We slump on the wooden floor, watch Miss Universe on a black and white TV, drink ice cold Kool-aid from small Dixie cups. Mom and Dad, aunts and uncles lounge on overstuffed, plastic-covered sofas. Even as kids we know those pricey status symbols are for adults only, but someday we’ll sit on them. When the show ends we hug, pile into cold Chevys, hope for the next contest. Year after year, the families gather until cousins and siblings move out of state, parents age and die, the pageants tank. In our retirement condos the cousins remotely reunite on Facebook or Zoom, toast each other with red wine and imported beer. On baby boomer websites we wax nostalgic about plastic-covered sofas, but never buy them.