I suppose we all have different cues for the start of the holiday season. For some it is the first winter storm. For others it is Halloween, when ghouls and goblins openly roam the streets. For still others it is when downtown glows in the red and green of Christmas lights.

For me, it was the arrival of the Sears Wish Book.

The Wish Book was a staple of the holiday season. I remember getting home from school and mom asking me to check the mail. The Postal Service was still more magic than mayhem for me, though I must admit that each day was a study in humility. I rarely received mail, while my parents got more than they bargained for. It was not until I became an adult that I realized my parent's plight.

While I prayed in earnest for some connection with a distant world through stamps and envelopes, my parents sent me to the mailbox in the hope that my childish hands would magically make the bills disappear. This, of course, failed 364 days of the year. Yet once each year, usually in early October, I came in with the greatest prize of all: the wishbook.

The Wish Book averaged nearly 800 pages, with half seemingly dedicated to toys. Make no mistake about it, there may have been some clothes for mom and some tools for dad, but the catalogue was made for kids. Despite this, the Wish Book was the only book read by every member of our family.

On any given night, Dad poured through pulp fiction classics like "The Executioner" and "The Destroyer" while Mom solved crossword puzzles. My siblings and I read whatever our teachers assigned and nothing more. But the Wish Book sat square on the coffee table in the middle of the living room; a clear statement of the democratic nature of the holiday season. We were each free to dream and make any wish we wanted.

If I close my eyes, I can see the cover now, a mom and her two children, standing in the glow of a Douglas fir wrapped in shimmering lights, putting the last decoration on an outstretched bough. I can feel the pages in my hand, shiny and smooth as I flip them one by one as the book lays heavy across my lap.

My heart races and I mark the Ted Williams BB Gun, AFX slot cars set and a Sears Best 8-track player.

Despite being the child of working-class parents, Christmas never disappointed. Looking back, I suspect that Mom and Dad saved all year long to make sure that on this one day each year my brothers, sisters and I would not go without.

Sears discontinued the Wish Book nearly 15 years ago, but the truth is I haven't thought about it for more than 25. I am not quite sure what spurred the memory, but I am glad for it.

For three months of every childhood year — from early October to late December — I lived in a dream world filled with all the toys a child could wish for and then some.

Most of those years my wishes came true, but the truth is the wishing was enough.

Now, firmly entrenched in my middle years, I long for the Wish Book and pine for the toys of my childhood. Or perhaps it is my childhood that I miss most, and the opportunity to wish again.

Michael C. DeMattos is a member of the faculty at the University of Hawai'i School of Social Work. Born and raised on the Wai'anae Coast, he now lives in Kane'ohe with his wife, daughter, two dogs and two mice.