The most memorable Christmas of my life is the year we had nothing. I was eight years old, and my parents' home had burned to the ground two weeks earlier. They had lost everything in the fire and we were living in our storm cellar. My parents were sad and worried that year, but as always, they put me before themselves and tried to make it special despite the loss.

My grandmother lived next door to us. Her home was old and warm, with a large wood stove in the living room, and the memories of her life surrounding her. I loved that house, and I adored her. Granny's house had a loft that was my daddy's bedroom when he was a child. I'd climb the ladder and look over the rail at grandma and laugh.

"You better be careful up there, little boy. You'll do just like your daddy did if you're not!"

"What did he do, Granny?"

"He fell! He was horsing around, just like you are now, when he slipped and fell on his fool head."

I thought of all the happy moments I'd spent in her home as I looked at the ashes where it had stood. The heat from our fire had ignited Granny's house as well, and it was a total loss. My father had not only lost his home, but the house he grew up in. He was terribly sad over the loss of his mother's home, and I think Dad grieved over that more than anything. The loss of our home was sad but he was still young and healthy, and he could build it back. He knew he couldn't replace what his mother had lost and it hurt him deeply.

The most difficult loss for my grandmother was her family pictures. She'd grabbed her wedding portrait off the wall and it was the only thing she had time to save. She told me later that it's funny what you think of at a time like that, and that all she cared about was saving a picture of her and my grandfather together.

"As long as I have this, son, I can make another home."

My father said he heard the explosion as the furnace malfunctioned, and had looked back in shock to see fire already rising from the roof. I'd never seen my dad cry before that day, but after he'd gotten me out of the house, he hugged me tight and when he put me down, his deep blue eyes were full of tears. Pop told me many years later that all he remembers thinking that morning was, "Oh, God. My boy's in there."

As Dad spoke of that day, his voice was almost a whisper as he looked at me and said, "I thought I'd lost you." He couldn't say any more, but he didn't have to. I had children of my own then, and I knew how deeply afraid he'd been.

As our homes burned on that terrible day, I stood in my neighbor's yard and watched. I had on a pair of pajamas and they were the only clothing I had left. The fire was fast and hot, and the houses old and dry. There was no chance to save them. As my mother softly cried in the arms of my grandmother and my father, our neighbors gathered around. Dad had always treated folks with respect and kindness, and now that he needed them they were anxious to help. As the men talked to my dad, he stood by me with his hand on my shoulder, holding me to him. Dad was a loving man, but he was never openly affectionate. He wasn't a hugger, he didn't say I love you every day, and I think it embarrassed him to do so. On that day, he became a different man. He knew I was confused and scared, and he stayed right by me.