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At The Drive-In
Jennifer Weber
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When I was a kid living in Florida, nothing made my sister and me happier than coming into the house after playing all day to find Mama or Daddy (or both) studying the section of the newspaper that told which movies were playing down at the Drive-In. We knew what those pages looked like and we tried to tell from the expressions on our parents' faces whether they were just glancing through or were serious about doing the movie thing that night.
We'd start hopping around, flipping out basically, begging to know if we really were going to the Drive-In. Securing an answer indicating the affirmative or even the vaguely probable, my sister and I would begin gathering up our pillows and our stuffed animals and whatever else we wanted to cram into the backseat of the car to fight over when we got to the Drive-In. Sometimes we changed into our pajamas because it was certain we'd be dead asleep long before we got back home.
We'd beg for a stop at the local grocery store so we could secure a stash of penny candy to futher "hop us up" and rot our teeth as we watched the movie from the dark, humid, stuffy recesses of our baby blue Nash Rambler. Mama and Daddy would have their own stash -- of cigarettes -- and he would have his cooler of beer with a small brown paper sack to "hide" the bottle he was nursing, and maybe we had soda pop if the adults were in a good mood. Mama sometimes bought herself a candy bar to enjoy during the movie.
My sister and I usually achieved an uneasy detente by about five minutes into the feature.
I remember feeling such a sense of drama and adventure when we set out for the Drive-In at dusk on a sultry summer night. I don't know why because, with the exception of the mystery and excitement of the movie itself, which I rarely if ever understood but which nonetheless wholly captivated me, the whole experience tended to be rather miserable.
I guess you could get into the Drive-In for about a dollar per car in the late '60s ... I don't know for a fact what it cost but that sounds about right given the general economy at the time. Daddy would enter under the big neon-lit sign with its attached marquee, through the opening in the gate to the huge lot, where we'd hunt for an available speaker pole. The gravel of the lot always sounded crunchy and loud under our tires. Once we found our spot, Daddy would roll down the window and grab the clunky silver speaker, trying to hurry so as not to admit hordes of mosquitoes into the car. He always failed. Almost immediately you would hear that nauseating buzzy-buzz as the pests dive-bombed your ears, and right away you'd start scratching.
My eyes were invariably riveted to the five-acre movie screen from the moment it came into view. Whether it was the dancing soft drinks and hot dogs (which fascinated me because we almost never visited the concession area except to avail ourselves of the restroom facilities ... their prices were too high), or previews of upcoming movies, or the cartoon feature, I could not tear my eyes away from that screen. It seemed to me to be as big as the huge world beyond my limited horizons, and just as much out of my reach.
As we got situated on our little plot of borrowed real estate, Daddy would fiddle with the sound knob on the speaker, cursing under his breath as the announcer's voice stridently invaded the cramped space. Mama would quickly assemble and light a Pic mosquito coil, setting it right in the middle of the dashboard where the smoke rose lazily, blue in the reflection from the movie screen. Sort of like incense, it was supposed to repel mosquitoes but to this day I think the bugs found the scent alluring. At any rate there was no discernible decrease in the mosquito population feeding on us, but now there was added the disgusting smell of the burning coil.
It was all part of going to the Drive-In.
The movie would start. From the dark hole I occupied in the backseat, perspiring, fighting with my sister, attempting to locate candy I'd dropped in the dark, swatting at mosquitoes, hating the smell of the burning coil, I had to sit up on my bony scarred knees in order to see anything. If we kicked the back of Mama and Daddy's seats, or pulled on them to hoist ourselves up, we'd get in trouble. Also we'd get yelled at if we made noise. My sister and I usually achieved an uneasy detente by about five minutes into the feature. She would sit by her closed window and I would sit by mine, and we ignored one another unless a stray foot happened to issue a sly kick. Then someone was going to get hit or pinched, but quietly so we wouldn't get a whipping on top of our other injuries.
It was from the backseat of our family car that I saw movies like Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte and Whatever Happened To Baby Jane? In case you aren't familiar with those films, let me tell you right now: Bette Davis in the 1960's could scare the stuffings out of a little kid. Those two movies terrified me well into adulthood; once after I was married and had children I tried to watch Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte on TV and couldn't. John Mayhew's severed hand on the stair, the blood spatter on the white of the debutante gown, the massive urn crashing down on Joseph Cotten and Olivia DeHavilland, was still too much for me.
It gives me the creeps just thinking about Joan Crawford in a wheelchair, being served her dead bird for lunch, and Bette Davis's evil cackle on the other side of the door. How about Baby Jane Hudson's song? I'm writing a letter to Daddy, saying "I Love You ..." I now officially have the willies. Let us move on.
