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Remember Rambo? How 'bout Holly Hobbie? Surely you haven't forgotten Mr. T. and the A-Team. They were the superheroes and stars of decades past, but for many a kid, they were also lunchtime buddies and status symbols that told how cool or uncool you were.

Each fall, the new sandwich suitcases of the season served as barometers of pop culture, broadcasting to the world what was in and what was out.

As kids everywhere head back to the classroom and cafeteria for a new school year, maybe it's time to take one last summer field trip and head down to Washington, D.C., to check out a new exhibit at the National Museum of American History.

"Taking America To Lunch" displays lunchboxes from the 1880s through the 1980s and examines how lunchboxes chronicled the culture of the times.

For years, parents lovingly tucked PB&J sandwiches and Tastykakes into the metal boxes adorned with popular characters, slipping a few fruits and veggies into the corners for good measure. They poured milk or juice into colorful thermoses and snapped the box latches shut.

They kissed the kiddos goodbye and sent them off to learn their ABCs and 1-2-3's, satisfied that the little ones would get a good meal come noon.

What the parents didn't foresee was that their children, being the kids that they were, might ultimately be responsible for the downfall of the lunchboxes they loved the most.

In true kid fashion, the elementary angels discovered that the lunchboxes weren't just good for carting around food. The square metal containers proved to be good weapons for whacking a friend-turned-enemy or bopping kids at the bus stop.

Maybe it was the violent principles embodied by Rambo, the last action star to adorn a metal lunchbox, that started all the commotion. Or maybe plastic boxes were just cheaper to produce.

Whatever the theory, the last metal lunchbox hit store shelves in 1985, leaving future generations of kids with only cheaper vinyl and plastic versions. As time went on, the lunchbox virtually vanished altogether in favor of brown bags and insulated canvas sacks.

Now, it's easier just to slip a few bucks into a pocket and leave the kids to fend for themselves in cafeterias that sell everything but the kitchen sink.

Plus, it's no longer cool to carry your lunch in a box.

Nobody told Dawn Kate that.

The 32-year-old Springettsbury Township woman regularly brings her midday meal to work in any of more than a dozen lunchboxes she uses on a rotating basis.

She thrives on being different.

Co-workers don't tease her — quite the contrary. They get a kick out of the nostalgic cases, some of which are decorated with stickers because, as Kate says, "that's part of the lunchbox culture."

She still has the metal Sesame Street and Fraggle Rock lunchboxes from her elementary school days and a plastic A-Team one she loves. A few years ago, she got a metal Rambo lunchbox for her birthday.

Kate knows the boxes can bring big bucks if kept in mint condition, but she bought them to use, not to collect dust.

Still, you won't catch her in the lunchroom eating out of her metal South Park or Monkees lunchboxes. Those two stay at home.

Brian Fox doesn't take any of his 319 metal lunchboxes out of his house.

In fact, the 41-year-old West York man treasures his collection so much that he has dedicated an entire room of his home to displaying the boxes.

A slate sign on the door is painted with Fox's favorite lunchbox — a VW bus lunchbox that he bought for $250 and later learned is worth more than $500 — and it welcomes visitors with the message "Off to lunch we go."

Inside is a paradise of nostalgia that includes old friends such as Strawberry Shortcake, Popeye, Scooby Doo, E.T. and the Peanuts gang.

The Harlem Globetrotters peek out from one shelf, while another displays several Star Wars models. Below, Campbell's Soup, Mickey Mouse and G.I. Joe boxes are lined up like soldiers in a military drill. The only one Fox ever used is the Major League Baseball box his mother saved from his elementary school days and gave to Fox when he started collecting lunchboxes 16 years ago.

He kept seeing the boxes at yard sales and flea markets he frequented in search of the comic books, cookie jars and Pez dispensers he also collects. The lunchboxes were a lot cheaper back then, so Fox decided to start scarfing them up before they got too expensive. "I knew the prices were increasing."

Now, he typically pays $25 to $45 for additions to his collection. Some of the boxes would only bring $10 if sold today, but others go for more than $500, depending on the condition of the box and how scarce it is.

For Fox, their value is mostly sentimental. "It just brings back childhood memories."

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