In The Book of Can­dles: Eight Poems for Hanukkah, Lau­rel Sny­der and Leanne Hatch focus on the way that the win­ter fes­ti­val dif­fers from many oth­er Jew­ish obser­vances. The lack of major restric­tions on work or oth­er activ­i­ties, the home-cen­tered cus­toms, and the con­trast between the hanukkiah’s (menorah’s) lights and those kin­dled on Shab­bat all play a role in the sequence of poems. If you are expect­ing Judah Mac­cabee, you will not find him here. Instead, a child’s point of view cap­tures the excite­ment and warmth of the holiday.

Free verse, with an invit­ing, con­ver­sa­tion­al tone, sets the scene as a child wel­comes the first night of the fes­ti­val. The room is described as ​“hold­ing its breath” before the can­dle bless­ing, and the child qui­et­ly admits, ​“But I don’t know the words.” Enthu­si­as­tic par­ents are there to trans­mit knowl­edge; every­one is includ­ed. Each poem con­cludes with a ​“thought,” a short prose cap­tion pro­vid­ing infor­ma­tion about Hanukkah. A brief expla­na­tion of the tim­ing for light­ing the hol­i­day can­dles illu­mi­nates the dif­fer­ence between them and those kin­dled on Fri­day nights. Anoth­er ​“thought” clar­i­fies the cor­rect place­ment and light­ing order of the candles.

Mishaps or unfore­seen cir­cum­stances have dif­fer­ent con­se­quences on Hanukkah than on Shab­bat or many oth­er hol­i­days. A flat tire on the fam­i­ly car enroute to a cel­e­bra­tion requires some inven­tive think­ing, lead­ing to a ​“bananukki­ah or bano­ra” lit up on the hood of the car enjoyed with an impromp­tu treat of suf­ganiy­ot (jel­ly dough­nuts). The sec­ond night poem presents the expe­ri­ence of see­ing a hanukki­ah in the win­dow from both the out­side and inside per­spec­tive. The ​“thought” for this night includes the asser­tion that the pub­lic dis­play of the hanukki­ah ​“will show the world that our faith and peo­ple can­not be extin­guished.” Giv­en the absence of his­tor­i­cal back­ground of Hanukkah, adults may view this as an oppor­tu­ni­ty for fur­ther dis­cus­sion. The poem itself implic­it­ly acknowl­edges a bit of ten­sion absent from the rest of the book, when the child observes a man on the street look­ing at the win­dow, and con­tem­plates, ​“Maybe you think about stick­ing out your tongue,/but you don’t do it/​because Hanukkah.”

Hatch’s illus­tra­tions exude warmth, with earth and jew­el tones set against the dark­ness of the out­doors and the light of domes­tic inte­ri­ors. Mul­ti­ple gen­er­a­tions are depict­ed, and the family’s cat seems a wry observ­er of all the activ­i­ties. The per­spec­tive empha­sizes the child at the book’s cen­ter; in one illus­tra­tion, for exam­ple, the child is car­ried in a parent’s arms, with the adult’s back to the read­er, and a part­ly opened door reveals a bed­room with a stuffed pan­da qui­et­ly rest­ing and col­or­ful blocks scat­tered on the floor.

In the author’s note to this high­ly rec­om­mend­ed book, Sny­der con­trasts Hanukkah to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kip­pur. On the High Hol­i­days, ​“we set aside our lives and dis­ap­pear into the

syn­a­gogue,” while ​“on Hanukkah, we live our dai­ly lives — go to school, play and laugh.” An adult might well ques­tion the char­ac­ter­i­za­tion of syn­a­gogue atten­dance as ​“dis­ap­pear­ing,” and of the dis­tinc­tion between that Jew­ish activ­i­ty and liv­ing one’s dai­ly life. Yet to at least some chil­dren, the com­par­i­son will seem nat­ur­al. This book val­i­dates the spe­cial sta­tus of Hanukkah with­in the Jew­ish cycle of celebrations.