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KENT HOLSATHER |
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of THE MOTOR VU  The Motor Vu had room for 450 cars "brimming with families, lovers and trunks of stowaways." |
Movies in your jammies?
Ah, that was the life!
By KENT HOLSATHER
for TheColumnists.com
I drove by the Motor Vu drive-in the other day. Actually, I drove past where the Motor Vu used to be. There’s really nothing left there now except for a small forest of alder and an abandoned car that obviously served as a good target for kids with 22s.
The “Vu” was
the first outdoor theater in Bellingham, Washington. Built just
after WW II, it rode the huge frenzy of movie drive-in construction
that had spread across America from the late 40s to the early
50s. Moderately sized, it held 450 autos brimming with families,
lovers and trunks of stowaways.
I pulled off the road and walked across the street to where I
thought the ticket booth must have stood. I found smashed beer
bottles and dumped trash. A lifetime of neglect had accumulated
on this patch of land.
It was a quiet afternoon;
a typically warm July day as I walked further into the stand
of trees. I sat down on a log and looked around. While cars passed
by, I wondered if the drivers even knew "The Vu" had
ever existed--or cared to know. I knew and I still cared; after
50 years, I still cared.
I drifted back to those days. I remembered how the smell of popcorn
migrated from the kitchen, through the living room and rolled
over my brother and me as we dug our pajamas out of the dresser
drawer. It was Friday night--movie night for us and definitely
the best night of the week.
My mother was a master at popping corn and prided herself on
the lack of “old maids” that settled at the bottom
of the kettle. As she puttered franticly around the kitchen,
she barked instructions to the troops.
“Your dad will be home from work in a few minutes, so you’d
better have your PJs on, kids!”
We raced to see who could be dressed first and in that endeavor,
my brother had the advantage. At the age of 10, he had me by
six years, which meant that only I had the built-in feet to deal
with when donning my “evening on the town” suit.
The sound of our 52 Chrysler was unmistakable as my dad wheeled
up in front of the house. It was a land yacht of the first order.
Automatic transmission, four doors and wonderful plaid upholstery
that worked well in hiding the effects of my occasional carsickness.
It took dad only a few minutes to clean up before we piled into
the car, my brother and I claiming our territories in the back
seat as my mother loaded a large bag of popcorn and a jug of
drinking water in the front.
Seat belts were not a part of our traveling lives in 1954 so
without the restraints, land grabbing was fair game in the back
seat.
“He’s on my side!”
“No I’m not!”
“Dad, make him stay on his own side!”
This non-stop chatter would slowly bring our dad to a boil and
on more than one occasion culminate in his threatening to pull
over and give us a whipping by the side of the road. It would
be at this time that an uneasy truce was quickly struck and a
“no-man’s” land was created between us. The only
thing that would be lacking was the barbed wire and machine gun
nests.
By the time we arrived at the Motor-Vu Drive In, the line at
the ticket booth already was long. Neon tubes bent in the shapes
of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck lined the corrugated wall that separated
us from the theater grounds; their bright red and blue glare
urged us on to the gate.
Eternity seemed to move faster than our car as we slowly made
our way through the ticket booth and into the theater grounds.
It was near dusk as we pulled up to a speaker-post near the middle
of the lot. It was my dad’s practice to test the speaker
boxes before setting up camp for the evening and this night was
no different. He slowly motored from one box to another until
he found one that passed audio muster.
It must be said that by today’s digital standards, these
metal boxes sounded like someone trying to talk while sitting
inside a 55-gallon drum. Hanging from the car window, they were
a necessary part of the total drive-in movie experience.
During the next 20 minutes, a plethora of temptations pounded
at our ears from the tin box. A soothing voice described the
complete assembly of probably the most delicious hot dog on the
planet, waiting for us at the concession stand while hundreds
of giant, juicy dogs were projected on the screen, rolling in
unison. Our senses were being overwhelmed.
The box also told us just
how many minutes remained before the movie would start and urged
us to hurry and--oh, yes--to pick up some popcorn, “buttery
and fresh,” of course, while we were at it . (To this day
I believe that Pavlov himself was on the board of advisors to
the concession stand industry).
My brother and I looked at each other and sighed. There would
be no concession stand visits tonight. Our parents were Great
Depression trained. They guarded every penny as if it was their
last and concession stand food was a luxury we could do without;
mom’s popcorn and ice water would suffice.
It wasn’t long before the show started, and as usual, a
Warner Bros.' cartoon led the way. Daffy, Bugs or Porky primed
us up for the main feature and tonight the movie was “Rob
Roy.” (Bearded men in skirts with an attitude)
My brother and I were young; too young to appreciate the romance
but old enough to revel in the battle scenes and there were plenty
of them. We ate our popcorn and drank our ice water as the sounds
of Scottish mayhem played out through the tin speaker, the sound
distorting though the box as the action intensified.
It was nearly 11 p.m. when the closing credits rolled, well past
my bedtime. Something called “Red Garters” would be
the second feature of the night. Usually the second show was
a groaner but I would not be there to confirm or deny its merits.
The PJs were more than just a fashion statement; they had practical
implications as well. It was bedtime for me and unlike my older
brother; I rarely saw the second feature. With a blanket thrown
over me, I would curl up on my side of the seat; the demilitarized
zone was still in effect.
The show would end sometime after midnight but I was usually
oblivious to the time. The curtain had come down on my night-out
and as we made our way home, there never seemed to be a chuckhole
deep enough to wake me. I was lost in a dream, a dream of sword
wielding men--big bearded men--big bearded men in skirts.
©2004 by Kent Holsather. The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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