(12.13.24) As the holiday season approaches, one film that stands out as an undeniable classic is "A Christmas Story." The enduring charm of this movie has captivated audiences for generations, and I would love to share why it holds such a special place in my heart, along with a few personal anecdotes tied to it.
It was a chilly December in 1985 when I embarked on my very first of many annual business trips to the enchanting West Coast before heading to Asia. My travel itinerary traditionally began in California, transitioned to the blissful shores of Hawaii, and then took me across the vast Pacific to Japan, the Philippines, Guam, and back home—a journey spanned an entire month. Each year, I found myself hastening my return just in time to celebrate Christmas with my family. I was much younger then, navigating life as a parent of small children, and those lengthy trips often felt overwhelming, but they were simply part of my professional obligations.
Finding my holiday spirit while on the road proved to be quite a challenge. In places where warm tropical air and torrential downpours replaced the idyllic scenes of snow-covered landscapes, it felt like I was a world apart from holiday magic. During these travels, Manila served as my operational hub. Though the city embraced the festive spirit with vibrant decorations and sparkling lights, the sweltering mid-eighties temperatures and stifling humidity left little room for nostalgia. The lack of winter chill was particularly jarring for someone whose roots were deeply planted in the Northeastern United States.
My business ventures took me across the picturesque islands of the Philippines, including Cebu, where the only semblance of a white Christmas came from the gentle waves of the shimmering Pacific Ocean caressing the stunning, powdery white sands of its beaches. I distinctly remember staying in a reputable hotel, where I encountered mischievous little lizards darting along the shower walls. After expressing my discomfort to the hotel staff, I was met with a brusque reply: "Would you rather be sleeping with biting insects?" At that moment, I learned to embrace nature’s tiny pest controllers as my unexpected roommates, quickly adapting to my tropical holiday surroundings.
My travels also took me to the bustling metropolis of Tokyo, where the festive atmosphere seemed to dance in the air, illuminated by twinkling lights and adorned store windows. On one particularly memorable occasion, I was caught amid a snowstorm, the delicate flakes swirling around me, creating a downtown wonderland. While most residents embraced the spirit of Christmas through shopping and elaborate light displays, their predominant beliefs aligned more with Buddhism and Shintoism. Yet, despite the festive trappings, I couldn’t shake off the pang of homesickness on my first trip there. It simply didn’t feel like a holiday to me.
As my journey drew to a close, I perched on the edge of my seat at the airport, anxiously preparing to board my flight back home. It was mid-December, and I was painfully aware of the Thanksgiving feast I had missed and the excitement surrounding Christmas that I had barely witnessed. Our flight was a red eye, whisking us directly across the Pacific to the West Coast before continuing to Newark, New Jersey. Typically, a good book would accompany me on such a long flight, but fatigue settled in, and I decided to indulge in the inflight movie, hoping it would lull me to sleep for most of the journey.
A Very Special Movie
With anticipation tinged with reluctance, I settled into my seat and plugged in my rented earphones, ready for the onboard entertainment. The airline brochure proudly announced “A Christmas Story” as the featured film. Until that moment, I had never heard of it, and the title did little to spark my enthusiasm. The very mention of a movie made in 1983 left me skeptical; in my mind, it raised the question of what truly worthwhile holiday films emerged after the golden age of the 1950s. Why couldn’t they showcase timeless classics like Dickens’ "A Christmas Carol," the enchanting "Holiday Inn," or even the heartwarming "It’s A Wonderful Life"? Instead, it seemed I was destined to endure one more mediocre 1980s holiday flick, stretching my flight into an even longer endeavor.
As the opening credits rolled across the screen, my disheartenment deepened with the appearance of Darren McGavin, a familiar face from a long-forgotten TV series called "Kolchak," where he portrayed a reporter hunting down vampires. What could his presence possibly add to a Christmas movie?
Yet, I vividly recalled the wisdom of never judging a book by its cover, or in this case, a movie by its opening credits—and thankfully, I held onto that advice. Almost four decades later, “A Christmas Story” has seamlessly woven into the fabric of my holiday season, resonating with me for various reasons that continue to shift and evolve as I journey through life.
For those yet to experience it, the film narrates the heartwarming tale of a nine-year-old boy named Ralphie, who passionately yearns for a Red Ryder Carbine-Action 200-shot Range Model air rifle. Politically incorrect by today’s standards, it was a prized possession that perfectly captured the innocence and desires of childhood during that era.
Ralphie was brought to life on screen by Peter Billingsley, a child actor who had already carved out a niche for himself in the bustling world of New York commercials during the 1970s. He charmed audiences as “Messy Marvin” for Hershey’s and sold sizzling hot dogs alongside the iconic New York Yankees manager Billy Martin. He even partnered with basketball legend Kareem Abdul-Jabbar to promote video games. When it came to casting Ralphie, the director auditioned an astounding eight thousand young hopefuls before discovering Billingsley, whose infectious spirit and earnest expressions made him a perfect fit for the role.
