Truckload of Memories at the Drive-In

The other night, we loaded our sports utility vehicle up with a blanket, pillows, a big to-go order of burgers, fries and chocolate shakes and hauled it all to the 101 Drive-In. (And no, nothing happened, mother).

We soldiered through the premier of the alleged summertime blockbuster “Godzilla.”

Actually, “dozed” through “Godzilla” might be more accurate.

The last time I was at a drive-in “The Sands of Iwo Jima,” starring Richard Widmark, was on a double bill with an Audie Murphy western.

No, I’m wrong. The last time I was at a drive-in I accidentally caught the hem of my bell bottoms on the gearshift while watching “Cool Hand Luke.”

Almost nothing happened then, either, mother.

Anyway, it seemed like the summertime way to usher in Memorial Day weekend, which always feels like the beginning of summer to me, if not to the Gregorians.

Some things have changed at the drive-in. Some haven’t.

For instance, instead of packing an extra tube of Tangee lipstick in my purse, I packed a can of pepper spray, which was not needed. It was curiously peaceful to sit in the middle of 10 acres of asphalt at dusk with the lights of the Ventura Freeway flickering in the distance.

And yes, families still spread old blankets in front of the car for the kids to play on in the twilight before the movie starts.

Those unsightly gun-metal gray, tinny speakers haven’t changed. What has changed is that this time we remembered to remove the speaker from the driver’s window before we left for home.

Vehicles have certainly changed. Not that I tried to, but I cannot see how a person could neck in a bucket seat. You also can’t double-date to the drive-in today. Car seats have those high headrests now. The poor back-seat couple can’t see the screen. (Which would be a blessing if “Godzilla” is playing.)

There are actually three drive-in stages.

In the first, you are the child whose parents couldn’t get or couldn’t afford a sitter.

In the second, you are a teenager in more need of a sitter than ever. In this stage, you automatically head for the rear rows whether you are on a date or with pals. If memory serves, and the evening progresses as it should, a carload of cute guys from Eureka Springs will pull in three spaces over while it’s still dusk and you can pick out the dreamboats.

In the third stage, you are the parent who packed up all the gear for the kids, and, well, it almost feels like you are going out for the evening.

The best stage is probably the first, when you get to go to the drive-in as a child. I have no happier childhood memories than of sailing over Highway 71 on the back of my Granddad Henson’s flatbed truck--not pickup--on the way to Red’s Hill Drive-In outside Pineville, Mo.

Admission was a dollar a car--or truck--load. Granddad Henson would pile four to a dozen grandchildren onto the open bed of the truck. In the cab, two to four grown-ups might be squeezed in with him. Before heading out, Granddad Henson would tell us kids to hold on and be careful. Today he would be arrested for child endangerment.

Holding on tight, we would swerve through the Ozark hills to the gravel road turnoff, where the ticket taker waited. Granddad would pull to a stop and hand him a dollar. No one ever blinked at a truckload of moviegoers. The previous admission may well have arrived on a John Deere tractor, if the farm was close.

I remember those long, twilight summer evenings, dashing around on the gravel in the company of my cousins, swatting mosquitoes, catching fireflies and drinking grape Kool-Aid from a mason jar my mom brought.

But best of all was this: My Aunt Doris, who was 17 and a high school junior, actually ran the concession stand, a little kiosk the size of a phone booth.

I still remember how it glowed off in the distance, away from the screen and the darkened, parked cars . . . filled with all the Coca-Cola, orange Nehi and Milky Ways you could ever consume. Aunt Doris never gave me a discount, I don’t think--it just felt like she did.

It’s the summer job I still aspire to.

Except I might have to endure a couple dozen more showings of “Godzilla.”

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Brenda Loree is a correspondent for The Times.