Ideally, we all have our own version of 'A Christmas Story' to remember and cherish

My wife and I recently watched “A Christmas Story Christmas,” the sequel to “A Christmas Story,” the 1983 classic about little Ralphie and his single-minded focus on getting a Red Ryder Rifle underneath his family tree, even though he is repeatedly warned that he'll shoot his eye out with that thing.

The sequel was pleasant and enjoyable – no match for the original, which had more edge and packed more of a nostalgic wallop, but still a fun and welcome Christmas movie. My family and I will inevitably catch the original, in bits and pieces, as it plays on a 24-hour loop on TBS on TV from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day.

Both movies have me thinking during these holidays that we all have our own personal version of “A Christmas Story,” that one December, most likely during our childhood, when everything felt right and secure and our yuletide joy was exquisite.

Well, I hope everybody has their own version of “A Christmas Story,” for whichever holiday they celebrate during this final month of the year. I realize that’s a tall order, a true ideal for a time of year that often can be challenging or painful for some people.

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And let’s be realistic. Any personal version of ours of “A Christmas Story” has passed through the hazy, tinsel-tinted filter of time – likely has been romanticized a bit or a lot and has been given a Norman Rockwellian glow.

And that’s okay. Who needs to remember the mundane stresses of the time? The shopping and wrapping and sending cards and planning and waiting and all of the other traditions and responsibilities that distract us from what is most important about the season?

My version of “A Christmas Story” is from 1982, when I was 10 years old and in the fifth grade. If during those holidays I ever got sent to my room for mouthing off, or struggled with homework, or experienced the high drama that often breaks out between children, then, well, such memories are lost to time. In my head, I have memories of the Christmas of 1982 that, when strung together to make a story, would make the makers of “A Christmas Story” proud.

It was not about the gifts I got that year. Indeed, I cannot recall what was underneath our family tree 40 years ago this week. The year before, 1981, sure: an Atari! And 1980, as well: a remote-controlled R2-D2! But when it comes to the Christmas of 1982, the gifts I remember most vividly and gratefully are security and a strong holiday spirit.

I’m not referring to the kinds of security that helps fend off burglars like the ones used by the kid in “Home Alone.” I'm not talking about multi-gallon paint cans, tied to the ends of ropes, ready to swing in heavy downward arcs and smack Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern in the face.

Instead, I am talking about the clangs and steamy hisses of old-fashioned radiators as they worked through the night and kept me and my family warm in our home. I love that sound, to this day. It’s heartbreaking to know not everyone was able, or is able today, to hear such music and feel such warmth during this time of the year.

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I got to emcee my classmates’ Christmas talent show at the Sanford Middle School in 1982. I even got to write and direct a holiday skit about E.T. that my fellow fifth-graders and I told through paper-bag puppets. I’ve always been grateful to my teacher, Mrs. Gagnon, for appointing me as master of ceremonies that afternoon. I was a good kid, but I was hammy and talkative and occasionally had to sit at “the quiet table” to give Mrs. Gagnon peace and help me fall back into line. But Mrs. Gagnon gave me opportunities to channel my pep and creative impulses and emceeing the class Christmas show that year is a cherished example. The fact that my Godmother, who was the school secretary, got to attend the show was the icing on the cake.

I also remember the school’s Christmas concert that year. I have never been able to sing – I once had a friend in hysterics as she stood outside my dorm room door and overheard me belting out a Sinatra tune – so I was more than glad to have my voice disappear in the collective chorus on my entire grade, as we stood on the bleachers of the Memorial Gym and sang holiday classics. I treasure the memories of that concert for one particular reason: it was a special and unique occasion to be at school with my classmates at night. It was a departure from the usual structure of our days.

As well, I remember shopping that year for gifts for my sister, Mom and Dad at the old Ames department store at the Mid-Town Mall in downtown Sanford. I started a paper route in 1982 and that December was my first time receiving hefty Christmas tips from customers. Dad always matched whatever I saved, and I felt like Santa Claus himself, pushing my cart up and down the aisles of Ames and adding things to it that I hoped my family would enjoy.

1982 also was the year that I read “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, for the very first time. My friend Lowrie loaned me his copy. I read it each night, by the light of the hallway that spilled into my bedroom, when I was supposed to be fast asleep. Did I necessarily understand the story? Its themes, its sprawling, Dickensian writing? I do not recall. I was probably aided by all the film versions of the book I had seen – the 1970 musical starring Albert Finney, the goofy Rich Little parody on HBO, and perhaps other adaptations. But no matter. It is the memory of reading the book – my first classic, my first departure from the Hardy Boys and the Great Brain and Willy Wonka – that I hold most dear.

There’s more, of course, from that Christmas of 1982. The Grinch and Charlie Brown and Frosty and all the other animated holiday specials on TV. The gingerbread men Mom made. Sledding. Snow days. Mass on Christmas Eve.

I recall all of this and do realize that not everyone got to enjoy the holiday season back then, as I did that long-ago year of 1982, or gets to enjoy it now. Every year, this realization motivates me to try to do something to help others this time of the year. Sometimes I do well in my pursuit of this goal and principle. Other times I fall woefully short and the lost opportunity weighs on me. In such moments, I am admonished, but also inspired, by the final words Dickens wrote about Scrooge in his classic tale. They're definitely words worth striving to embody.

“It was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that truly be said of us, and all of us!”

Merry Christmas, everyone, and Happy Holidays.

Shawn P. Sullivan is an award-winning columnist and is a reporter for the York County Coast Star. He can be reached at ssullivan@seacoastonline.com.

This article originally appeared on Portsmouth Herald: Ideally, we all have our own version of 'A Christmas Story' to cherish