"Mother, are you really sure you're up to going with us this year?" my fifty-five-year-old daughter, Linda, asked me as she stood just inside my apartment door. She was flanked by her twin sons, my grandsons, both in their late twenties. "I know you really can't see that well, and we will be walking quite a bit," she went on. "Don't you think it might be too hard on you?"

"Now, no more of that," I replied as I pulled on my long wool coat and then hat and gloves. "I wouldn't miss this for the world, and no one is going to talk me out of it."

"All right," Linda sighed with a relenting smile. "If you're game, so are we. Guys, each of you take one of Grandma's arms, and let's be on our way." And off we went.

I've always believed New York City is the most enchanting place in the world at Christmastime. I will readily acknowledge, however, that I may be a little partial. During my eighty years of life, there have been only perhaps five Christmases that I haven't seen the city festively adorned in endless strands of colorful lights, draped like scintillating diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires across a grand and gracious lady's neck and chest. Oh, how many times I have delighted in the splendor of an evening on the town in New York just before Christmas. I've never grown weary of it in the slightest.

Of course I knew that my city yuletide rendezvous this year wouldn't be quite the visual feast it had been in the past. I had tripped on my apartment stairs a few months earlier, fallen forward, and struck my head on the hard tile floor at the bottom. The result was that, though I did have days when I could recognize familiar faces, see colors, and find my way around without too much trouble, there were others when everything that emitted light had a blurry halo around it, and double, or just dim, shadowy vision was my visual state for the day. And the problem wasn't correctible for me, because it was brain circuitry that had been damaged rather than my eyes. Fortunately, I was having one of my better seeing days when my night on the town arrived. But even if I hadn't been, I would have still gone. As soon as Linda invited me a few days earlier, I had set out my hat and gloves, eagerly awaiting a joyful experience with my dearest loved ones.

Our first stop was to bask in the majesty of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Then came a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park, driven by a bright-eyed, fair-skinned woman with pitch-black hair, wearing a long woolen coat and an English bowler hat. Her long braid reached all the way to her leather seat and seemed as much an essential part of her appearance as her horse's tail did of his. I'd discovered long ago that my senses were never more alive than when being regally carried through the New York holiday frenzy to the rhythm of a magnificent Clydesdale's hooves clopping against the pavement.

Our next stop was Macy's department store, where we purchased a few last-minute gifts and enjoyed a charming display of Santa's elves in varying stages of toy production. After that, we were off to Rossini's for hot cocoa and glazed donuts. There, I truly had the chance to enjoy my beloved, corn-silk-blond grandsons, one a planner for the city and the other a tax accountant. But it was finally time for an old woman to kiss her precious posterity good night and call it an evening—well, almost time.

As we were wrapping up such a delightful outing, I hoped that I wasn't imposing too much on Linda and her boys by asking if they would indulge me with just a bit more of their time. I wanted to stop at Grand Central Station for a few minutes before we returned to my apartment. Perhaps they thought it a mite odd that after they helped me to a bench, I asked if I could have ten minutes alone there. But whether they thought it odd or not, they graciously obliged me. Then, as soon as I was by myself, I looked up in the direction of the big clock that had hung overhead years earlier, and I turned back the hands of time nearly seventy years to a bright day at this very place.

It was June 1, 1945—three weeks after President Harry Truman and England's Winston Churchill had declared V-day, or Victory Day, to signify the end of World War II in Europe. The scene at the train station that day was one of ineffable jubilation. Hundreds of happy young soldiers streamed out of train coaches and into the arms of sweethearts and families after years of longing and fearful separation. I'm sure you've seen that famous picture from the cover of Life magazine where the sailor is kissing a nurse in the middle of Park Avenue with thousands of people celebrating around them. A similar scene was taking place that June day at the train station. It was also the reason I was there—to celebrate the arrival of a dearly beloved young soldier who was returning safely from war. But before I go on, please allow me to share a bit about myself and what led to my being at the train station that day.

My name is Catherine Sorensen, and I was born August 3, 1924. Both of my parents were of Scandinavian ancestry. My father wanted to name me Katrina, a common Danish name, but my mother was concerned that it would be mispronounced or make people think we were more European than American. The result of their negotiations was that my name would be Catherine. I came into the world the younger sister of one other child, Oliver, nicknamed "Olly" and three years my elder. My mother was a stay-at-home mom as most moms were in those days, while my father, a young and aspiring stockbroker, rode the train into Manhattan each day from our home on Staten Island.

There were a lot of good things that happened during my childhood. The year I was born, Zenith put the first fully-assembled portable radio onto the market. By the time I turned three in 1927, America's favorite pastime was listening to the radio. That was also the year Charles Lindberg made the first transatlantic flight and the first talkie movie was released—The Jazz Singer, starring Al Jolson. The year I turned four, the Fleer company invented and started selling bubblegum. But even more significant, the stock market was returning nearly 50 percent annually to investors. This caused an investing frenzy, leading many people to take out loans to purchase stock since the borrowing rate was far below the average market return. Of course my father, being a broker, was in the thick of the investing and also a participant, though with some constraint. He was quite conservative by nature.

A few good things happened in 1929. The yo-yo was invented, and I nearly wore out the string on mine in a week, though I never got really good at it. Also that year, we listened to the radio as Babe Ruth hit his five hundredth home run. Not a bad year—that is, until October. Then life suddenly changed dramatically for so many.

Black Tuesday came—the day the stock market lost over a quarter of its value in one day. That day my father, along with many others, saw the value of their investments drop through the floor while still holding loans on the money they had invested. This commenced the Great Depression. Within a few months, my father had quit his job as a broker and fortunately found employment as an accountant with Myers and Goldberg of Manhattan. As a five-year-old, I didn't really have a clue what the Depression was all about, but I did become aware of its effects as it continued over the next ten years. It was a difficult,...