Inspired by the talented blogger from FireWatersite, who recently put together a great list of groovy Christmas toys he and others of our generation enjoyed as kids, I remembered my greatest Christmas gift of them all.

These days, my wife and I are not all that into gift-giving for each other (to quote Elias Sandoval from TOS Star Trek‘s “This Side of Paradise”; “We have what we need”), but I still recall the incredible thrill and anticipation I experienced as a kid ripping through gift-wrap and unveiling those bright little trinkets, toys and shiny things that made my chubby little heart go pitter-patter.

Those of you expecting a poignant, ‘Gift of the Magi’-style story where I confess that the best Christmas gift I ever got was a hug, or a warm cup of cocoa from a stranger on a cold Christmas night, or another ‘true meaning of the holidays’ story? Sorry to disappoint, but this is the story of eight-year old me, not the more contented fifty eight-year old me.

When I was eight years old in late 1974, my favorite pre-Star Wars franchise was “Planet of the Apes”; I loved the movies, and short-lived TV show (even caught a few episodes of the cartoon, as well). I remember Planet of the Apes coloring books, cereal bowls, cups, and even a waste basket. Pretty sure I had most of that stuff. That previous Halloween, I desperately wanted the Planet of the Apes costume, which was basically a cheap, thin plastic mask with a one-size fits all smock bearing the name of the franchise. Costumes in those non-High Definition days were lazy and cheap, and couldn’t hold a candle to the Comic Con-quality cosplay kids sport these days, but we loved ’em. And so help me, I wanted that costume. Naturally, I didn’t get it, because my parents thought it was a waste of money at five bucks, or whatever the hell it cost.

As my siblings threw on generic ‘hobo’ garb (the ultimate last-minute costumes, with limited funds and time), I remember cutting a brown paper grocery bag and trying to make a Cornelius mask, along with a brown shirt, and corduroy pants. This was the most pathetic attempt at a Halloween ‘franchise’ costume you ever saw, and my hand-drawn mask sagged loosely off my idiot face at every house. I finally ditched it after a few tries, ran home, and went full hobo. This sad little Halloween was offset by a pillowcase full of ridiculously delicious candy that I devoured in monstrous quantities, before going to bed with a ritualistic stomach ache.

That Christmas I had my heart set on the Mego “Planet of the Apes” treehouse play set; it had interlocking plastic pieces for easy assembly, and even a ‘jail’ with bars for the captive astronaut figure (whose costume didn’t resemble the movie’s Taylor in any way, shape or form, but I didn’t care). Mego action figures were the coolest at that time, and I would later get a SpiderMan and Star Trek figures (with incongruously aquamarine-colored landing party gear–don’t ask; it was the 1970s). Well, even at that age, I had no hope of getting the play-set, because (A), it was probably too expensive, and (B) they sold like hotcakes. Even my local toy store couldn’t keep them in stock (this was a good ten years before ‘Cabbage Patch Kids’ mania swept America).

Christmas morning, I woke up expecting clothes, with maybe one or two little ‘cool’ gifts in there somewhere, and I was absolutely shocked to see a fully assembled “Planet of the Apes” treehouse, complete with Zira, Cornelius, Dr. Zaius, Urko and “astronaut” action figures, too! This came from a box that wasn’t under the tree, so I had no way of anticipating it. Only later, after a bit of prodding, my old man confessed that he went to a toy store in the city, near his meat-packing plant after work the night before (on Christmas Eve no less), where he grabbed the last one on the shelf, and waited over an hour in line to buy it.

While not necessarily a sci-fi fan, my dad sometimes indulged us by sitting though the occasional sci-fi opus at the movies with his kids; though he truly loved Steven Spielberg’s “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” (probably because of its happy ending, where the hero leaves his annoying family to run away with the aliens…). That was part of the reason why that gift landed so well with me; it wasn’t that my callow, eight-year old self wanted it so badly… but that my dad bought it.

My gruff, hard-working father, who thought his young son was silly for loving sci-fi and horror movies, spent a long night in line at a toy store, after an arduously long shift at a grueling, physically demanding job (a job that would ultimately contribute to his death, nearly twenty years later). This man bought me this painted-plastic-and-fabric happiness box and put it together for me overnight, so that he could present it to me bright and early on Christmas Day… just to make that day special for me.

My old man did that for me.

When it came to gaudy displays of affection, my father was not a very demonstrative man, granted. But it was times like that where I felt as if I’d caught a fleeting glimpse of how much he really cared for his kids. These times were few and far-between, which made them all the more special. No doubt if he were here today, he’d tell me that working hard all day and night at a taxing job for his family was his idea of being demonstrative; probably because he’d be too embarrassed to confess anything else.

Sadly, that once-beloved “Planet of the Apes” treehouse has long since gone to its final destination in a city trash heap. Back then, kids like me didn’t collect toys as ojets d’art; they were toys. In those days, toys were to be played with, often roughed up a bit, and put in extreme circumstances well past their factory limits, but they were thoroughly enjoyed before being resigned to their ultimate, anonymous oblivion in a landfill somewhere.

No, I didn’t hold onto that Planet of the Apes treehouse, but for the time I had it, it was deeply cherished. My dad, who passed away thirty years ago this past August, wasn’t too big on overt displays of affection with his weird, sci-fi nerd son; but that geeky son knew he was loved, nevertheless.

That’s why a plastic toy treehouse filled with action figures from a movie & TV franchise was the greatest Christmas gift I ever received, and could ever receive. Those action figures, in my eight-year old imagination, became both living avatars of childhood fantasy and physical, tangible plastic bits of a father’s love for his son. To my readers, I thank you for indulging this, and I hope you have a warm and memorable holiday season.