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When I was six years old, I was asked by my parents to do an imitation of President John F. Kennedy in front of the Christmas tree for their friends, many of whom had been drinking cocktails. I had a little mop of brown hair like the president's, and I could approximate his Boston accent. So I stood in front of the tree, wearing my Dr. Dentons, and piped, "Ahsk not what your country can do for you, ahsk what you can do for your country," and "Let me . . . ah . . . say this about that." Everyone roared with delight. For months afterward I was known as "Little JFK" around the house.

That's about the cutest Christmas anecdote I can come up with. I have four brothers and sisters but I didn't notice any cute stuff they did at Christmas. I was too busy rooting around the bottom of the tree like a piglet looking for my presents. I examined each one carefully, estimating value. It was not very attractive. I should have been caroling. I should have been singing "The Little Drummer Boy" at the school assembly. But I wasn't.

I did have to dance around the elementary school gym to the "Sleigh Bells" song. We children put our arms around one another and danced at the Christmas assembly. I pretended to be uncoordinated so they'd put me in the clodhopper line at the back of the gym where no one could see me. Sleigh bell dancing was undignified, a cousin to the square dance. Of course once the line got moving I began to enjoy it. And I was dancing with those clumsy oafs who stumbled all over themselves, when I could have been showcased with the graceful kids! I learned a valuable lesson, though it didn't really hold. I still act dumb to get out of stuff.

But to me Christmas has always primarily meant presents. As a little boy I secretly felt it was far, far better to receive than to give. It's terrible and it's shameful. Even today, when I Christmas shop, I'm thinking about what I want. I give it much more thought than what my family and friends might enjoy. I know where this attitude will land me-in a lonely efficiency apartment, ignored, despised, with a malfunctioning 13-inch black-and-white TV my only friend. That's what happens to Christmas cruds.

And it happens to Christmas snoops. I was searching the attic for unwrapped presents just before Christmas one year and I found one clearly meant for me. It was a Mr. Ed board game in which the talking horse had to reach some goal or destination, though I can't remember what. I told our babysitter Stella that I saw it, and she gave me a tongue lashing: "Now you won't be surprised on Christmas morning. I hope you're happy. Your parents went to a lot of trouble getting you that game." What a sneaky little turd! This was one of the worst Christmas memories of my childhood, which, looking back on it, wasn't exactly Dickensian but was dramatic in its own way.

I think of treasured gifts on Christmas Day: a toy Sinclair multi-level gas station with little cars you rolled up and down the ramps. An Aurora racing car set. A Mattel Vac-U-Form, with which you could make smelly plastic toys that were non-toxic (as I didn't die after chewing on them.) A Danny O'Day ventriloquist dummy. The soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz, an incredibly beloved present. "If I were King of the Forrrrest!" The most asked-for present throughout elementary school: a chemistry set. Some of these science kits even included a dead frog to dissect. The immortal Lionel train. Books, records, bills, puzzles, games, models, balls, mitts, bikes.

Oh, we were lucky.

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