On Christmas Day an enterprising cable channel will again run a 24-hour marathon of "A Christmas Story".
While I'm not much of a movie buff, "A Christmas Story" has special meaning. Maybe because it was filmed in Cleveland, where we once lived. Mostly, though, because many years ago, I was Ralphie.
I'm stretched out on the couch, and the movie will start. I close my eyes for a moment (and here my definition of a moment will be challenged by my wife Marge), and a drifting fog of memories carry me back to a time so many years ago.
I'm 10 years old again.
We live on East 89th Street, a working-class inner-city neighborhood. Our house is very much like Ralphie's. Old, two stories, an attic, big front porch and, of course, a basement with the cantankerous coal furnace.
There's an outside chute, leading to the coal storage bin. It's a monthly event for us neighborhood kids when the coal truck comes to gawk as the coal, with clouds of black dust, is dumped down the neighborhood chutes.
The holiday treat is the annual trip downtown. You dress up (you always had to look your best going downtown), carefully drop a nickel in the streetcar's fare box (pennies were frowned upon), and settle in for the 45-minute trip.
And there it is -- Public Square! Multicolored lights winking from the treetops, showering their magic on the glistening snow, echoes of "Let it snow, let it snow" coming from the bandstand and bouncing off tall buildings.
In one corner of the square stands the majestic Higbee's Department Store, the destination point. The window displays are magical. Trains running through intricate loops, in and out of tunnels covered with snow. Dancing animals, surrounded by frolicking elves in another window. A three-ring circus over there. Time no longer matters as you run from window to window and back again, over and over.
Ah yes, the BB gun. I didn't ask Santa for one, as Ralphie did. Weeks of pleading for one were met with a firm "No, and we will not discuss this any further" from my parents. A pronouncement that even Santa was helpless to override. It would have been such a wonderful companion to my silver, pearl-handled, double-holster, Lone Ranger Colt .45 cap guns. But it was not meant to be, and unlike Ralphie's joy, there was no BB gun under the tree Christmas morning. On the other hand, thankfully, there were no bunny pajamas either.
And when my eyes reopen (after only a moment, of course), the movie credits are rolling on the TV screen. Not to worry though, the movie will start all over ... in a moment.
For the record, I've owned a BB gun for years now. A hand-me-down from our son's childhood years. Of course, if our Police Chief Kenny Jenks knew about it, he would look at me, shake his head, and the admonishment would follow: "You'll shoot your eye out, sir."
Ken Gaidziunas is a staff writer for the Van Alstyne Leader and The Anna-Melissa Tribune.