When I was eleven-going-on-twelve, my dad and I went to see a movie.

This was before I made frequent trips to the movie theater with my junior high friends. For the first thirteen or so years of my life, going to see a movie was a major event; my family went once, perhaps twice, in a year. That spring and summer when I was eleven-going-on-twelve, however, was something different. My dad and I, leaving the womenfolk behind, went to the theater a whopping three times, if you can believe it. Three times in but a couple of months! Just going to the cinema that often was cause enough for excitement, but it was the extra special nature of these films that made this what was probably, at the time, the most important experience of my life.

The movies, of course, were the special editions of Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. Even at that young age I knew every line in the trilogy, could sing along note-perfect with the Max Rebo Band’s famous “Lapti Nek,” and had shed many a tear for the likes of Dak and Porkins. Growing up, I had all three movies illegally copied (shh, don’t tell!) from video store rentals and I watched those nearly to the point of disintegration. When I was ten, I received proper videos of the trilogy for Christmas and I watched those copies no less frequently.

So my enthusiasm didn’t come from anticipation of the unknown, but rather the unexperienced. Never had I seen the films in all their big-screen glory. My dad, too, was excited; he, after all, hadn’t seen Star Wars in a theater since his college days.

So off we went, he and I. Our mission for the day was to lose ourselves in the heroism of a galaxy far, far away and we were determined to succeed. Few such plans are ever without snags, of course, and ours was no different. At the last minute, my mother requested we run some sort of errand for her before we headed to the theater. We did, but only with the terrible consequence that we were now running late!

Odds and bodkins! Late for Star Wars? This simply cannot be! What would General Dodonna think of us, straggling behind like a pair of careless fools? My father—who doesn’t like to be late for anything, much less major motion picture events—knew the only solution was to take the law into his own hands and drive in excess of the speed limit.

You know where this is leading, I’m sure. Before long, my father’s transgression was noticed by an officer of the law and we were pulled over. At this point, my father was less concerned about missing the movie than he was at the prospect of having to pay a hefty fine, but eleven-going-on-twelve year olds don’t care about fines. The only thing I cared about was that we were now almost certain to be late for the movie, and I was an absolute wreck. My father knew I was so upset I was on the verge of some sort of breakdown, but there was now nothing he could do.

Or, perhaps there was something he could do. When the policeman asked to see my dad’s license and registration, he handed them over with total compliance. But as he did so, he made one important gesture, down low by the center console of the car where the cop probably wouldn’t see it but where he knew I would. As he surrendered his identification, my father waved his hand in a dismissive way at the cop, as if to say “You don’t need to see my identification.” Every time my father spoke to the policeman, responding to questions and making apologies, he would give that slight wave of his hand. He didn’t go so far as to actually say to the cop “I can go about my business,” but he didn’t have to say it. I was thinking it, and that’s what mattered. Every time my father gave that little wave of his hand, I came a little bit closer to laughing and I became less and less panicked about the prospect of showing up late for the movie. By the time the ordeal was over (with my father getting no more than a verbal warning) and the officer had retreated to his squad car, my dad and I were both laughing to beat the band, and I wasn’t giving any more thought to what time it was or when the movie started.

As it turned out, we made it to the movie just in time; we didn’t even miss the upgraded Lucasfilm logo. I don’t really remember much of the experience of watching the actual movie. I don’t remember how he or I reacted to the changes and additions (although I do remember that—and this is very unlike my father—we both cheered and clapped when the Death Star exploded). None of that’s really important. We’d both seen the movie before.

But what is important, and what I do remember, is the way my dad’s silly little Obi-Wan Kenobi impression put me completely at ease. I remember the way my father was willing to act like a bit of a fool in front of an actual police officer just because he knew it would be exactly the thing I needed.

Loving Star Wars is about the fun of Rebels versus Imperials, sure. But for a lot of fans, it’s at least half about the memories.

If You Hated This, You Will Also Totally Hate:

• Star Wars Memories, Vol. 2
• Star Wars
• The State of Star Trek
• I Hate Movies
• Intensely Retarded Christmas Memories