It clicked and clacked, sometimes turning the black-and-white picture a blurry shade of gray. It jumped to a previous scene every now and again as well. Dad would reach his index finger into the 8 mm projector trying to guide the roll of film past the projector’s light and onto the roll-out movie screen.

At the top of the traditions list at the Murphy home would be watching a World War II-era version of “The Night Before Christmas” on an 8mm film projector. The movie lasted but a few minutes with no speaking, only subtitles. The only mystery that remained was which of the children got to recite the coveted line: “He had a broad face and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.”

We did our part to keep Santa fat, blessing him with platefuls of cookies and a large glass of milk. Only one carrot was left for Rudolph. (At our house, the other eight reindeer could fend for themselves.) Telephone calls were made to the Santa Claus command center for updates on his progress toward Nassau Place. When he arrived in New York City, we shuffled off to bed knowing he’d be there in mere hours.

Sleep became impossible as the ears strained in hopes of hearing the slight jingle of sleighbells in the distance.

Age, though, always seems to win the day. As each Christmas Eve rolls around, the hope still exists that somehow the magic that captured my childhood imaginations will take root once again. It will hit with furious force and I will shrink into that 6-year-old boy sitting next to the Christmas tree as the night grew later and the anticipation deepened.

We’d all be there, not through short, cross-country phone calls, but sitting on the floor, chuckling as Dad tried to muffle the pain of getting his finger caught in part of that projector not suited for index fingers.

When the old 8mm finally gave out — years after the children were no longer children — Dad had the film transferred to VHS, then ultimately to DVD. The film still jumps and flickers, but it never will be the same.

The click is gone, as is the clack, replaced by the relative silence of laser hitting disc. Dad’s index finger has long-since healed, although I bet he would willingly throw his whole hand in that old projector for one more viewing of “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” as it once was.

I know I would.

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Sean P. Murphy is web editor. He can be reached at smurphy@vicksburgpost.com