I was ten years old when I "witnessed" the ambush and execution of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow on a May morning in 1934 in Bienville Parish, Louisiana. I will remember until I am too old to remember anything, how heartrending and horrifying it was when Faye Dunaway glanced beseechingly, knowingly, at Warren Beatty in the split-second before the hail of bullets sprayed their Ford automobile and their poor dying bodies writhed and jumped and sagged and fell from the limply hanging shell-pocked car doors. I wanted to look away but I couldn't.
To spend a summer night at the Drive-In was to have the lush panoply of life flung out in all its hideous glory on that brightly-lit expanse that, for a few hours, seemed to fill the universe. It was all the questions and ostensibly all the answers a kid between the ages of eight and eleven could come up with or handle. It is as much a part of my life as my family and the pets I've loved and the grades I made and the stubborn paradigm I eventually formed ... for good or ill, at least in part because of all I saw and heard at the Drive-In.
Short But Sweet ... And Colorful
Andrew and I drove to North Carolina on Wednesday to spend a few days with Stephanie and her little family. TG and Erica could not go with us and we missed them, but it was an enjoyable and productive visit nonetheless.
Our daughter, Stephanie, together with her husband, Joel, and their daughter, Melanie, moved from Williamsport, Pennsylvania, to Lenoir, North Carolina (gracious are we going to run out of commas?), in July of 2007 when Joel was called as pastor of the Temple Baptist Church in Lenoir. They occupied a small parsonage for several months while househunting. Last November they moved into a new house and Stephanie began making it a home. Baby Allissa made her grand entrance on April 15, 2008.
I cooked supper two nights, held Allissa, read to Melanie, drank coffee, and provided considerable moral support ... naturally!
Over the past several months TG, Erica, and Andrew (the painters of our family) have helped Stephanie convert the generic new-construction off-white of her house's walls to the decorator colors she wanted. On Thursday Andrew painted the "last frontier" ... Steph and Joel's bedroom. He then helped his sister to rearrange her furniture and get everything to her liking. It all turned out beautifully and Stephanie was so pleased and grateful.
What do you think I did? I cooked supper two nights, held Allissa, read books to Melanie, drank coffee, and provided considerable moral support ... naturally! That included a fair amount of ooh-ing and aah-ing as the painting project progressed, and applause at the final result. I am good at that kind of thing.
Melanie was camera-shy this time but I got several shots of baby Allissa. She is a darling wee butterball and so much fun to cuddle. Now ten weeks old, she sleeps all through the night so her mommy can catch up on much-needed rest. Such a cooperative and adorable little thing! I'm sort of wild about her.
Here's a shot of Allissa napping today, which activity I found fascinating. If you're so inclined, click on the pic to see a few more ... including one of Andrew napping right beside her! There's also a photo of handsome Uncle Andrew dressed in uniform for last Sunday's patriotic service at our church.
Have Your CAK And Eat It Too
Is it just me or has the world gone crazy?
According to a recent report by Sonja Barisic of the Associated Press, Kentucky Fried Chicken franchisees in Canada have been pressured by People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PeTA) to buy their chickens from suppliers that kill the animals by a "more humane method" than slitting their throats.
KFC Canada President Steve Langford has stated that KFC is working with PeTA on overhauling methods of poultry slaughter because "the ethical treatment of chickens is important to us."
Seriously, how long can it take to slit a chicken's throat ... and how long can the animal feel pain afterwards? Is there any way to measure these things?
(Really? Hmmm ... so what exactly is in those buckets if not fragments of dead chickens that have been dredged through the Colonel's special seasonings and fried in hot oil so that they could be sold for profit and consumed by human beings? Where precisely does ethics enter this picture?)
But such happy news for Canadian poultry! Over the next eight years KFC Canada will phase in the use of a method known as "controlled-atmosphere killing" (CAK) for all chickens purchased by its restaurants.
(Did you notice that word "killing" ... ?)
With CAK, instead of the chickens being conscious up to the time they are removed from their crates and their throats slit, they will remain in their crates where oxygen will be "removed" from them. Then they will have no choice but to breathe "inert" gases such as argon or nitrogen. According to PeTA spokesman Matt Prescott, the birds "do not suffocate but die painlessly."
(Did you notice that word "die" ... ?)
Will they pile up all the chickens' little eyeglasses and shoes and tooth fillings before gassing them? Because to me it smacks of what happened at Auschwitz and Dachau, except that it's poultry instead of people.
And trust me: I am a lifelong carnivore and no stripe of an animal rights activist. Doing this to chickens just sounds evil to me.
How about this: Do we know it will be safe for humans to eat the chickens that have died from being gassed? Is there concern for the ethical treatment of humans?
Oh, I forgot! That's not nearly as important as the ethical treatment of animals. HAHA! Silly me.
By the way, just wondering ... how does anyone presume to know what a chicken will experience when it is being gassed to death? I mean, can we be certain that a chicken suffers less under those circumstances than when its throat is slit quickly and (I assume) cleanly? And can one honestly assert that it matters either way?
