When I was a kid in junior high, I owned a cassette deck, a big brick of a recorder. I'd hide it on a chair at the dinner table, then push the red record button. No one but me knew it was there. Later, I'd listen to what I captured.
One December night in the early 1970s, I happened to record the moment when my younger brother began to doubt whether Santa Claus exists. And for a bit more than six minutes, my mother and father tried to convince him that, yes, Santa Claus is real.
My mom, Sylvia, grew up in Brooklyn; my father, Stanley, grew up in the Bronx.