In 1981 Raiders of the Lost Ark came to the screen. I was ten. My brother had to have a small surgery and my mom was staying overnight with him in the hospital, so my dad took me to the movies. The theater we went to doesn’t exist anymore, but I remember the shopping mall and taking the escalator downstairs to the cinema. Just me and my dad. I felt special. Born in 1929, my dad grew up on the heroes of pulp fiction that cracked whips and shot off a gun while saving the day. I can’t watch any of the Indiana movies today without thinking fondly of that night with my dad.

Yesterday I went with my husband and kids to see the last of the series, Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny. I loved every second of it and thought it was genius to open with a young Harrison Ford flashback. Filled with Nazis and precious artifacts, wise cracking women and a few of the original cast, I watched transfixed.

At the end of the movie, while the credits rolled, I excused myself to use the restroom. My family stayed, hoping for a post-credit scene. I waited for them at the doors, watching people exit. I whispered to myself, “Did you like it dad? I miss you.” I’d like to think he was in the theater with me, chuckling at the crisp one liners, gasping as yet another chase scene unfolded. I sure hope so.