I remember the surprise of a black Dunelt English racer at the foot of my bed one snowy year. I was shocked that my Jewish parents actually took the effort to make my dream come true, for once, and on another religion’s major holiday. That new-bike/rubber scent was an intoxicant. Two wheel luxury meant independence.

I remember Christmas mornings with my friend Larry. His parents always got the biggest tree and bought the three kids every damn expensive toy they lusted after. Toys that were the envy of the entire Bronx neighborhood. Toys that the kids got bored with within a week.

I remember piles of toy boxes and wrapping strewn about the street on top of garbage cans, awaiting pick-up. The gaily colored paper danced down the yellow- and brown-stained snow of our West Bronx street.

I remember one of our neighbors kept his tree until just before Easter. It was a neighborhood joke. The adults in my neighborhood, all Irish-Catholic, explained it this way: Charlie was Italian. To them, that was all they needed to know.

I remember a week or two after Christmas, huge mounds of discarded trees were dragged across the street, thrown over the fence to the Veterans Hospital, and lit afire. It was a glorious sight to us pre-teens. The fire blistered the fence’s black paint. It was a thrill.

I remember new Beatles albums being played on Larry’s hi-fi — Rubber Soul, Revolver. Larry’s dad preferred Eddie Arnold and Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis. Larry’s cousin Agnes would come over for the party, which was a thrill; she wore tight short skirts and smelled of cigarettes. She was two years older than us; an experienced woman.

I remember as a teenager, being invited to my friend’s house on 217th Street off White Plains Road. A true Italian feast. Laughter and gaiety. The lights out front. Generous consumption of beer in their basement bar. The party continued when they finally moved to Spring Valley. He and his twin brother Phil survived a tour in ‘Nam. They were grateful to be alive, and one Christmas, they bought themselves Plymouth Duster 440s.

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Charlie’s was bright yellow, with black stripes. I thought, if I survived ‘Nam like he did, I’d get a car like that too.

I remember living on 21st Street in Chelsea with The Skipper, when I was a young guy. I peered into the parlor windows of brownstones and saw huge trees and ornate decorations; such warmth and conviviality.

Sometimes, snow would fall softly, and carolers would sing outside our apartment on the second floor.

The years passed, and I grew into myself, gained wisdom, enjoyed a successful career and raised a son. Those memories of youth faded like old Kodacolor snapshots, until now, that is.

For you see, what I remember most of my childhood on Christmas Day, was being an outsider to the joy, hospitality, and generosity of others, even if it took years to understand how short-lived that kindness was; every effort was made to pile good cheer into that one seasonal effort.

It seemed, to the little kid that was me, that the whole world was in on this effort, and I was doomed to forever remain an outsider, peering in to another kind of life.