Everyone of a certain age has their “bouncing around the back” of a station wagon story. Usually one that entails fake wood siding, and sibling squabbles that rival those of Cain and Abel. I’m sure I have a few myself, but the reality is that my memory just isn’t that good. I keep only about five to ten years back in active usage, another ten are sometimes brought up for the occasional recollection, and the rest are more vague. What I have instead are moments in time, and composites of things that probably happened again and again but have been entwined into one memory.
That’s how it is with the drive-in for me. It was one of our regular family outings when I was young, and the only thing I still associate with station wagons.

My grandmother was unflappable. Mémère could fall asleep in a room full of chaos. Nothing ever seemed to bother her. She had no hesitation taking her young granddaughter into the deep Maine woods to go blueberry picking, even though her granddaughter had a life threatening allergy to bees. Clearly she was right, because no catastrophe ever occurred but rather just wonderful memories eating handfuls of blueberries right from the bushes.