The “old man,” portrayed by Darren McGavin, was the quintessential grumpy father figure, perpetually gruff and dishing out colorful expletives like a seasoned sailor. Yet beneath this tough exterior lay a depth shaped by McGavin's challenging upbringing—he had been cast out of his family home as a teenager, forced to navigate life’s hardships alone. This real-life struggle lent authenticity to his performance, showcasing a character that, while cantankerous, ultimately displayed a heart as vast as the house he shared with his family.
Melissa Dillon took on the role of the mother, a loving yet weary figure who tirelessly cleaned up the chaos created by her husband. For those unfamiliar, Dillon was also a prominent character in Steven Spielberg’s classic Close Encounters of the Third Kind, further illustrating her talent and versatility.
Throughout the film, a parade of characters and relatable scenarios emerged, echoing the experiences of childhood shared by many, particularly those of us who grew up in earlier decades. The nostalgic narration stirred memories in me, reminiscent of 1960s radio dramas, specifically “Mystery Theater," which I would listen to on the airwaves of WEST-AM in Pennsylvania. Unlike the overly sentimental “Miracle on 34th Street,” this film struck a chord with its raw realism, bringing to life long-dormant memories of joy and chaos.
Nostalgia and Choas
What “A Christmas Story” offers that other holiday films often lack is a timeless sense of nostalgia that resonates even today. As I sat on a plane, thousands of miles away from home, the trials and tribulations of Ralphie and his family mirrored the themes of my upbringing. The film was a delightful blend of humor, warmth, and even moments of emotional depth. It portrayed Christmas's messy, chaotic essence in my home and millions of homes like mine across the country.
One of the standout moments was when the old man triumphantly won his prized possession—the “leg lamp.” It took me back to my own father’s holiday obsession, a magnificent contraption he had saved for three years to acquire—a Bradford Snow Making Christmas Tree, which promised everyone a guaranteed "White Christmas."
This late 1960s apparatus was quite a sight: a large green cardboard base housing a hollow green tube that spiraled up to an angel atop the tree. At its core, a small suction machine worked tirelessly to pull in tiny Styrofoam particles, only to blow them out in a feeble attempt to mimic snow gently falling onto the branches. It was a marvel of engineering on paper but fell short of its grand promise in practice.
Theoretically, it was enchanting; in reality, it was a chaotic spectacle. As the faux snow burst forth, it lacked any delicacy, quickly adhering to the sticky sap of our real tree, which flowed freely in the warmth of our living space. Unfortunately, the base intended to catch the faux snow was too small, resulting in a blizzard of white fluff scattered across the floor, much to the exasperation of my meticulous mother. The vacuum cleaner became our mainstay throughout Christmas, far outpacing the snow machine. At the same time, my dad perpetually had to replenish our stock of artificial snow—most of which inevitably ended up clogging the Hoover.
Like all good things, the snowmaker's life ended swiftly, much like the old man's treasured leg lamp eventually met its untimely demise at the hands of the kids. One year, my brother and I conspired to surprise our dad by setting up the snow machine while he was at work. However, during our eager attempts, the suction mechanism, unfortunately, tumbled into the water basin that supported our live Christmas tree, sucking up the liquid and shorting out the device. This catastrophic accident marked the end of Dad’s cherished holiday gadget. We opted to keep our actions a secret, allowing him to believe it had merely succumbed to old age. For our mother, however, the untimely demise of the snow machine was the best gift she could have received that Christmas, a source of relief that lasted for many Yuletide holidays.
And who could ever forget the uproarious turkey scene in that beloved holiday movie, where the mischievous family dog made off with the entire festive meal, leaving chaos in its wake? While my childhood home never experienced the spectacle of an animal pilfering dinner, I recall one particularly memorable Christmas dinner. That year, my mother dared to attempt homemade ravioli for the first time. To our surprise, however, her culinary creations emerged from the kitchen as oversized parcels, resembling small frisbees rather than the delicate pasta we’d envisioned.
As we gathered around the dining table, ready to indulge in this ambitious dish, my father leaned back in his chair, a playful gleam in his eye. With his characteristic humor, he quipped, “This ravioli is out of this world.” My mother, her face aglow with pride at her inaugural attempt at this Italian classic, beamed and asked, “You like it?” Without hesitation, my father delivered his punchline, “I don’t know, I haven’t even tasted them yet. I mean, they look like flying saucers from Mars.”
In that instant, I watched my father’s bravado evaporate, his lips curling into a sheepish smile, desperately wishing he could take the words back. But it was too late. The room fell into an awkward silence, and the atmosphere thickened with tension, casting a shadow over our meal. The aftermath lingered, creating a chill that hung over our home, far colder than the winter weather outside for the next week.
