3-12-18 MY AUNT BECKY part 3

DRIVE-IN

I sat in the back seat, between my sister and my cousin, on a hot southeastern-Idaho summer night.  It was Monday, just before dusk, which at my Aunt Becky's house meant Family Home Evening. In the past, when we were visiting on Monday evenings, there had been some sort of spiritually based lesson, and some songs about Jesus or family, and a treat at the end. But this Monday night we piled into their station wagon and headed to the Drive-In theatre for a Home Evening activity. This was a big deal to us, the visitors from the east. I think the only other time I'd seen a movie on a big screen before was Mary Poppins at the wonderful old theatre in downtown Pittsburgh, with its velvet curtain, frescoed ceiling and gilded columns. I'd certainly seen Drive-In's before, from the outside at least, and I always wondered what magic might dwell behind that massive brick wall hovering over those acres of parking lot.

Uncle Richard turned off the old Yellowstone Highway and took his place in line behind a long stream of cars and trucks, waiting to approach the striped cement admission shack. We sat there, the vibrating car lurching forward an inch at a time, exhaust wafting through the car windows, facilitated by the ever present Idaho wind. Finally, when we approached the window, I read the sign with price of admission:

Adults 12+ - $4
Children 3-11 - $1
Under 3 - Free

From my perch in the middle seat of the car, I leaned forward, over the head of one of my small cousins, and told my aunt and uncle that I could be 11.

Uncle Richard and Aunt Becky responded, simultaneously:

"But are you eleven?"

It took me a few seconds to respond: "Well, I just turned twelve, but they don't know that."

Aunt Becky shifted her shoulders and looked back at me, her eyes full of love, not judgment:

"We are happy to have you with us, and we will pay for our twelve-year-old to watch the movie with us."

My chest rises and falls with more intensity, and deeper love, as I recall this quiet little life lesson they taught me on that hot summer night of my youth.

I remember other lessons they taught.

Though they are both gone now, they continue to teach me.

Becky and Richard Miskin
circa 1970
with what I call the "second batch"
my younger cousins
Mark, David, Gina and Michelle