I learned about Santa Claus in 1941 when I was five. The red-suited elf was making too much noise putting gifts under the tree. Curious to see him in the act, I snuck down to the living room for a peek. It was mom and dad. My neighborhood playmate was right.

The Santa charade kept going until 1943. My parents were at work. The maid was taking her siesta in the room with my two youngest sisters. A package slid to the floor when I was surreptitiously searching my parent's closet for presents. My sister heard the noise. She knew I was up to no good and wanted in on it. We spent an hour looking, feeling and guessing.

A week before Christmas, 1944, neither my sister nor I could find where the gifts were hidden. We worried. Mom kept telling us there's no money to spend on things we didn't need, like candy and toys. We didn't even have a tree. Were we poor?

Christmas trees shipped by rail, through and to El Paso, were re-iced or unloaded at the Consumer's Ice Company's docks. The docks, near the intersection of Texas Avenue and Cotton Street, were a mile from our apartment. Poorly shaped trees were tossed into a pile and carted off to the dump. I wanted a Christmas tree. I asked my sister to help carry one home.

Sticky from pine tar while searching the garbage pile, we finally settled on two scrawny trees that had no branches on one side. After dragging the trees home, we wedged both trees into the tree stand. It was crooked. The branches didn't match. The different sized trunks didn't fit the stand properly. It looked downright terrible. We decorated our tree as best we could.

Christmas was on Monday. Saturday, before the Holiday, my mom gave my sister and me a Dime apiece to see the matinee at the Mission Theater on Alameda Avenue. The feature film was an oater with Gene Autry. The second movie was a Busby Berkeley musical. A follow-the-bouncing-ball Christmas Carol sing-along, cartoon and newsreel were included. When we returned home, mom told us our tree fell apart. She had put it in the trash. We decorated the house by stringing tinsel and garlands around the doors and windows.

Normally we went to grandma's house on Christmas Eve. Not this year, because there were no presents for our grandparents, aunts and cousins. Our uncles were away at war. The only presents we would get would be from Santa, and he didn't know what we wanted. It was too late to mail a letter to the North Pole.

Christmas Eve was spent with Charlie McCarthy and his sidekick Edgar Bergen, George Burns and Gracie Allen and with Jack Benny. We accompanied Dennis Day while he sang Christmas Carols. My family sang our favorite Carols. Our hands were greasy from pulling and eating homemade taffy. We had marshmallows, a rare treat, with hot cocoa. We went to bed at 8 PM.

One wall of my bedroom was shared with the living room. The gas furnace, behind the wall in the corner, had air intake vents in my room and the living room. I could hear people speaking in the living room. Talking in muted voices with my mom and dad were two men. The men sounded like my uncles. But, they were away in the war. What were they doing here?

"What's this?" One uncle asked.

There was a popping and cracking noise. "Wow! I wish I had something like this when I was his age."

"The tree is ready for presents." Said Mom.

"The cracking and popping continued off and on. It was punctuated by the adults saying: "I got you." "No! You missed." "It's my turn."

The smell of Harry Mitchell's beer drifted into my room with the noise. I went back asleep, assured that Santa visited us.

I awoke at 4 AM eager to see what was under the tree. Quiet, in my underwear, I tiptoed into the living room. The tree was beautiful. The presents were piled under the tree. The largest gifts were boy's and girl's bicycles, kickstands down, by the couch.

There it was. A box covered with a picture of helmeted G.I.s. One carried the Stars and Stripes. The other G.I.s toted Tommy guns, mowing down NAZI and Jap soldiers. They were the bad guys of World War II. Their flags, the Hacked Cross and Rising Sun, were being trampled in the dirt. "Authentic Sounding Toy Machine Gun," was printed across the box top.

Boy howdy, I was going to lead the whole neighborhood in playing war. I couldn't miss with such a realistic sounding weapon in my hands. I'd be the envy of the entire world. I didn't fire the gun, because I didn't want to wake my parents.

I didn't know how to ride a bike. I rolled it, with the stand down, nearer the couch. I was trying to sit on it without falling. My sister, sneaking into the room, said, "Put some pants on."

Scrambling, trying not to fall, I hissed back. "Shut-up, you'll wake everybody up."

From the entrance, mom said, "If you two can't keep quiet, get back in bed."

"Mom look what I got." We said, simultaneously.

"Wait until I make some coffee."

Pulling my machine gun from the box, I tried winding up the key. It was too tight. I shifted the lock to the Fire position and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. After an hour, finally, my dad came into the living room. I tearfully told him, "My machine gun won't fire."

Using a screwdriver and pliers, he pried the metal tabs up, to look at the spring. "The spring is broken. Santa's elves played with it too long and broke it."

I never took the gun out to play. It stayed in my closet as long as I can remember.