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It’s Christmas Eve, 1987, and a 4-year-old Aaron suddenly realizes he has nothing to give. No money, no store to run to, and a desperate need to feel part of the Christmas magic. What follows involves a Glow Worm toy, a stash of odd “treasures,” and two parents who choose wonder over reality. This is the story of how a child’s small act of giving kept the magic alive and saved Christmas in the most unexpected way.
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The Team:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
It was Christmas Eve, 1987. I was four, going on five. And that night could have ended my fascination with Christmas and the Christmas magic I still feel today. But something happened that preserved it. And right in the middle of this little odyssey was a Glow Worm. Not the actual creature—I'm talking about the classic Hasbro toy. And somehow, it saved Christmas.
I’ll tell you how.
It was Christmas Eve night, right after dinner, that strange December window when it’s pitch-black by 5:02 PM and you feel like you should be going to bed, even though the night hasn’t even begun. But we were going to midnight mass, which meant five or six hours of waiting around the house. And when you’re a kid, that’s a lifetime.
So I played with my toys, flipped through a magazine, listened to Journey on my dad’s Sony cassette player. I remember standing at my bedroom window watching the snowfall, and it hit me: Tonight was the night. Santa was coming. It was the eve of Christmas. And at four years old, that magic feels like something out of a book—bigger than you, almost indescribable.
And right in the middle of that feeling came this thought, clear as day: I need to give my parents a present. Not because they asked for one, but because giving them something felt like the way to participate in the magic instead of just watching it.
I could hear them in the next room talking about all the gifts they still needed to wrap. Which aunt was getting what. Whether Grandpa’s gift would survive the long drive. How everything had to fit into the hatchback. And I remember thinking, I’ve got nothing. I don’t have a job. I don’t even have a way to leave the house. And it’s Christmas Eve. It’s snowing.
I did have a few two-dollar bills tucked away in a little treasure box my grandmother gave me, but I had no way to spend them. There was no Amazon. I couldn’t grab my parents’ phone and order something for same-night delivery. I was stuck. And I remember feeling like I was the only person in the world with nothing to give the people he loved.
Then I looked around my room in desperation… and I saw it.
The answer.
The solution.
What would save Christmas.
A Glow Worm.
My early-80s Hasbro Glow Worm toy. Green pajamas. Friendly face. A battery pack in the back that made its face glow a warm yellow whenever you squeezed it. It kept the room lit just enough to make the darkness less scary.
And that night, I had a plan. A risky plan. I was going to remove the battery pack and use that empty space as a secret gift compartment. I’d turn the Glow Worm into a delivery system for my presents.
So I ran around the house gathering treasures—“treasures” being a generous word. Crusty quarters from under the couch. Broken pieces of toys I glued back together with Elmer’s. A couple of multicolored rotini noodles from the kitchen that I was convinced looked festive. And something that may or may not have been a ball of hair. I don’t know how that got in there.
I packed every single treasure into the Glow Worm’s back, zipped it up, and quietly placed it under the Christmas tree just before my parents checked my outfit for mass.
And at church that night, I felt free—like I had solved the world’s greatest problem. I remember candlelight, my grandfather’s red vest, the smell of pine, my grandmother’s perfume and her thumb wiping her lipstick off my cheek. But my mind was locked on one thing: getting home to reveal the surprise.
When we finally drove back through the quiet, accumulating snow, I bolted to the front door. My parents were confused, but I told them: “I have something for you.”
I ran to the tree, lifted the Glow Worm like it was a sacred relic, and said, “You won’t see the glow because I took the battery out. But there’s something inside I think you’ll like.”
Now, I could feel it at the time—my parents’ marriage wasn’t in a good place. Most days were either yelling or silence. But on this night, they were together. And gently, they unzipped the back of the Glow Worm and began removing the treasures.
“Oh…”
“Wow…”
“This is great…”
Each little thing—rotini noodles, glued-together plastic bits, couch-cushion quarters—was treated like gold. They made me feel like I had crossed a desert on camelback delivering frankincense and myrrh instead of… well… dust and pasta.
Every reaction filled me up with more Christmas joy. In that moment, I wasn’t just watching Christmas happen. I was part of it.
They hugged me and said I’d better get to bed because Santa was coming. And I knew earlier that year, when the mall Santa asked if I’d been a good boy, my record wasn’t spotless. But maybe—after tonight—he’d reconsider.
