February 22, 2006
By No. 7
In North Mississippi, where I was raised, my dad was a fireman. We had a "picture show" there, and the owner would let policemen and firemen wearing their uniforms in for 10 cents rather than the full 35 cents.
I don't know which my dad loved most getting dressed in his double-breasted navy blue uniform with the starched white shirt and solid black tie or going to the movies? In this case, he got to do both.
For some reason, he believed this almost weekly trip as a father-and-son-event, so he always invited me along. And much like him, it was never clear if my motive for going to the movies was to be with dad, to see the movie, or to pick out Milk Duds from the candy counter. So, much like him, I got it all.
I don't go to the movies without thinking about him and his role in introducing me to this magical pastime.
For years, I've been driven by my career, raised my kids almost alone, played a lot and volunteered some. But I've made time each Friday morning to go to the movies.
I will go see almost any show for fear that I might miss a good one.
(No. 7 reviews movies for 225 online. No idea why he prefers to remain anonymous or calls himself No. 7)
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