Drive In, Conk Out.(childhood nights at drive-in theater)(Brief Article)

In the age of DVDs, I doubt whether it's a thrill anymore for kids to be able to watch a movie while they're in their pajamas. But back in the 1950s, my sister and I considered it a treat to have Mom and Dad throw coats over our pj's and take us to the drive-in. I loved the idea of getting to stay up late, but Dad always deflated my expectations. "Listen," he'd say, "it won't be such a tragedy if you conk out. I'll tell you all about the movie tomorrow."

We piled into our green Studebaker, looking like we were going on an expedition. Mom carried a giant bag of chips, which would be gone by the time we were five blocks from our apartment, and a cooler with watery orangeade that nobody ever drank. Risa was allowed to bring her wetting baby doll and her cap gun, although Mom had a strict rule that there was no peeing or shooting in the car. I schlepped along a pile of five or six comics, even though I knew it would be too dark to read. My taste ran to second-string heroes: J'onn J'onzz, Manhunter from Mars; Turok, Son of Stone; Tomahawk (a Daniel Boone rip-off); and, hidden among the macho stuff, Little Lulu, which was really my favorite, even though I felt compelled to say, "Hey, how did this get in here?"

When we arrived at the drive-in, Dad would begin looking for the spot farthest from the concession house. "Do me something," he'd say. "You don't need French fries and chocolate-covered raisins to watch a good story. Anyway, you kids'll be asleep before you're hungry."

Next to the concessions, though, there was a small playground where dozens of children ran wild in the vanishing light until the movie started. Mom's idea was that Risa and I could get ourselves exhausted on the swings. "Don't park a mile away," she'd command. "The kids need to play."

"I'll move my seat up," Dad would say. "Didn't they play already today?"