In 1964, two days before Christmas, my father wanted to talk to me. He let me know Christmas money was scarce that year. Since I was the oldest, I would get less. I had no problem with it. I was 13 and it made me feel mature to be sacrificing for the family. Besides, there wasn’t much I wanted.

Then he asked if I would help him assemble a bike for my brother on Christmas Eve. The request proved without a doubt Santa wasn’t coming for me anymore. At the same time, I was being treated like a man, and helping my dad with an important task. Moments like that between us were scarce in those days. It remains my favorite Christmas.

I have asked several people about their best Christmas memory and have been surprised with the connection of so many of the stories. My oldest son remembers helping me retrieve presents from their hiding place late on Christmas Eve, as I had done years before. A co–worker recalled feeling part of a worldwide movement when she gathered gifts from her car near midnight on Christmas Eve and noticed all the other parents in the neighborhood doing the same.

Others thought of Barbie dolls and pellet guns, Lionel trains and cap pistols. To some, Christmas was one gigantic memory; a tangle of ham, relatives, ambrosia, sledding in the yard, new underwear, and that magic first moment when colored lights glistened on a brand new bicycle under the tree.

Two of my sons told me no specific memory stood out among the others. They always got what they asked for and were never surprised or disappointed.

The person who shared most of my childhood Christmas memories, many of my adult times, and so much psychic connection, was the one person who gave me something completely different.

In 1970, I was enjoying my oldest son’s first real Christmas. He was just over one year old and able to comprehend what was going on. He got toy pistols, a cowboy hat and boots, even a vest.

Half a planet away, Rick was dirty, disgusted, and tired. He was spending Christmas in Viet Nam with thousands of other soldiers, none he had known a year before. Many of them were seeing their last Christmas.

At one point during the Bob Hope Christmas Show, one of the entertainers started singing Silent Night . The soldiers began to join in. Teary eyed and off key, they sang in celebration of all the memories they had, and with hope they would never have to spend another such holiday away from home.

As bicycles, dump trucks, pecan pie, and Chinese checkers flashed through their minds, the soldiers sang the song. Thousands of men in the same uniform, acting in unison, but each one was alone in a better place, for just a little while.

Rick told me it was the only Christmas he ever spent away from home, but it was his favorite because it made all the ones before and after, much more special. I knew he always enjoyed Christmas more than the rest of us. I finally found out why.