From the time I was seven years old, my mother's life revolved around Star Wars. At least it seemed like that at the time. I remember Mom going into the drug store and buying the movie bubble gum cards by the stack. When that wasn't enough, she made a deal with the pharmacist to buy them by the box. She'd open each pack carefully, sorting the cards into stacks and saving the wrappers. On top of our fridge was a mason jar full of the discarded bubble gum. She managed to collect every single card, sticker, and wrapper from the original three movies--there were five different sets for Star Wars alone. The collection still exists, preserved in special plastic pages and kept in three ring binders in my brother's storage.
And the collecting didn't stop there. She bought magazines, posters, pictures and stickers. She collected the toothbrushes with characters on them, music both album and sheet, boxes and tins covered in movie images. A real treasure was given to her later on, when I was a teenager. One of her students had a distant relative who was in the original Star Wars movie as an extra. That relative gave the student an actual stormtrooper helmet that was used in the film. When the student found out just how much Mom loved the movies, he gave her that prize. Mom was ecstatic. She carefully cleaned off all the crayon marks that the student and his sister had drawn on the helmet as little kids. Then she proudly displayed that helmet in our living room for the next three years.
These bits and pieces were wonderful, but the awe-inspiring centerpiece of my mother's collection was her Millennium Falcon. Now, my mother had never put together a model in her entire life. But she saw the kit in the store, an overpowering need to construct it possessed her. She bought that model and in so doing started one of the most detailed and studious reconstruction of the Millennium Falcon ever undertaken. Kid you not, you would have thought it was a real starship with as much care she gave it. She got her hand on every picture of the Falcon she could, from every angle conceivable. She took these pictures with her to model shops and studied every available bottle of paint to find just the right shades. Every panel, every pipe and wire, even every battle scar was given special attention. For months, parts of the model were strewn all over the house, waiting for the precious few moments Mom found each day to paint or glue each tiny piece. Finally, after almost two years, the masterpiece was finished. The lights worked, the gangplank lowered, the communication dish turned, everything looked perfect. Well, perfect to everyone except Mom. She had painted each piece before gluing them together. And although it looked great to me and my brothers, that one detail made a huge difference to her. She said that the glue didn't hold right because of the paint, that it wasn't going to last. She wasn't satisfied. So what did she do? You guessed it--she went out and bought another model kit of the Millennium Falcon.
Unfortunately that second model has never been finished. Her life took some unexpected turns. My youngest brother was born, the other brother started going through some rough teenage years, my dad got a new job and the whole family packed up and moved to a different state. Then in a completely unexpected moment, my mother passed away. Suddenly, the carefree days of collecting and creating were over. The Millennium Falcon was packed up in a box, consigned to be forever unfinished, like my mother's life. The fun was done and nothing would ever be the same.
It was hard at first to go on with life. My mother and I had been very close, and with her gone, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I was in the middle of college, two states away from any family or close friends. But very slowly, over time, memories of her grew less painful and more nostalgic. I started to take comfort in pictures and objects that reminded me of her and things that made her smile. I remained a fan of Star Wars and got past the pain of memory it brought to instead take pleasure in the adventure. Years later, when the special editions of the first three Star Wars movies came out in the theaters, I was first in line to see them. But as I sat through the opening credits for A New Hope, I found myself unexpectedly in tears. She would have loved this, I thought. And suddenly I was no longer seeing the movie for myself. Every scene was viewed through my mother's eyes. I heard each familiar line and watched every enhancement with her voice in my head--comparing, evaluating, and simply remembering the sheer joy it used to bring to her life. I was driven to see each film twice, first for my mother and then for myself. It may sound silly, but it was a powerful and moving experience, seeing my mother's favorite films as if she were there beside me.
When The Phantom Menace came out, I expected to be blown away. This was the movie the world of fandom had been waiting for 16 years. But as I came out of that movie, I was left inexplicable empty. Something was missing, something big. At first, I thought it was because Mom was missing. She should have been there to see the saga come to life again. But the longer I pondered, the more it became clear to me that there was something else, something that Mom would have missed too. Then it hit me. The Millennium Falcon was gone.
