My brother is 15 months younger than I. Like many siblings close in age and of the same gender, we bickered constantly about belongings. This went on for the better part of 20 years, as we shared a bedroom the whole time.

By the time we reached the ages of 4 and 5, my parents figured out that a good way to keep the peace was to have two of everything. Two cowboy holsters with matching cap pistols. Two sets of shoulder pads for football. Two baseball uniforms. Two cash register banks to save up for the annual trip down the shore.

It might have been the year we were 6 and 7. We had been physically duking it out a fair amount -- so much so that we each got two lumps of coal at the bottom of our Christmas stocking instead of the usual one each. Since the four-plex we lived in was heated by coal -- four separate coal furnaces, one for each apartment -- it was easy for Santa to find a few pieces to stick in the stockings, just under the tangerines.

Given our propensity for fisticuffs, our parents decided one year to buy us a punching bag and boxing gloves for Christmas. They figured we could take out our frustrations on the bag, instead of on each other. And to prevent squabbling over the gloves, of course, they bought two pairs.

The punching bag was fun. We each hit it a couple of times. We were taking turns.

Until one of us decided to take an extra turn without the other's permission.

Whereupon many blows were struck, but none of them on the punching bag. I will never forget that on the morning of December 26, the bag and the gloves were stored away deep in the cellar, next to the coal bins. We never saw them again.