Xmas, 1976

So there I was: budding GEN-ius @ 8 years old. Christmas morning, as usual for the son of middle class factory workers in the '70's, an absolute HAUL. I barely knew where to start, but finally decided to get the ol' slot car racetrack going. I put all the track pieces together, plugged in the battery pack, started charging the cars, then organized the rest of my presents into piles: play with TODAY; Play with LATER; take to school to make ALL the kiddies @ South Side Elementary jealous. I calloed and callayed (before it was cool to do so) and played with my Stretch Armstrong and Stretch Monster (well-known arch stretch enemies) while I waited for the cars to charge.

And then...right in the middle of an epic stretch battle...my mom starts screaming from the bedroom! My dad - all 6'4" 225 pounds of 'im - comes bursting through the door, telling me to get dressed because mom had to go to the hospital and I had to go to my grandparents' house. Things were getting gathered; calls were being made; parents were still running around in a panic. Of course, being the sensitive boy I was, I was gravely concerned: How the HELL was I gonna pack up ALL my "TODAY" presents to take to grandma's house!?!

However, I quickly ascertained that taking anything was out of the question...and by "ascertained," I mean my dad told me to stop screwing around and get dressed because mom was having the baby and we had to GO....

The rest of the day was a blur: the 20 minute trip to grandma's took 10; dad sped off; I cried and allegedly asked, "Is my mommy dying?" And the Gs had not a single toy appropriate for the festivities of the day!

And THAT is how my sister ruined Christmas in 1976. I'm sure you all remember....