To my Dad Christmas was about Jesus. And not just any Jesus, but Baby Jesus. My father was a tough guy, ran away from home at eight years old and went to Budapest to work in the Market as a coolie. He had to fend for himself and the competition was fierce. By the time he was grown up he was strong as an ox from his coolie work. I never knew a stronger man.
But he would melt when he talked about Baby Jesus.

Christmas, that time of year when, wondering through throngs of people, bewilderment and panic grips even the most seasoned of shoppers. What to get family members, and those in our circle of friends, that seem to have everything and need nothing.

I usually had to ride in the back seat, between my two older brothers. I couldn’t see anything because they were at the windows. Of course dad was driving that old 1949 Pontiac. It was our first car and I was so proud of it. Not all our neighbors had a car moving from the late ‘40’s into the early ‘50’s. Even though I was the youngest, I feel that I was the most proud of our car and it showed as I scrubbed those white-walled tires each Saturday as we washed the car. I had my own scrub brush and a bucket of warm soapy water. It was my job to get those side walls as clean as possible.