Wednesday nights were no longer the only times I went to the movies. On occasional Saturday afternoons, if I wasn’t dragged off to the footy by Rosely or didn’t have to help Horrie with the chores or we weren’t visiting or being visited by relatives or any number of other unpredictable events weren’t occurring, I was allowed to go to the matinee. There was offered a newsreel, a cartoon (the operatic Mighty Mouse was my favourite), a short such as The Three Stooges or Scotland Yard, two serials along the lines of King of the Rocketmen or Blackhawk, and then a movie deemed to be suitable for children. Mickey Rooney or Lassie frequently appeared in these films, which were never the same programs as offered the adults at night. The ones that Uncle Kevin saw...
    Of course, family expeditions to the pictures on Saturday nights still sometimes occurred, usually at the prompting of Uncle Kevin. If the fare was deemed suitable, I was allowed to go—but only if I was willing to forego the Saturday arvo matinee, for one of the things my mother knew with certainty was that too many movies distorted natural development. I can’t imagine where she got that idea. Much less imaginable was the criteria on which suitability for developing young minds was based. Certainly, many of those movies burned indelible images into my brain and remain with me still.