Certain films arrive in childhood like unopened gifts beneath a tree, their ribbons gleaming with promise, their mysteries yet to be revealed. “The Sound of Music” was just that in my house, received annually as the calendar pages turned their final leaf, as inevitable and welcome as the scent of pine needles and cinnamon, as necessary to the season as starlight itself.

This year, I find myself contemplating, with wonder and melancholy, that 60 years have passed since Julie Andrews first appeared on that Austrian mountainside, arms flung wide, voice soaring into the impossible blue of a Hollywood heaven.

Sixty years.

Yet the film refuses to age, refuses to become merely nostalgic, refuses to relinquish its grip on generation after generation of hearts.

I have, stored in that repository

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