go.Jimmy.go

It was a rainy Sunday morning at the Wood Estate. Coffee in hand, I wandered down the driveway to retrieve the Sunday newspaper, wrapped in its familiar plastic sleeve and glistening with rain.

I know what you’re thinking. In 2026, why am I still reading a printed newspaper?

The truth is, I could have picked up my phone before I even got out of bed. Every headline, every breaking story, every opinion piece was already waiting for me. But there’s something about unfolding a newspaper that a screen has never been able to replace. The rustle of the pages. The smell of the ink. The quiet ritual of reading one story before the next instead of endlessly scrolling.

While skimming the usual headlines—politics, world events, the economy—I found myself lingering on the entertainment section. More specifically, the movie listings.

Normally I’d glance right past them. These days, showtimes are just a tap away. But something made me stop and look to see what was playing at the two remaining drive-in theaters in our area.

Drive-ins have become rarer with every passing year. They’re relics of another era, surviving more on nostalgia than necessity. As I stared at the listings, I thought about making plans for a visit before summer slipped away.

I used to love going to the drive-in when I was growing up. In fact, my very first job after high school was working at one, before it was turned into a housing development.

Some of my favorite memories weren’t just the movies—they were everything surrounding them. The smell of popcorn drifting through the air. Children tossing footballs and chasing lightning bugs before dusk. Families unfolding lawn chairs beside their cars while waiting for the sun to disappear.

Then reality interrupted.

It’s already the end of July. Before long, summer will give way to packed schedules, shorter days, and the routines we all promise won’t consume us this year.

The drive-in can wait, I thought. It’ll always be there.

But will it?

All it takes is one difficult season, one data center developer with an offer, and one headline announcing that another piece of Americana has quietly disappeared.

It made me wonder how many other things we assume will always be waiting for us.

The people we love:

Parents who somehow seem permanent until the day they aren’t. Grandparents whose stories we always think we’ll have time to hear one more time. Friends we mean to call next week.

Our children:

One day they’re chasing lightning bugs at a drive-in. Then they’re learning to drive. Before you realize what’s happened, you’re helping them pack boxes for a life that no longer includes your daily presence.

The places that shaped us:

An old neighborhood. A favorite restaurant. The elementary school where lifelong memories were made. We expect them to remain frozen in time until one day we drive by and discover they’re gone, replaced by something new that has no idea what stood there before.

Even the little things like birds singing in the morning, the scent of honeysuckle on a warm summer evening, the sound of crickets after sunset.

A favorite bookstore. A familiar diner… The local drive-in.

We rarely appreciate them because they’ve always been there. Until they aren’t.

Even the moon deserves a moment of gratitude. Think about it. The same moon that hangs over us tonight shined down on Abraham Lincoln, Beethoven, Amelia Earhart, your grandparents, and someday, your great-grandchildren. It’s one of the few constants in a world that never stops changing.

Maybe that’s why we overlook it. Constancy has a funny way of making us forget how extraordinary something really is.

I folded the newspaper closed and stared outside at the rain.

Maybe we’ll go to the drive-in next weekend if the weather cooperates.

If life doesn’t get in the way. If it’s still there.

There I go again.