By Dave Begel Contributing Writer Published Nov 26, 2012 at 5:22 AM

The 1950s were an idyllic time to be a child. We didn't need bike helmets and we traveled all over our neighborhood, and nobody worried about us.

The holidays were also a very special time in our house. I grew up with a Jewish father, an Episcopalian mother and a Roman Catholic grandmother. Talk about confusion.

In the spirit of ecumenical harmony, we always celebrated Christmas in our house, complete with family traditions, like my Jewish dad going out alone at night and returning with our tree for the season.

But there was no tradition that could match Billie the Brownie.

Billie was the creation of Schuster's Department Store. Their flagship store is now a vacant building on Martin Luther King Drive.

He was an elf who made his appearance a few weeks before Christmas every year.

The show, which came on about 4 p.m. on WTMJ radio, was simple. Billie and Santa came on the air and chatted a bit about whether the boys and girls listening had been good. Billie got the report from Santa how all the work at the North Pole was going.

Then came the biggest thing. Billie read letters to Santa sent by children from all over the area. there were thousands of letters. Really, thousands.

When I was 5 or 6 my brother and I would sit on the floor around the radio and listen to Billie. Danny and I would listen carefully as Billie's voice came out of that radio. My grandmother sat in a chair watching us and smiling.

The first time I actually sent a letter I asked for my own record player. That year the magic took on a new dimension.

The show started and Billie said, "The first letter today is from little David Begel in Whitefish Bay. David says he's been a good boy and would like a record player. Then he says again that he's been a good boy."

It was like a bomb going off in our house. On our feet, hollering at the top of our lungs. I couldn't wait for my mom and dad to get home so I could tell them.

Well, for the next five or six years the story repeated itself. My letter was first, and Danny's was second. My friends were very jealous.

When I was 10 or 11, my mom told us one night that she wanted to talk to me and my brother. I remember this so vividly it's like it happened yesterday. We sat on a couch and my mom was on a chair just feet away. "Boys," she said, "I have something to tell you."

She closed her eyes for a second and I could see her swallow. She opened her eyes and looked at the two of us.

"I am Billie the Brownie."

It's funny, I don't remember how I felt. It couldn't have been too traumatic, because I don't remember. But it explained so much.

It explained how my letter got read first every year. It explained why my mom disappeared every afternoon and left us in the custody of our grandmother. It explained why mom and dad helped us write our letter to Santa well before Christmas.

And I remember being amazed at my mother, whose name was Carol Cotter. I'm sure lots of little boys are amazed by their mothers.

But I'm the only one who had Billie the Brownie for a mother.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Dave Begel Contributing Writer

With a history in Milwaukee stretching back decades, Dave tries to bring a unique perspective to his writing, whether it's sports, politics, theater or any other issue.

He's seen Milwaukee grow, suffer pangs of growth, strive for success and has been involved in many efforts to both shape and re-shape the city. He's a happy man, now that he's quit playing golf, and enjoys music, his children and grandchildren and the myriad of sports in this state. He loves great food and hates bullies and people who think they are smarter than everyone else.

This whole Internet thing continues to baffle him, but he's willing to play the game as long as keeps lending him a helping hand. He is constantly amazed that just a few dedicated people can provide so much news and information to a hungry public.

Despite some opinions to the contrary, Dave likes most stuff. But he is a skeptic who constantly wonders about the world around him. So many questions, so few answers.