How My Dad and the Millennium Falcon Saved Christmas 1980 in 12 Parsecs

He’s stronger than your dad, too. Just FYI.

Like most of the folks who will ever read this post, I grew up as a Star Wars nerd. But I came to the thing a little sideways.

See, when the original Star Wars movie hit theaters in 1977, my mom and I had not yet hit our stride.

That was the summer before I started Kindergarten, and we had no idea what we were doing in terms of how to spend summer break because, really, there was no summer break for us to that point. Just days to spend together.

It was great.

By the summer of 1978, though, we had developed our routine …

My dad got paid on Tuesday.

Mom and I went to town on Wednesday, cashed Dad’s paycheck, and did our grocery shopping. We also dipped into the extravagance pool with a trip to McDonald’s.

A Tradition Is Born

Late in the summer, my mom broke the news to me that I had to go to the dentist before school started. To ease the pain and anxiety of that excursion, she would take me to see a movie afterwards.

I have no idea what movie we saw in 1978. Probably not Up in Smoke.

But our annual tradition was established, and that single summer movie became one of the two or three biggest events of the year for me. When you only see one flick every 12 months you gotta make it count.

I made my 1979 movie count so much that … well, I can’t remember that one, either.

But in 1980, we went with the sure thing, the blockbuster. And so, after that tooth-drilling bastard smoked a couple molars, Mom and I walked into The Empire Strikes Back completely flat-footed.

I didn’t know who Darth Vader was. Didn’t know who Luke Skywalker was. Had no clue what The Force was.

But from the moment Han sliced open that Tauntaun until the medical droid wired up Luke’s new hand, I knew one thing about Star Wars … it was my destiny.

How Destiny Unfolds

So I immediately ascended into a fantasy world like none I’d ever known before. I told Mom all about ESB on the way home, even though she’d been right there next to me in the theater.

Then, when Dad finally got home that night, probably close to midnight, I regaled him with tales of cave-dwelling creatures and tumbling, disembodied hands, and X-Wings v. Tie Fighters.

Dad was exhausted but gave me the old give-and-take as well as he could, especially considering that he knew even less about the Lucas Universe than I did.

In the days that followed, all of my playtime — most of it spent alone, as is often the case for only children in rural settings — was supercharged with scenarios that pitted everything I knew about the Empire against everything I knew about the Rebels.

Of course, I had no Star Wars toys at that point, so Pulsar became Luke Skywalker, and Godzilla became Darth Vader. It was magical.

Mom and Dad helped me augment that magic by indulging me in a few action figures from the local department store through the rest of the summer and into the fall.

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, Luke Skywalker was zipping around the universe of my bedroom in a spaceship that began life as a spare-tire-and-gas-can rack for an oversized Jeep or Toyota toy that belonged to some action hero — Steve Austin? G.I. Joe?

Luke and Darth battled on my dresser, and Luke tumbled to his near-death from my headboard. He was saved only when Princess Leia and Han Solo swooped in at the last moment, driving that same gas-can rack that had morphed into the Millennium Falcon.

Looking back, that was one of my most creative periods, though I didn’t know it at the time and didn’t write any of it down. But, man, the stuff I played out with just a few hunks of unrelated plastic!

The Flying Grail

Anyway, my special brand of fan fiction wasn’t enough, especially with Christmas coming up. I wanted Star Wars toys, and plenty of them.

I wanted every action figure there was.

I wanted a Tie Fighter.

I wanted an X-Wing.

I wanted a light saber and those big, stiff figures and posters and books and everything my mom could lay her hands on.

More than anything, though, I wanted the Millennium Falcon. It was the premiere toy in the Star Wars lineup that December, and for good reason …

It was a representation of the entire ragtag Rebel movement.

It was detailed right down to the space checkers game and the ejectable big gun and the light speed lights and the landing gear and the gnarly circuitry that Chewbacca banged on all the time.

And it was freaking huge, checking in at roughly the size of our washing machine, at least as far as I could tell.

I had never wanted anything so bad in my life.

The problem was, the Millennium Falcon carried a suggested retail price of $29.99.

Blue collar families simply didn’t pay 30 bucks for a single toy in 1980, especially when their bratty kid was asking for an entire roster full of other, slightly less expensive toys.

“You can forget about that,” my dad said flatly when I told him I wanted the Falcon for Christmas. “We’re not spending that kind of money on a toy.”