Seriously, how long can it take to slit a chicken's throat ... and how long can the animal feel pain afterwards? Is there any way to measure these things? I doubt it, but we have to be talking about less than three seconds here.
So many questions.
In the end, folks, the result is the same: the chicken is dead and it gets eaten. Chickens are not being "abused" because of the method currently used to kill them so that humans can eat them. After all, the majority of them exist solely to be used as food and the only way that can happen is if they die first.
As a final absurdity, at the insistence of PeTA, KFC has "agreed to add a vegan faux-chicken option to its menu."
(Don't you know diners will show up by the droves at KFC, clamoring for that "faux" chicken? Is that by any chance a euphemism for a hamburger? Or, wait ... a veggieburger? Put bacon on mine, please.)
Sure hope Chick-fil-A doesn't go that route. Can you see the cows now, painting their billboards? EeT mOr Fo CHiKiN ...
Faux chicken ... KFC would be wise to serve that up on some PeTA bread.
A Rune For June
June is not my favorite month. That would be October. But this evening as I walked in the gloaming, I considered the assorted faces and the assured fate of comely June.
June is a trembling novice, a brave knowing soul, a seasoned conspirator.
June of all the months casts the tenderest, most wistful glance backward, and does it with dewy singing eyes. Sequestered in the soul of June is all the poignancy of all the love that ever was. Its roses, its moons, its skies, its blossom-scented air, its very existence summons belief in the God who put into motion all of June's romances.
June's beauty and grace softens the calumnies of mankind, if only for a moment. In an untouched June morning resides the clear light of forgiveness. June with its eager ambivalence embodies the siren call of wanderlust, the promise of adventure, the happy fact of a lengthy journey completed.
A June dawn beckons. A June day bestows. A June evening blesses. A June night beams. June's outrageous lambency and utter truthfulness increases flagging faith and soothes the bitter gall of heartbreak.
June's plangent song rides smoothly on its own fragrant breezes, heavy with nostalgia. June coos to its infants, laughs with its children, whispers to its brides, counsels courage to its aged, mourns with its dying. June inspires the poet, the artist, the builder, the naturalist and the lover.
When June at last languishes it lays to rest a measure of summer's innocence. June is a trembling novice, a brave knowing soul, a seasoned conspirator. June's gentle advances tune our beings to July's intemperate excesses, prepare us for August's overbearing and overlong contention.
June remembered is an unhurried embrace, a beseeching look, the final caress of a departing love. June forgotten is still, silent bells and an empty shell-strewn shore.
In June's going is the first peeking tendril of winter. Where Junes go, down light paths and dark, we follow.
We All Have Our Illusions
Tonight you may have looked up and noticed that moon illusion thing that happens a few days before the first day of summer. TG and Erica and I were out and about just after "moonrise" and saw what looked like a ginormous orange drifting up from the horizon. It was every bit as breathtaking as the meteorologists and astronomers all over the news today promised that it would be. It's hard for me to believe that the moon's apparent size at such a time is a product of my imagination, but the experts insist that the moon is no bigger when it hovers just above the horizon than it is when it rises higher in the sky, seeming to become smaller and paler as it goes. It's all in our minds.
As we chip away at them like we would a huge block of ice or stone, the size of the thing becomes more manageable and a shape begins to emerge.
Many if not most of life's problems are smaller than they at first appear, I think. Sometimes their proximity to us, their massive girth, the power they exert over our being, causes us to imbue them with more heft and importance than they really have. As the "giant" moon drifts higher into the sky, it takes on a disinterested and benign appearance. The fire leaves it and only the pallor of its cyclops stare remains. Even when the moon is "full" and at its most impressive, it is less intimidating later in the night than when it first looms gigantic, directly in our line of sight as we are driving or walking.
So it is with daily difficulties. If at first sight they seem much too large to get a handle on, we should bide our time. Wait. Ask God for help. Tackle the ones we can wrestle easily to the ground and get those out of the way. Often in the process of doing this we realize that what appeared to be one huge insurmountable problem was really a collection of smaller ones huddled together, finding strength in numbers. As we chip away at them like we would a huge block of ice or stone, the size of the thing becomes more manageable and a shape begins to emerge.
Sometimes we'll make a wrong move. That is to be expected and doesn't mean we are losers. It means we are making an effort.
Discouragement is sudden death to problem solving. When we allow a situation to overwhelm us (and it won't unless we allow it), the situation has won and we are on the canvas ... down for the count. That's when it's time to shake it off, bounce back up, and start swinging away. Yeah, it's going to hurt and there will be a few more setbacks but after all that's what makes it interesting.
It helps if there's someone looking on, cheering for what they are convinced will be our ultimate victory. There are people I am cheering for. You know who you are.
We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed. ~2 Corinthians 4:8-9