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The Projector at America’s Oldest Drive-In Became Too Old to Receive New Movies Paul Geissinger had been working at Shankweiler’s Drive-In since 1971 when Hollywood informed theaters that the film cans would stop coming. For most of its life, the Orefield, Pennsylvania, drive-in received motion pictures on reels of 35mm film. A projectionist threaded them through a machine, changed reels and sent light across the field toward a screen first raised in 1934. Digital distribution changed the bargain. Studios could ship a hard drive instead of manufacturing and transporting heavy film prints. Indoor theater chains installed new projectors. Small independent cinemas were told that without similar equipment, they would soon be unable to book current releases. For Shankweiler’s owners Paul and Susan Geissinger, conversion meant an investment of approximately $120,000. Earlier estimates placed the necessary borrowing even higher. It was a daunting sum for a seasonal business whose seats were parking spaces and whose income could be reduced by rain. The alternative was closure. Shankweiler’s had survived earlier physical threats. Hurricane Diane destroyed its projection booth and screen in 1955. They were rebuilt with a CinemaScope screen, snack bar and new booth. Later owners replaced window-mounted car speakers with local AM and then FM transmission. In 2013, Paul and Susan installed a digital Barco projector and cinema server. The change preserved the large outdoor image while ending the nightly ritual of threading physical film. They eventually placed the theater on the market. In 2022, Matthew McClanahan and Lauren McChesney pooled their savings and secured a $1 million loan to purchase it before the land could be lost to redevelopment. They expanded Shankweiler’s to year-round operation. America had more than 4,000 drive-ins at the industry’s peak. By 2024, fewer than 300 remained. Shankweiler’s survived because successive owners understood that preserving an old place sometimes requires removing the machinery people remember. The projector that saved it in 2013 did not rattle like film. It kept the screen lit.

Rosanne Cash was eighteen and riding through the South on her father’s tour bus when Johnny Cash mentioned an old song. She did not know it. He named another, and she did not know that one either. The answers troubled him enough that he spent the rest of the afternoon writing. Rosanne had joined the tour in 1973, shortly after graduating from high school. She had grown up largely in Southern California after her parents’ marriage broke apart, listening deeply to the Beatles and other pop and rock music. Going on the road offered work, but it also returned her to a father whose life had often unfolded somewhere else. Across the top of a sheet of paper, Johnny wrote “100 Essential Country Songs.” The contents reached beyond country: Appalachian ballads, gospel, Delta blues, folk and protest songs—the streams he believed had fed American music. At the end of the day, he handed it to her and called it her education. Rosanne learned many of the songs, then placed the list among her belongings and built a career intent on carrying her own name. Recording the document too quickly would have created the very suspicion she feared: that Johnny Cash’s daughter was using her father’s legacy instead of earning an identity apart from it. Johnny died in 2003. Rosanne’s mother, Vivian Liberto, died in 2005. Later that year, while revisiting family material, Rosanne found the list again. By then it no longer felt like an assignment from a famous musician. It was something a father had made for his daughter during an afternoon they happened to have together. Her husband, musician and producer John Leventhal, encouraged her to record from it. She resisted, then selected twelve songs rather than trying to turn the paper into a museum catalog. The List appeared in 2009, thirty-six years after the bus ride. The sheet had begun as Johnny Cash’s attempt to correct what his daughter did not know. It survived long enough to become evidence of what he had quietly given her.

Marty Stuart Found Patsy Cline’s Name on a Makeup Case in a Junk Shop Marty Stuart was walking through a Nashville junk shop when he noticed a makeup case carrying Patsy Cline’s name. To another shopper, it could have been a damaged piece of old luggage. Stuart understood that the case had once traveled through dressing rooms and backstage corridors with a woman whose recorded voice had outlived almost everything surrounding her working life. He bought it. That object became part of a collecting habit that expanded alongside Stuart’s career. He saved handwritten lyrics, instruments, photographs, correspondence and stage clothing at a time when many country estates had no museum, archive or clear plan. Boots and rhinestone suits were sold piecemeal. Papers remained in drawers. Items left by the curb could lose their identities before anyone recognized their historical value. Stuart was unusually positioned to notice. He had begun touring with Lester Flatt while still a teenager, later played in Johnny Cash’s band and built his own career during the 1980s and 1990s. The people represented by the artifacts were not remote legends to him. Some had been employers, friends, relatives by marriage or musicians encountered backstage. His collection eventually exceeded 22,000 items. It included Johnny Cash’s first black performance suit, stage clothing associated with Patsy Cline, instruments, photographs and original Hank Williams manuscripts bearing corrections in Williams’s own hand. For years, Stuart stored and exhibited portions of the collection while planning a permanent cultural center in his hometown of Philadelphia, Mississippi. In 2024, he transferred the collection to the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, placing it in public trust. The museum also formed a continuing partnership with Marty Stuart’s Congress of Country Music, where artifacts will return to Mississippi for exhibitions and education. The donation required two climate-controlled tractor-trailer loads. Country music has often preserved its songs more carefully than the ordinary objects surrounding the people who made them. Stuart began with a discarded case whose value depended upon someone recognizing a name. He spent the following decades making certain the name could not be separated from the object again.

At 2:30 One Afternoon, the Traffic Outside Angel Delgadillo’s Barbershop Disappeared Angel Delgadillo remembered the time because a barber learns the rhythm outside his window. Before September 22, 1978, approximately 9,000 vehicles passed daily through Seligman, Arizona, on Route 66. At busy hours, Delgadillo sometimes waited ten or fifteen minutes for a break in traffic before crossing the street. Then Interstate 40 opened around the town. The cars did not gradually thin. They moved to the new highway a few miles away. Delgadillo later recalled that by midafternoon, residents could stand in the old road without needing to step aside. His barbershop depended on travelers, railroad employees and townspeople whose incomes came from the same traffic. Motels, filling stations and restaurants began closing. When the railroad later reduced its Seligman operations, another part of the customer base disappeared. Delgadillo remained behind his chair. During the following years, occasional visitors began finding the old road. They entered the shop carrying memories of family vacations, roadside signs and the slower America they associated with Route 66. Listening while he cut their hair, Delgadillo realized that the abandoned highway still possessed value—but only if travelers could find it. In February 1987, he gathered fifteen business owners to form the Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona. They lobbied for signs and official recognition of the surviving road between Seligman and Kingman. Later that year, Arizona designated the section Historic Route 66. Similar organizations formed elsewhere. What began among merchants trying to keep small businesses alive developed into a preservation movement extending across the old highway’s eight states. Congress later established a Route 66 preservation program within the National Park Service. Delgadillo’s barbershop became a visitor center and gift shop. The chair remained, but travelers now came from around the world to hear how the road had vanished and returned. The interstate had offered speed by removing Seligman from the journey. A barber put the town back on the map by asking drivers to leave the interstate on purpose.