What I felt during that dinner and what I continue to experience each year while watching that movie is a profound connection to my own life. Some four decades ago, the “old man” depicted on the screen reminded me so much of my father, a role I vowed never to embody. Yet now, as I find myself in a similar stage of life—retired and contemplative—I reflect on that vow and ponder, without regret, "What’s so wrong with becoming like our parents?"
Much like my mother, the mother in the film embodied the essence of the family, serving as the steadfast glue that held us together. She was a multifaceted powerhouse—a psychologist, attorney, accountant, chef, negotiator, and executive secretary—skillfully juggling all these roles gracefully. Despite the weight of her responsibilities, she took on each task quietly and humbly, never allowing my father to realize her strength and intuition kept our family thriving. There were no victims in our home, no oppressed individuals—just a collection of people striving to navigate life with a solid foundation built upon love, mutual respect, and the understanding that mistakes are essential learning opportunities rather than moments of blame or shame.
Missteps as Valuable Lessons
Setting aside the few abusive and neglectful individuals unfit for parenthood, most of us could undoubtedly benefit from emulating those who raised us—parents, single caretakers, grandparents, or anyone who showered us with love and respect. They made their share of missteps, as we inevitably have, and our children will, too. Life unfolds as a tapestry woven from missteps and poor choices, each thread representing valuable lessons learned in a doctoral program of sorts—one from which we never truly graduate.
We traverse the complexities of relationships, weather the storms of divorce, celebrate the joys of births, mourn the sorrow of losses, and navigate the labyrinth of our children’s challenges. Yet, despite it all, we manage to survive, learn, and grow from these experiences, emerging as better parents and individuals for having encountered them. I often recall the wise words of an older neighbor: “Be careful about judging your parents because one day, you're going to have kids who will judge you.” In those sentiments, a profound truth resonates.
Lessons for a Young Attorney
Reflecting on time, I contemplate my first meeting with professional fiduciary and certified elder law Attorney RJ Connelly III. Intrigued by the motivations of a young man choosing to specialize in elder law, I quickly sensed a profound respect and genuine compassion for seniors emanating from him. He spoke with reverence about the achievements of the older generation and the vital role he believes he plays in guiding them and their families through the often-daunting process of aging.
During our conversation, Attorney Connelly recounted a formative experience from his youth working on a boat. He vividly described the thrill of climbing tall masts, racing along gangways, and checking pumps, all while the captain—whom he viewed at the time as merely sitting back and steering the vessel—appeared to be doing little more than holding the tiller. In his youthful naivety, he silently dismissed the captain’s role, thinking, “What a simple task while we do all the heavy work!”
However, with age, this perspective transformed significantly. "As I grew older and matured," he explained thoughtfully, “I realized how paramount that task was and how profoundly misguided my youthful assumptions had been.” Now a licensed Captain in his own right as well as manning the helm of an elder law practice, he reflected on the weight of responsibility that rests on a captain's shoulders. “While I was engaged in the physical labor of sailing, the captain's breadth of knowledge, wisdom, and sound judgment truly guided the ship. I understood that remarkable achievements are not borne solely from physical strength but rather from reflection, character, judgment, and, most importantly, vast experience. This realization has led me to appreciate that our seniors are not stripped of value by aging; instead, they are imbued with a richness that young people often can’t fully grasp until they experience life themselves."
This poignant sentiment encapsulates the essence of "A Christmas Story." Through the lens of my own life experience, I have come to view the characters in the movie differently over the years. In my earlier days, I recognized my father in the "old man" character; now, decades later and having grown considerably, I see aspects of myself reflected in those roles. I no longer watch with a sense of irony; I approach it with understanding, acknowledging that the characters’ preferences and aversions stem from a tapestry of lived experiences and thoughtfully considered choices rather than impulsive whims.
Where I once reminisced about childhood memories sparked by the film, my thoughts now drift toward my relationships with my children and grandchildren. My perspective shifts as I consider what's best for their futures, often leading me to step back and observe, allowing them the space to grow and learn.
A Final Thought
At its core, Ralphie's family encapsulates the beautiful messiness of our own, imperfections and all, which is part of what gives "A Christmas Story" its enduring charm. I loved watching my children, and now my grandchildren, get lost in this classic film, their eyes glued to the screen as its simple yet powerful story enchants them.
Even without flashy special effects, high-speed chases, or animated characters, this movie strikes a chord with audiences everywhere. No matter who you are or where you come from, it beautifully illustrates the love and life experiences that form our most treasured memories.
As my children did before them, my grandchildren are about to set forth on their own remarkable journeys through life. Throughout these adventures, they will come to recognize an essential truth: they inevitably step into the roles that their parents once inhabited. This transformation is a natural aspect of life and reveals that accepting their destined selves holds no shame. Their experiences will be characterized by personal growth, unconditional love, and the complexities that arise from imperfections and mistakes. Most importantly, this journey will culminate in a deep acceptance of their true identities. Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas filled with warmth and joy.
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