My family loved Christmas.

My parents brought the tradition from Buffalo, New York, where they had grown up in Catholic families and Christmas was a Big Deal, full of crèches, mangers with babies, Wise Men and Shepherds with sheep, and goats, and camels and donkeys, and lots of year-end prayers, and of course Christmas trees, lights, ornaments, presents.

When Shirley and I got married, we scraped enough money to buy a tree, Douglas fir if we could get one because the needles were more lush.

But we didn’t have ornaments, so we made our own. Notable were our creations from egg cartons. We’d cut out the egg pouches, glue them into a coherent shape, then paint glue sprinkled with glitter. We were thrilled by their loveliness.

A hole at the top, a bit of wire for a hook, then hanging on the tree.

We made garlands. A needle and long thread, popcorn popped fresh from the kitchen, strung long and draped and looped from branch to branch, a unifying element.

Sometimes we made a cranberry garland. The same needle stitching a long string and giving the tree a comprehensive red. On Christmas Eve, we could take that garland for double duty, cook it up and make cranberry sauce. A little added orange stolen from a tree in the neighborhood orchard, and voila! enough for leftovers on Christmas Day after the Eve. We also ate the popcorn garlands. We opened the presents on Christmas Eve, because no one believed in Santa Claus.

I remember when I was young, a darling little boy, and I wanted to help make Christmas for the family. We needed presents to put under the tree. When I was even littler, I wrapped up rocks from the yard that looked pretty so everyone would have a present.

So I took my little money, saved all year from the little allowance my Mother gave us for doing chores, cleaning our room, making our bed, taking out the trash, washing the dishes. She was trying to teach us economic responsibility.

So I took the bus all by myself over to Alhambra. There was a big thrift store on Second Street, just a half block above Main Street. It was our family thrift store. We would go there to buy our clothes, sorting through the bins for shirts and pants.

We also found household items, dishes, pots and pans. That’s where I learned how to buy.

They also had books, shelves and shelves, a quarter each. That was my destination.

I spent hours and hours browsing the shelves, looking for just the right book for each member of the family.

For my Mother, I got something about fashion, or maybe keeping house, maybe a cookbook (she needed to learn). My Father got philosophy or history or poetry, something I could read when he was finished with it. For my Brother, I got an easy-to-read story.

I took my treasures home in triumph and wrapped them carefully and put them under the tree. The family exclaimed in delight, “Oh, look! We have presents!”