A Christmas in 1955,
I waited for Santa to arrive,
to bring all the presents
I wished for, that’s why,
I was nice, not naughty, or so I tried.

Mom would whisper,
then Dad would hide,
But I knew down deep inside,
on Christmas morning, the toys I spied,
except for John’s, they’d all be mine!

That amazing metal dollhouse,
a Patti-Playpal lifesized friend,
the organ keyboard for my band,
I counted blessings on both hands.

Each year like magic,
our tree would grow,
from a plastic bag, it wiggled,
from its branches, lights did glow.

Dad had an order to the trimming,
lights on first, the ornaments last.
Small on top and large on bottom,
It all went up so beautiful and fast.

The tree stood waiting for the tinsel,
we threw it up in clumps sometimes.
But if we were caught, we must untangle
these strands of “rain,” then it looked fine.

The ornaments I played with then,
still delight me, even now,
In my old age, from my tree’s branches,
Rudolph still can take his bow.

My childhood Christmases
by the love of Mom and Dad,
are the best of all my memories,
that still warm my heart and make me glad.