He’s a ‘Star Wars’ fan like his father before him

By my (very unscientific) analysis, the word “ram” has appeared 13,865 times in the combined histories of the Jefferson Bee and the Jefferson Herald.

I suspect at least 12 of those were verbs — as in, “Jefferson police Tuesday shot the loose goat before it could ram them” — but the vast majority were undoubtedly nouns.

We are, after all, the home of the Rams.

Unfortunately, growing up, my own name and the word “Ram” never graced the same article, unless in high school I somehow overlooked a headline that read, “Ram thespians ready to present rip-roaring musical.”

Now, by comparison, the word “tauntaun” has only ever appeared two times in the whole history of the Bee & Herald.

I’m responsible for one of them.

For what it’s worth, a ram and a tauntaun could very well be distant cousins — and when I say distant, I actually mean from a galaxy far, far away.

Both are horned sheep, except one has a sort of reptilian tail and is big enough to be ridden around like a horse in the “Star Wars” universe (specifically, “The Empire Strikes Back”).

Thirty-six years ago this week, in these very pages, yours truly asked Santa for a tauntaun.

I’m happy to report, 36 years later, Santa delivered.

However, I’m sad to say my mom later sold it at a garage sale.

The only other use of the word “tauntaun” in the newspaper, if you’re wondering, was actually in another letter to Santa that same year (1980). Allison Drewry, a girl in the class ahead of me, requested one as well.

By high school, Allison was one of those girls I just inherently knew to be way out of my league. (Think bikini-clad slave Leia and a member of the Mos Eisley Cantina band. Ain’t gonna happen.)

Somehow, I doubt I could’ve used the tauntaun to break the ice.

“So, Allison, did you ever get that tauntaun when you were 5?”

But let’s assume, for pretend’s sake, I got the nerve to actually ask.

“You did? Cool! You still have it?”

So far, so good, eh?

“You still have the original box?”

No, scratch that. Too overtly geeky.

“You’re still really into ‘Star Wars’? Wow, me too! I’d like to show you my Nien Nunb sometime.”

That could have gone one of two ways.

One, we’d now be married.

The other?

“No, it’s not what you think. I swear! I thought you said you were still really into ‘Star Wars.’ You know, Nien Nunb, that weird guy who co-piloted the Millennium Falcon during the Battle of Endor! OK, OK. I won’t ever come near you again.”

I frankly never grew out of my love for “Star Wars,” although in real life I somehow ended up marrying a woman who claims to have never seen the original trilogy. (Why I continued to call her even after she fell asleep during a date to see the “special edition” of “The Empire Strikes Back” has more to do with me. When slave-girl Leia bats an eye at Salacious B. Crumb, ol’ Salacious takes notice.)

After nearly 18 years of marriage, though, I finally have someone to share my love of “Star Wars” with — my 8-year-old son.

He’s come to “Star Wars” at the perfect time.

That much I concluded on Sunday as we sat in a theater together, our eyes glued to “Rogue One.” (In a word, awesome.)

In fact, there hasn’t been a better time to be a “Star Wars” fan since I was his age, which makes this bond both special and strange.

On one hand, I probably should have grown out of it and been more eager to accumulate man skills.

As it stands, I’m less comfortable around a hammer than I am a guy in a Hammerhead costume at a comic book convention.

But on the other hand, don’t other fathers pass down and share their love of baseball teams?

I remember seeing a news story or two this past fall about adult children taking radios to cemeteries in order to listen to the Cubbies finally win it all with their dearly departed dads.

Should I personally not make it through 2017, I will expect my son to venture out to the cemetery a year from now to tell me what becomes of Luke Skywalker in “Episode VIII.” (Will he turn to the dark side?)

By a twist of fate — I prefer to think our son is merely accepting his destiny — I predict Christmas 2016 at the McGinn house is going to look seriously like Christmas 1980 (and 1981, 1982, 1983 and 1984) at the McGinn house, complete with a kid in “Star Wars” pajamas eager to see if Santa brought anything from that galaxy far, far away.

The only difference is that my dad didn’t own his own “Star Wars” pajamas.

Merry Christmas.

May there be peace on Tatooine and goodwill toward Jawas.

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Jefferson, IA 50129

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