Christmas had become a tin ornament. Hollow.

Once, it had been magical, but that was before my older sister took me into the linen closet and spilled the beans about Santa Claus.She wasn't interested in truth as much as in revenge for my breaking her Easy Bake Oven.

I never fully recovered from the revelation, although gifts likeRemco's Johnny Reb Cannon or Junior's Chemistry Set,helped maintain its practical importance.

Entering my teens, I grew bored with toys.Grownups didn't know what to get, so they me gave cash, which I salted away for cigarettes or Playboys.Christmas carols and shopping and Dinah Shore TV specialsgave me a headache.

All of which helped explain my rejuvenated anticipation for Christmas, the year that Pat came home.

Pat was the coolest of my five brothers.People think I say that only because he was missing, gone off to war on the other end of the earth.

Truly, though, he was unique.While the others notched out predictable sibling roles—big brother Charlie, too bossy, little brother Kevin, too whiny—Pat was a fearless, one man show.

We'd sit on the curb for hours, watching him hit stones with a plastic bat, while he gave detailed play by play of the White Sox vs. Yankees in the voice of legendary announcer Bob Elson.

And one evening at supper, we were horrified when our father was tense after a problem day at the tile company,andPat asked Kevin to pass the horseradish, in his best impression of Dad's gravelly voice.When he persisted,imitating our father questioning us about school, Dad tried in vain to mask his laugh with a cough, andwe all broke up.

The summerPat returned from basic training, he seemed a stranger with his buzz cut and starched uniform.But then he stripped his shirt, lit up a Marlboro, sat on the front step, and proceeded to describe Pfc. Vuillaume from Minneapolis,Vinny from San Diego, and "Tiger" Johnson,with the thick Chicago twang, who beat everybody at arm wrestling at the USO.

Later, when Charlie drove Pat to O'Hare for the flight to Saigon, it was the first time ever I saw my father cry.

Our house seemed darker, quieter, except for days when the red and blue airmail envelopes arrived.Pat's letters were nearly as fun ashis front porch stories.

Except for the one that came in October, in which he disclosed that his arm wrestling chum, Tiger,was killed in a helicopter crash.

On that memorable Christmas Eve,it snowed, and Pat's plane from San Francisco was late.At last, around 10:30,he ducked under the door: taller, thinner, and not as tan as after basic training.He looked distracted,like there was a cigarette in the side of his mouth, only there wasn't.He shook my hand but didn't ask about school or even the Blackhawks.

Quiet seeped into the room.Nancy, the youngest at four, was the only one talking.We watched her open presents, and we watched Pat watch her.

He looked out of place in his dress uniform and shiny black shoes.He kept standing up and sitting down.Mom finally asked how it felt to be home.He stared at her, then looked around the room.

"Shrunken," he said.

We laughed in relief, but got quiet again, when he didn't even smile.

Finally,he walked to the hall closet, opened the door, reached for his coat.

"What are you doing?" said Mom.

"I'm going to see if I can find the Johnson house," he said softly.

Mom did not reply.Nancy was cooing to her new doll.I stared at the floor, peeked at Pat tugging and straightening his sleeves.

"I'll take you."It was Dad's gruff voice, suddenly like a bell.

"Do you have an address?"

"Yeah," Patnodded."I've got it somewhere, Pop," and he patted his coat and pants pockets.

"I think it's in my duffel," he said.He made a Sherlock Holmes brow.

"I'll get it," said Kevin,and he dashed up the stairs.

Pat crouched, made a swoosh motion with his head as Kevin passed.

"I'm coming with," said Charlie.

"Let me put everything in the fridge," said Mom, "and we can all go."

We scrambled for our coats.We lowered the curtains halfway.We blew out Christmas candles.I ran to shut off Perry Como on the hi-fi, but Dad said to leave him on.

Patlofted Nancy onto his shoulders, and weheaded out into the lightly falling snow.

Back then, I could not articulate what exactly had happened that night.It felt like the moment in Wizard of Oz when everything turned Technicolor.

I had an idea that nothing would ever be the same.But I also realized that Christmas is what you make it, and this year its spirit was back home.

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David McGrath is a teacher and a writer.