OPINION: Time lost, time retained, time to be had

When I was in college, I had a project for one of my film history classes which required me to discuss theatergoing with someone who went to the movies before the ’60s. This was at a time when movies would stay in theaters for quite a while, sometimes months at a time.

Each classic theater at this time had their own quirks. Some theaters doubled as both for the movies and also for local stage productions. The concept of a balcony might seem foreign in the multiplexes of today, but many theaters had them.

It’s worth mentioning drive-ins as well, which feel like a time capsule of a time when prestige and perfection in theater setups didn’t matter in a dark summer night.

I chose to interview my grandpa, who has been one of my heroes throughout my life. He’s a caring guy, incredibly smart. My grandpa was a journalist and even a critic at one point. We both have a passion for storytelling.

My grandpa is always particular about his movies. He still keeps his old VHS tapes and will always figure out a way to configure whatever new TV to play them. He’s unapologetic, always saying he “likes the movies he likes.”

During the interview, in what has become one of my favorite and formative interviews I’ve ever done, I noticed my grandpa getting emotional. The topic of the interview drifted from movies to a general look back at his childhood, and I realized the distance across decades it must be to look back so far into the past.

I don’t like interrupting others during my interviews. Not only is it somewhat rude, but it’s also not my place to try to wrangle another person’s story. I’ll always let someone talk as much as they need because this is often one of the few times they get to tell their own story.

What’s important to me might not matter when I realize how valuable a conversation can be to someone. As I watched my grandpa recount ball games and say the only reason to sit in the back of the theater is to make out with a date (he clarified this wasn’t a personal experience, but everyone in the theater knew what was happening), I realized he probably hasn’t thought so far back in a while.

In most of my personal columns, I talk a lot about time. How should we spend our time on this planet? Even the purpose of this column, to talk about movies, has become smaller and smaller as I shrink away from regular moviegoing because that use of this space, this time, isn’t as valuable.

I don’t have a good memory. I wonder a lot of if I’ve wasted a lot of time in my life. I regret as much as I fondly remember. There’s people in my life I’ll never speak to again who I’ll remember forever. It’s tricky how that works.

Dwelling, and by extension daydreaming what could have been, is about as useful as drawing a picture in the beach sand. It’ll be gone as soon as you move on. Yet, tantalizing perfection calls whenever we’re alone with our own thoughts.

During my interview with my grandpa, I wondered if he realized the same thing I was realizing. My grandpa will be gone one day. He’s the last grandparent I will talk to. This conversation we were having might be our last.

My grandpa is still with us today and plans to go to Hawaii next year, and our conversation wasn’t the last. But that interview serves as a reminder to me how time will never stop.

The recording of my grandpa is preserved in the University of Iowa’s database. It’s available for those who go looking. I’m sure I’ll return to it for both good and grief.

I have a habit of shrinking into my own head and refusing to let people know what I’m thinking. It’s apparently a family trait, as my dad recounted about his dad and how I remember my own dad. I think it’s some ancient survival instinct which hasn’t evolved out of us yet.

It’s why the idea of keeping those close to me, those who accept me, is becoming increasingly more valuable. There’s not enough time to spend forever in my own head. There’s still time to see them again.