My mom just nodded.

I understood. I was disappointed, but I understood. Of course, I continued to lobby all through the holiday season, but Dad was resolute. No Millennium Falcon.

He wasn’t mad about it. Just matter-of-fact.

Dear Fat Dude

I had an ace-in-the-hole, though: Santa Claus.

So I wrote a note to Fat Dude (my pet name for him — we had an understanding) and mailed it off.

I wrote another letter when my teacher at school said she could get our requests to Santa.

I did everything I could, then trusted that my fate was in the hands of the Christmas Elves.

Of course, by Christmas Eve, I was so excited I could hardly breathe, regardless of my Falcon prospect. I was an OK kid, and Santa would visit me.

Back in those days, we traveled to my grandmother’s house early on Christmas morning every year, which meant there was no time for bonding with my new toys before we left. Santa, good guy that he is, took this into consideration and dropped in late on Christmas Eve.

Keeping Daddy at Bay

I had been asleep (*wink* *wink*), and all Santa’s bumping in the next room woke me up. Mom ran into my room while the commotion was going on in the front of the house and told me she thought Santa was there.

“We can’t let him know you’re awake!” she warned me. So we didn’t.

After the place had been quiet for a few minutes, though, I couldn’t stand it anymore and dragged Mom into the living room. There on the floor, under our lit Christmas tree, was a pile of wrapped gifts that threatened to compromise the ceiling.

I gasped, and Dad stumbled out of my parents’ bedroom. He was sleepy-eyed and cranky looking.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Santa’s been here!” I enthused.

“I’m gonna get my shotgun and shoot that old geezer.” Dad turned back to the bedroom, and I nearly tackled him.

“No, Daddy, don’t!”

After Dad calmed down, we settled in to see what all had come our — my — way.

The Setup

I opened and opened and opened gifts for what seemed like hours, and the largess was astounding to an eight-year-old kid …

Pajamas (damned soft packages!) …

Books (I’m a nerd, remember?) …

Stomper 4x4s …

And … yes … Star Wars goodies:

Action figures out the wazoo.

Luke’s X-Wing, which would become my favorite toy of all-time.

Vader’s Death Star Space Station (which I didn’t know existed).

Posters.

Bed sheets, for gosh sake.

It was dizzying. It was stupefying. It was almost more than my tiny heart could take, pounding for all it was worth in my pudgy little body.

But …

No Millennium Falcon.

And, while I wasn’t a complete Id, it was a disappointment despite all the great loot I hauled in. I tried not to show it, but I’m sure my eyes gave me away.

Still, I had a million hours of fun lying right there at my feet and maybe five hours until we had to head out to granny’s.

Superman in Pajamas

My dad was exhausted and just shook his head at the mess of wrapping paper and the piles of toys. “I have to get to bed,” he said. It’s been a long day, and we have to be in the city in just a little while.

I don’t remember for sure, but there is a better than even chance he worked a full day on Christmas Eve.

Anyway, he hauled his old (he was in his early 30s) bones off the kitchen chair he’d dragged into the living room for our festivities. He took one step toward the bedroom … then stopped.

“What’s that?” he asked. He was pointing toward the couch, at the other end of the room, opposite the tree.

I followed dad’s finger to find wrapping paper winking at me from behind the couch. It was a wrapped box. My heart jumped.

“Maybe it’s for you?” I said, not wanting to set myself up for heartbreak. I was talking to anyone who wasn’t me.

“I didn’t buy anything else,” Mom said.

“Not mine,” Dad said. “Better find out what it is.”

Now, in case you think I (or we) just ripped off this scene from A Christmas Story, keep in mind we were three years ahead of the “electric sex” crew. This was how things worked in middle-class America when your parents gave everything they had, then squeezed out a little more. As Al Bundy once said when he’d donated like 20 gallons of blood, “the brain hides some.” Or something like that.

As you might expect, I ripped open that last package to find the Millennium Falcon. (We lived in a cow town, and I realized later that I had received the 1979 model rather than the The Empire Strikes Back version, but it was grand in either case.)

Dad gave credit to Santa, of course, and vowed to get even with the fat man in 1981. After all, Dad had said no Falcon, and he didn’t take kindly to anyone circumventing his authority.

For a lot of years, I thought it really was Santa who dropped that last surprise on me at Christmas of 1980. And, who knows … maybe it was.

Or maybe my dad was just playing the silent hero, like he always did.