The Drive-In

(Inspired by an article in the WSJ by Chris Kornelis.)

A child of the 1950s, as well as of deep freeze winters in Minnesota, the coming of summer meant drive-in movies. I write this not as a piece of fond nostalgia, but as further proof of children's second class status back in those Bad Old Days.

First of all, I never got to pick what movies we went to see at the Valli-Hi Drive-In. When I meekly suggested a fun-filled evening watching "The Brides of Dracula," I was firmly told that such movies were not for little boys (not so little, really; I was 7 years old in 1960) and that the family would attend "Lover Come Back" starring Doris Day and Rock Hudson. That kind of romantic dreck was an insult to any red-blooded American boy, but my parents ate it up.

Which brings me to my next point. On a warm summer's eve, a young boy's thoughts turn naturally to salt, sugar, and grease. My dad always seemed to manage to park right next to the shack where they fried up the hamburgers and french fries, fricaseed the popcorn, and displayed a fascinating little contraption that pulled taffy on a series of ascending and descending bars. The place smelled like heaven to me. But do you think my folks would indulge my lust for a burger and a Coke? Which, I might add, I distinctly remember as costing a mere 75 cents. Not on your life! Mom brought along a banana or an apple for me, and there was a thermos jug of cherry Kool-Aid to quench my thirst. As Rock Hudson and Doris Day cavorted on the screen, and patrons lined up six deep at the shack for their cholesterol fix, I suffered alone in agony -- disconsolately peeling off and putting back on the Chiquita Banana tag.

The final iniquity on those long ago summer evenings that should have been so cozy and happy was that both my parents were heavy smokers, and as soon as the huge white screen in front of us flickered to life dad lit up a Salem and mom lit up an Alpine. Even with the windows down, the whole car soon filled with a nicotine miasma. Hindsight, of course, tells me that all that second hand smoke is responsible for my annual bouts of bronchitis today. But more to the point, way back then it was considered cool to smoke, and so when I was ten or thereabouts and we were at the drive-in I summoned up the courage to ask my dad for a cigarette. I thought the old man might go for it -- he'd already let me have a sip of his Hamm's Beer one night during a backyard barbecue. But his only response was:  "Shut up and eat your banana."