‘Ag pleeze daddy, won’t you take us to the Drive In?’ Please, please, pretty please?
My father was the drive in man. Not an affectionate person, rather withdrawn, did his best sort of person, but he was my drive in daddy. Our bonding time, not that he would call it bonding, but it was my daddy and me time. And tonight I miss him.
Small town dreams on the screen, like most of us. I met the world at the Drive In on a Friday night. Friday night date. Fell in love with Robert Redford there I did, and Clint Eastwood (dad thought John Wayne was the ultimate) and Nick Nolte. Frigging idolised Bruce Lee, poster on the wall perfection. Life was a by product to the global in love with falling at the Drive In. Went to Monte Carlo, New York, London and Death Valley on a Friday night … and it goes like this … cool was all at the Drive In.
If dad gave the nod to the friends coming along thing … oh frail heart, we were the coolest gang at the counter ordering the vetkoek and cokes. Doing the shadow puppets against the projection window, swinging on the swings beneath the screen. Blankets on the hump of tar in mid winter, blanket wrapped, squeaky speaker mode. Scalped by Indians happened – Navaho style. Maria in the Austrian alps, Gigi in her apartment in Paris. We were there, engrossed dreamers of life beyond school periods and gym clothes. Parents in the car, mom worried about the wind on her lacquered hair, dad still into John Wayne American western drawl style.
Let me show how much I love you. Back of the lot, no speaker, kissing on the backseat mode. Midnight Vampires and sneaking friends in the boot while the cows munched behind the fence. My love you see holds hands and cries about leaving. Fights about how romantic Ryan O’Neall is compared to you. ‘Love means never having to say you are sorry’ tissue box on the dashboard.
Foolish as they may seem
Here’s to the hearts that ache
Here’s to the mess we make.’