pretty sure they have them at the Library Commission.”
And so it came to pass that Terry hosted a Chaplin film festival. Like a jury deliberating over a verdict, he pondered which films to screen.
“I’m definitely showing The Gold Rush. But I’m not sure whether to get the original or the later reissue.”
“Is that the one where he eats his shoe?”
“Yeah, that scene’s a classic.”
A film purist, he opted for the original 1925 version of The Gold Rush. He objected to reissues, especially the colorized versions of black-and-white classics, like It’s a Wonderful Life. “I can’t understand why they mess around with those great movies.”
Much thought was expended on selecting the second film for his double feature. “I’m leaning toward The Kid; it’s sad and funny. I think the kids would like The Kid. Hey, that’s funny. Kids, kid. Want a beer?”
I drink beer only with pizza, and even then I could settle for a Diet Coke. But for Terry, beer was ubiquitous. I can’t recall a time when there wasn’t a six pack of Bud in our fridge and a generous supply of Johnnie Walker in the liquor cabinet. He never ran out. I didn’t give it much thought back then. Everyone smoked and drank, some more heavily than others. Perhaps I was already in denial.
The day before the screening, he lugged an eight millimeter projector, portable screen, and two reels of film up two flights of stairs and set them in our living room.
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