Campbell's Soup Can, Michael Jordan, an Astronaut or Spongebob!

Who wanted to go to a costume ball with a hundred kings, a hundred Esthers and a hundred Mordechais? Only my mama believed in the Mordechai khaki pants concept, so usually his outfit was a white paper belt that said “Mordechai.”

“That kid in the big grocery bag, that's Mordechai - says so on his belt.”

Crossdressers never showed up at the Baron Hirsch Synagogue Purim Ball, so girls were all Esthers. The only question was - what kind of tablecloth did the queen of Persia 300 BC wear: oilcloth, cotton, or plastic?

But even wrapped in paper or soiled tablecloths, we loved Purim because we got free Coca Colas at our shul.

This annual masquerade was one of those cultural conundrums, like why my dad loved Schmaltz Herring. “Ted, you take a small bite of salt herring chased by a loaf of rye bread or pumpernickel.” Schmaltz Herring - like the unicorn - is now extinct, except for New York City where occasionally one is yanked out of the East River, dipped in salt - cut in eight pieces and laid out in a Deli where each piece is swapped for a 5th Avenue condo. Schmaltz herring to Jews over 60 is a delicacy that ranks with congealed fish juice!

Back to Purim. The cokes were nice, but there was no music. The Hamentashen were as edible as cardboard coasters; Haman in Hell is on a Hamentaschen diet. It was only good for food fights. So a few hundred kids mulled around the shul’s assembly hall, drank cokes and slid on the waxed hardwood floor. In that simpler time, sliding on the waxed floor was a heckuva game - especially when a clumsy kid slid into the refreshment table.

Sometimes a "dramatic presentation" fired our little libidinous hearts; maybe we'd get the Vashti scene that the Book of Esther had exorcised. But it was not to be. Instead, we got the classic Purim play:

Haman: “Kill the Jews.”

King: “Uh.....”

Esther: (with a big, boomy smile and a wink) “Kill Haman.”

King: “OK.”

The scenario taught an adult lesson to the juvenile audience; the great King of Persia, whose empire stretched from India to Ethiopia, had all the power of a stewed chicken drumstick in the hands of this Semitic Seductress.

Our pragmatic lesson of the Book of Esther, that doesn’t directly mention the Ruler of all - who makes emperors and courtesans. Esther’s splendor saves her people, for man is only a gumdrop in the palm of an artful woman.

Pass me a grogger and a Coca Cola - I'll drink to that.

Ted (ted@hiwaay.net) gladly replies to fulsome praise or nitpicking criticism to his syndicated column.