Christmas morning, 1964. I was 11 years old. My younger brother and I arose at the crack of dawn and noisily rushed downstairs to find out what was under the tree. Our parents followed us, bleary-eyed.
Santa had been good to us that year. Colorfully wrapped presents were scattered—not just under the tree, but across most of the living room floor. Being boys, we started tearing open the presents with no thought at all for the care that had gone into wrapping them. We were after the loot.
There were the inevitable disappointments: sweaters from Grandma, school clothes from Aunt Betty, and hand-knitted stocking caps for both of us from Pete and ...
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