Did you ever have movie night at Grandma’s?
I suppose that question means something quite different today than it did when I was growing up.
When we have movie night with our grandchildren, we have choices. Lots of choices. We can find something on the Hallmark Movie Channel, pull out a DVD or Blu-ray, or search Netflix and one of the other streaming services until everyone agrees on something.
And yes, we still have VCR tapes.
I know.
Naturally, there has to be popcorn. And we usually have an assortment of pop available, because apparently grandchildren occasionally require a little sugar encouragement to make it through an entire movie.
Movie night at Grandma Cooper’s was nothing like that.
And somehow, it was every bit as exciting.
First, Everybody Had to Get Ready
Movie night didn’t begin with someone turning on the television.
It began with Grandma.
Everybody had to wash up and put on their pajamas.
That didn’t necessarily mean taking a bath. Saturday night was different because Sunday morning meant church, and if tomorrow was Sunday, there was going to be a bath.
No negotiations.
Which makes me wonder about something.
Why do we say take a bath?
For that matter, why do we take a walk, take a rest, or take a look?
We aren’t actually taking anything anywhere.
That sounds exactly like the sort of question Grandma Cooper could turn into a conversation.
She might explain that sometimes little words like take do more work than we realize. We take a nap or take a break. We have a drink or have a chat. We make a choice or make a promise. We give a sigh or give something a kick.
There is a proper grammatical explanation for all of this. Words such as take, have, make, and give can function as what grammarians call light verbs, where much of the meaning comes from the word that follows them.
I can almost hear Grandma explaining it without ever making it sound like a grammar lesson.
And—
Whoa.
I forgot where I was going.
Movie night.
The White Screen in Grandma’s Living Room
Once we were washed up and wearing our pajamas, we headed into the living room and found a place to sit.
I preferred the floor.
Standing there in front of us was a white movie screen, supported by those little tripod legs at the bottom. There wasn’t anything particularly impressive about it by today’s standards, but to Chere and me, that screen meant something special was about to happen.
Then came the waiting.
It still amazes me how my older sisters could make a few minutes seem like hours.
Chere and I would already be in the living room. We were ready. The screen was ready. As far as we were concerned, the entire world was ready.
Except our sisters.
So we waited.
Eventually Grandma brought out the 8mm projector and set it on one of the end tables.
That was part of movie night too.
There was no remote control. No button to push and certainly no asking a television to find the movie for you. Grandma had to thread the film through the projector, following its little pathway until everything was where it belonged.
We watched.
We waited.
And finally, our sisters arrived.
Now we could get serious.
Out came the buttered popcorn and grape juice.
Every now and then, though, Grandma really spoiled us.
Grape Nehi.
That was something special.
Then the Lights Went Out
Grandma turned off the lights.
The projector came on.
And there it was.
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.
I can still hear that sound.
The film moved through the projector and light danced across that white screen in Grandma Cooper’s living room.
There wasn’t any sound coming from the movie itself. These were silent home movies.
But that living room was anything but silent.
We supplied everything the film was missing.
We laughed. We squealed. We pointed. Somebody recognized somebody else. Someone remembered what happened just before the part we were watching. We knew what was coming and laughed anyway.
Birthdays appeared on the screen.
Christmas mornings.
Halloween costumes.
Family gatherings.
Even a trip or two.
These weren’t actors.
They were us.
We had seen those movies before. Some of them countless times. We knew what was going to happen, and it didn’t matter one bit.
The joy never wore out.
Perhaps that was because we weren’t really watching movies.
We were watching our family.
Grandma Was Saving More Than Film
I don’t know that I understood that when I was sitting on Grandma’s living room floor in my pajamas with popcorn in my lap.
Children seldom understand the importance of ordinary moments while they’re living them.
Why would we?
There would always be another Christmas.
Another birthday.
Another family gathering.
Another Saturday night.
Another movie night at Grandma’s.
Except eventually there wasn’t.
Years later, when we began having children of our own, we took plenty of pictures and shot plenty of home movies.
At first.
Then more children came along. Life became busier. Somewhere along the way, we didn’t take quite as many pictures. We didn’t record quite as many movies.
Then we became foster parents, and once again the cameras came out more often. We photographed and recorded moments because we understood something we perhaps hadn’t understood before.
Life changes quickly.
Children certainly do.
Today almost everyone carries a camera in a pocket. Everywhere we go, someone is taking a picture or recording a video. Sometimes I think we take more pictures of ourselves than we do of the world and people around us.
We probably have more photographs today than any generation before us.
But Grandma Cooper’s movie nights make me wonder whether having the pictures is really the same as sharing them.
The Lesson I Didn’t Do Very Well
This is where I have to admit something.
Grandma taught me the value of recording life as it happened, but more importantly, she taught me the value of bringing those memories back out and sharing them.
I haven’t done that nearly as well as she did.
We have family photographs sitting in albums in our living room.
We have videos tucked away in desk drawers and on closet shelves.
They’re safe.
But Grandma didn’t make those 8mm movies just to keep them safe.
She brought out the projector.
She unfolded the screen.
She threaded the film.
She popped the popcorn and poured the grape juice.
Then she gathered everybody into one room and turned off the lights.
She gave the memories back to us.
Maybe that was the part of her lesson I missed.
Preserving a family memory is only half the job.
The other half is sitting down together and remembering it.
Maybe It’s Time for Another Movie Night
Technology has certainly made recording our lives easier.
We don’t have to buy film. We don’t have to wait for pictures to be developed. We don’t have to thread 8mm film through a projector and hope it doesn’t break halfway through someone’s birthday party.
We can carry thousands of photographs and hundreds of videos on something small enough to fit in a pocket.
Yet I wonder how often we actually sit together and look at them.
Not scrolling alone.
Not posting one for someone to click a little heart beneath.
Actually sitting together.
Maybe Grandma Cooper had the better idea.
Get everybody into their pajamas.
Make a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
Pour something special to drink.
Turn down the lights.
And bring the family memories back out.
I probably won’t find any Grape Nehi in Grandma’s refrigerator this time.
And I certainly won’t hear that old 8mm projector clacking away on the end table.
But if we get the family together, show the old pictures and videos, laugh at ourselves, tell the stories behind them and remember people we haven’t seen in far too long, I think Grandma would recognize movie night just fine.
After all, the movie was never really the important part.
Being together was.
The Cooper Shortcut Camping Journey Trio 😊 PlusOne
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