Preface xiChristmas 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 Sarah, our elderly
next-door neighbors. But there was plenty of good stuff, too. Sports equipment and a cap
pistol for my younger brother. A battery-powered Polaris nuclear submarine that actually
fired small plastic missiles. A bicycle for my brother and a BB gun for me! Lots of books, the
kind we both liked to read. A casting set, with a lead furnace and molds to make toy soldiers.
As we opened the packages, my brother and I mentally checked off items against our wish
lists. We’d both gotten everything we asked for. Almost. One item had been at the top of every
iteration of my wish list since the Sears Christmas Wish Book had arrived, and that item was
nowhere to be found. I searched frantically through the piles of discarded wrapping paper,
hoping I’d overlooked a box. It wasn’t there.
My parents had been watching my brother and me ripping through gifts like Tasmanian
Devils. Just as I’d decided that I hadn’t gotten the one gift that I really, really wanted, my
mom and dad called me into the kitchen. There it sat, on the kitchen table: exactly what I’d
been hoping for. It was already unboxed and spread wide open to show the contents. My
father said, “This is from your mother and me. It is not a toy.”
Preface