Donna and I finished our Christmas decorating last night. The last ornament is on the tree, the English village is on the mantle, all the stuffed Santa animals are in their places. And the Wilson Christmas train is running its endless circles around the base of the tree.

Santa brought the train for me and my brothers in 1950, or was it 1951? I don't remember. I think we had it when I went to Nebraska in 1952 because I remember a rare burst of generosity when I decided not to try to take it to Nebraska with me. Even though my brothers would surely break it while I was gone. But it was theirs, too.

The train is an American Flyer. Much better than the Lionel trains. The American Flyers run on a double track, like real trains, while Lionels have a third, power track. But Lionels do have better smoke on the steam engines.

We agonized that first Christmas. Santa (Mom) had had the idea, I think. But we had to decide in November which train we wanted. After much spirited discussion (we were about 5, 7 and 9), we decided on a modern diesel engine, unlike the huffing steam trains that ran the tracks a few yards from the house.

Santa, as was her custom, ordered the train from Uncle Kenny, whose shoe store provided the wholesale catalogs and discounts. But we couldn't see it until Christmas morning.

We were early risers Christmas morning. There was just too much excitement to stay in bed, and one of us would always wake early and rouse the others. Once I got up just after Santa had finished, and was washing the dishes in the kitchen. We were smaller then, and I couldn't figure how Santa got in the house without Mom knowing he was there. But usually were up about 6, or 5. OK. 4.

That first train Christmas started a tradition. We would hit the floor, check out the other toys, and begin to assemble the train. That was serious business. As the oldest I felt I had to make sure Dean and Jim didn't bend the tracks putting them together, or lose the track clips which kept them from coming apart as the train ran. And once it was up, we would fight over the controls. This would go on until we would wake Dad in the next room, who would yell at us to shut up and go back to bed. But Mom always intervened and reminded him it was Christmas morning, and we could take a nap later. He would grumble, but we always got to stay up.

For the next several years, the weeks before Christmas were again full of spirited discussions, as we tried to decide what accessories we wanted Santa to bring for the train. There was a crane that loaded metal chips with an electromagnet. A cattle car that loaded cattle from a pen beside the tracks, crossing guards, switches, and a track crossing that let us to put the tracks in a figure 8. Then we grew older, and developed other interests.

The train languished in boxes in the attic. Occasionally our smaller cousins would take it out and play with it, and later my kids would do the same during visits. But the train didn't make it out of the boxes at Christmas.

Almost ten years ago now, in 1984 or 85, I opened one of my Christmas presents and found a note. The Wilson train would come to my house in Texas when Mom and Mac arrived later that week. My brothers had decided to give me their shares of the train as a Christmas gift.

Some things change. My father died years ago. And Dean died in 1986. But one thing doesn't change if I can help it. Every year at Christmas, as part of our decorating ritual I install the tracks on the board under the tree, using the clips I was so afraid my brothers would lose, put the old diesel engine up, and remember the excitement—and my family. And every Christmas morning, yes, at four o'clock, the Wilson Christmas train runs one more time.