The gifts were stacked so high, we could barely see the couch on the other side of the room. And as my older brother and sister tried to help me pick my way through the Christmas wonderland, an adorable little beagle puppy hopped out from behind a pile of packages.

It was a regular Norman Rockwell painting.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Of course, it wasn't—it was 45 years ago ... 45 long years ago ... 45 long, long years ago. Unbelievable.

Still, I remember it well. In fact, I remember many a wild Christmas in the ol' Sparrer house. You see, my mom would always go a little crazy at Christmastime—she still does, for that matter.

Now, though, the tradition seems to have carried over to my own family.

My kids are spoiled rotten, no doubt about it. But at Christmastime, it probably gets even worse. And whose fault is that? That would be me ... guilty as charged.

Every December, I get swept up in the spirit of giving, just as my mom did before me, and I go just a little crazy in the present-buying department.

We would always put a dollar limit on each of the boys at Christmas. We would go out and buy the presents, wrap them and pile them in the corner ... and I'd invariably say to my wife, "That doesn't seem like enough, does it? Maybe we should get them each one more thing."

"You've emptied the checking account," she'd snap. "The credit cards are maxed out ... my God, you even took out a second on the house!"

(She exaggerates—I merely refinanced for a better interest rate.)

But about eight years ago I convinced her. We did get each boy just one more thing.

It was a small, simple box, wrapped with the same bright paper as the others, with the same ribbon tied in a bow. Inside of each one was just a note (and, no, I don't mean a deed to a house).

Kevin's note said, "Dinosaurs for Tony." Mike's said, "A portable radio for John."

I handed them their special gifts on Christmas morning and they tore into them with the same exuberance and enthusiasm as they did the other 10 or 20 packages they opened that day. When they discovered the notes inside, they exchanged puzzled looks, then cast those looks my way.

"We found those names hanging on a tree down at the mall," I said, offering the explanation I knew would be necessary. "There are tags on the tree, each one with the name and age of child, and his or her special Christmas wish. So we decided to make a couple of those wishes come true."

The faces remained puzzled.

"You guys get so much for Christmas," I added. "We decided that one of your gifts this year would be to give a gift to a child who might not otherwise receive one."

We weren't sure what the reaction would be. Then Kevin smiled.

"That's cool, Dad," he said with a grin. "We ought to do this every year."

So we have, for the past eight Christmases. Every year we search out a Giving Tree and buy a couple of gifts for kids who might not otherwise receive one. This year I found a few tags hanging near the teller windows at the Bank of the West on N. Santa Cruz Avenue. So I grabbed three—one each for the boys and one for me.

We got a basketball for Billie, a baseball glove and ball for Eddie and a game for Raymond. I know it wasn't much, but it might mean something to those three kids. And it sure made us feel good to do it.

It all started eight years ago on Kevin's 12th Christmas.

The gifts were all neatly piled in different corners of the living room. The wads of wrapping paper and strands of ribbon had all been hauled away and Christmas dinner was being prepared when Kevin came up to me late in the day.

"Dad," he said, "I don't really want this Nerf football."

Now I was the one with the puzzled look.

"Do you think Tony would like it?" he asked.

Sometimes this parenting stuff really has its rewards.