Why was this such a big deal? Yes, the new movie had new, faster, sleeker ships. It had amazing technology and wonderful gadgets that were used to save the day. But those weren't the same. In the first movie, it was made clear that the Millennium Falcon wasn't new and wonderful. It was old and battle scarred and looked like it wouldn't even make it out of the docking bay. But it was well loved, first by the pilot (everyone's hero, Han Solo), then by the audience. Yeah, it wasn't much to look at, but it would go .5 past lightspeed. It would outrun Imperial slugs, keep the good guys safe, rescue the princess and even rescue the hero, all before the end of the first movie. It was the underdog that everyone rooted for, the home of the scoundrel with a heart of gold. Yes, it broke down from time to time. Sometimes it needed an extra kick in the thrusters, a push from an irate princess or adjustment from a resourceful droid to keep it going. But in the end, it always came through. It was the means by which the heroes made the galaxy a better place.
Isn't that true of the best things in life? Shiny new objects are fun for a while, new relationships can be exciting for a short time. But in the end, it's not the new and pretty things that become close to our heart. It's the older, more reliable things that we count on. It's the 10-year-old car that may break down from time to time, but in the end takes you where you need to go. It's the friend from childhood that may be old and battle scarred, but knows you inside and out and always comes through for you in the end. It's the lover that may need an extra kick in the thrusters now and then, but makes the galaxy a better place.
A conscious decision to follow in Mom's footsteps was never really made. It started a few years ago when I found a Micro-Machine Millennium Falcon on sale for five dollars. Without completely understanding why, I had to buy it. The shape of it, the details, even the very name--Millennium Falcon--brought back feelings of enjoyment long forgotten from simpler days. I took it home and put it on display in my living room, making sure that every sticker and tiny plastic part was in place. Little by little, I started collecting more and more, adding pictures, puzzles, posters, games and tiny gadgets shaped like the Millennium Falcon to the display. My collecting frenzy reached a peak three months ago, when I found a fantastic treasure at Wal-Mart. It was a Lego Millennium Falcon, complete with removable top half, working ramps and compartments, and all the characters from the original Star Wars movie. What a prize! I had to have it! But the price was an obstacle. $100. For Legos! I walked around the store for thirty minutes with it hugged to my chest, debating if the purchase was worth the price. Finally, I headed back to layaway and reserved it. Two weeks later, tax refund check in hand, I returned to claim my prize. The four hours it took me to put it together were pure heaven. I loved every minute of it, and the finished product is now the centerpiece of my living room display.
But the purchase of a $100 toy for myself, a single 30 year old woman with no kids, had caused me to really stop and think. Why on earth would I do such a thing? There was no practical reason to be collecting all these things; all of my display items were toys, used and played with--not really worth trying to sell on Ebay. They weren't the type of things served any practical purpose or enhanced the look of my decor. They were toys, pieces of memorabilia from a 26 year old movie. So why was I spending so much time and money on collecting numerous representations of the same fictional ship?
The answer isn't completely clear. Maybe it's because every time I see that familiar shape, I remember my mother’s delight in the same thing. I remember how much she enjoyed the movies and how collecting gave her an escape from the drudgery of everyday life. Maybe it’s because I wish for a Millennium Falcon of my own. Not the actual ship, although it would be fun to have a means to escape the planet once in a while. No, I mean I would like something or someone that can be counted on no matter what. They don’t have to be shiny and new, they don’t have to work perfectly all the time–they just need to be there when it counts. Or maybe it’s because there’s a little of the Millennium Falcon in me. Maybe it’s because I hope that one day I will be just as loved, despite all the battle scars I’ve accumulated over the years. Maybe I hope that someday someone will realize that I may not be much, but I’ll always come through when it counts. And maybe someone else will feel a little of the same thrill that I feel when I see the Millennium Falcon.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe collecting Millennium Falcons means that the child inside me never really has to grow up. Not completely. And isn’t that what the best obsessions are all about.
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