It was December 1946. We had traveled all the way from Colorado to fort Hamilton, New York, the port of embarkation for traveling to Germany, where our father was stationed. In a few days, we would board an old troop ship for an arduous trip across the Atlantic, heading to Bremerhaven, Germany, and then by train to Heidelberg. I was eight, my older sister was 12 and my younger sister was almost two. We were staying in an army barracks. When we woke on Christmas morning, our mother had hung our stockings at the foot of our beds with candy in them. On the nightstand, we each got a gift wrapped package containing a pair of mittens that had been knitted by our grandmother. That was our only gift. No tree, no decorations. When I look back on it, I am amazed that our mother was able to manage the Christmas stockings. We had no car, not to mention she was dealing with caring for our baby sister! I suppose she managed to get to the PX somehow. I have wished many times over the years that I had asked our mother more questions when she was still with us. In retrospect, although eight year old me was disappointed in such a sparse Christmas, I now realize how difficult that time was for our mother, and I am grateful for what little she managed to do under the circumstances. I wish I could tell her that.