When I was 11 and my brother Joe was 15, I was sure he could lift small cars and jump small buildings without breaking a sweat. He was the coolest, toughest, smartest person in my universe, and I wanted to be just like him.

About a month before Christmas that year he said he was ready to give me "The Fort."

The Fort wasn't just some clubhouse; it was a two-room "suite" Joe and his friends had built into the upper half of our garage.

The floor spanned the width of the garage, had wall-to-wall carpeting, built-in multi-colored lights, a mattress, a separately suspended cabinet for the stereo.

Joe kept it locked, with the key on a chain around his neck. To my 11-year-old mind it was the most desirable place on earth. And Joe said he was giving it to me.

December passed in anticipation, as I envisioned the times I'd have in The Fort with my friends. Then on Christmas Eve, Joe approached me with a grave expression on his face. With authority in his voice that only big brothers can intone, he told me he had reconsidered his gift and wasn't quite ready to surrender The Fort this year.

"Maybe next year," he said.

I felt my world crumble. But I didn't throw a tantrum. I figured it was his fort, and he could do with it what he wants. I quietly told him the only thing I could think of to say—"OK"—and went to bed.

On Christmas morning I found a large box with my name on the label. When I opened it, I found a smaller box inside. When I opened the smaller box, a key on a long chain poured into my hand.

I looked at Joe and saw him grinning. "I was testing you," he said, "to see if you were ready to handle it. You were."