I am eight years old. I have just finished opening all of the presents that Santa Claus left under our Christmas tree. Being an only child means that pretty much everything sitting in the general vicinity of that evergreen treasure trove is mine to be plundered. Since I’ve ripped and pillaged every last wrapped gift, it’s time to head to Papaw and Mamaw’s. The next step in the ritual of Christmas for the Paisley family is to eat lunch at the grandparents’ house and exchange more presents between aunts, uncles, cousins, and in-laws. As an eight-year-old in 1980, the most important item on my Christmas list was probably plastic, manufactured by Kenner, and said “Star Wars” on the package. In my mind, my life would have had no meaning if something like a Millennium Falcon or a light saber did not appear that Christmas day. I would have had no reason to go on. As it turns out, I was right about one thing: my life did depend on a gift that I would receive that December 25. But it wasn’t any sort of spaceship, laser sword, or action figure.
