Mall Madness at Kiddie Playland

Mall Madness at Kiddie Playland  

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     I will do anything to avoid any mall in any large city. I don't know what possessed me to suggest the mall. It was a nice day. My five-year-old granddaughter Lexi and I could have hung out on the waterfront.

     For twenty-five years I had lived within ten miles of the Silverdale Mall. Frequently two or three years would pass without me needing to mall shop. But I wished to buy one more thing for my trip. A store there carried the exact underwear I wanted.

     There is a "playland" center at the mall next to the Food Court where small kids can hang out while Mom or Dad dash into a store for that essential something-or-other. I figured Lexi could enjoy playing while we waited for her father. We three had plans for our day. He had phoned to let me know he would be late.

     Mind you, I had never paid attention to this or any other play center. I'm truly a novice at taking a grandchild to the mall to "play". When my own children were small I never once said, "Let's go play at the mall!" Perhaps even now they are spending thousands of dollars in therapy due to my benign neglect.

     This particular playland has a sea theme. That makes sense with the bay a half-dozen blocks away. So the play toys include a submarine, a whale, a sea monster, starfish, a boat, an "underwater" cave and other vaguely fishy objects. A low wall with a seating area for parents surrounds and defines the area. There is one entrance and hence, one exit.

     Lexi hit the entrance running, her shoes flew off her feet, and she clambered atop the submarine, jumped down, ran circles around, into, through, over, under and out of every obstacle, leaping from high onto the padded deck wherever possible.

     I picked up Lexi's shoes, and inched my way through the entrance and sat at the edge. I wanted assurance I could make a quick get-away if necessary. There were perhaps a dozen children of various ages playing, all at full tilt. I tried to track Lexi around, into, through, over, under and out of the maze. The motion made me feel slightly sick to my stomach.

     Within minutes, it seemed the play center  held two hundred writhing, leaping, flying creatures. I know that is not accurate. It seemed that way.

     The youngsters ranged in age from a tiny girl just barely able to walk who climbed up the back of a knobby sea monster and slid down, back up, then down for a solid hour with the help of her bigger brother, to three or four kids who were entirely too old to be playing on this equipment. The older ones didn't stay long.

     The whole scene reminded me of a model of an atom with the sub-atomic electrons, protons and neutrons whirling and twirling like dervishes. I found myself holding my breath, afraid Lexi was in danger of losing life or limb or, worse, of the whole center exploding in a nuclear cloud of smoke.

     All I could figure is that there must be an unspoken code, rules that these children are encoded with at birth. I saw not one collision. Not one accident. I could see no discernible pause or pattern. Believe me, there should have been tangled limbs, blood and mayhem. Well, to my eyes, there was mayhem.

     By the time Ben arrived I was a wreck. My stomach was in knots. I had a headache. My last nerve had exited an hour earlier. Lexi was fine.

     I would rather bungee jump into the Grand Canyon, parachute over the Himalayas, or swim shark infested waters than take a grandchild to the mall play center.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 31, 2013

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How I Beat the Odds and Flew the Cheap Flight

How I Beat the Odds and Flew the Cheap Flight ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

My friends Richard and Marcia told me about a new airline with really cheap flights if you happened to want to go to one of their destination cities. Richard said that for the cheapest seats, they strapped you to the wings. That Richard is such a tease. But I understood that this would be a no-frills flight. Not even a tiny bag of free peanuts!

Once I figured out how to unlock the information for "flight only" on the website, bypassing all the marvelous vacation deals with hotel, rental limo and gourmet meals, I discovered that I was indeed in luck. I wanted to go to one of the Sun Cities for a short visit with a friend. Cheap-Seats-R-Us listed my city as one of their few destinations. I could make the entire round trip for less than I usually pay for gas to get out of Montana.

Living in Montana is like being stuck on fly paper. It is hard to lift off! When I lived in Seattle it cost me a fortune to fly into Great Falls, the closest airport to home. It was cheaper to fly to London. On the other hand I could fly to Las Vegas, should I want to go there, for $69.00. For the same price, and with a strong tail wind, I can fly from, say, Harlem to Turner.

But that is neither here nor there. On Cheap-Flights-R-Us, I found I could fly round trip from Great Falls to my destination city for a mere $86.30. A hot-diggity-dog deal.

But wait—what about those add-on fees, such as the Federal Excise Tax. And what is this "segment fee"? Bugs have segments. But I’m a human being. Did I count as one segment or more than one segment? Are arms and legs each a segment? What in tarnation is a PFC? And a September 11 Security Fee? I kept my booking receipt just to prove it to you. See, says so right here. To all of this, add on a Carrier Usage Charge. I guess that means I was allowed to actually board the plane and stay on it from Point A to Point B. If I wanted to choose my seat, I had to add another $30.00. If I let them choose for me, I paid nothing. That was a tough one. I like to sit with my damaged leg on the aisle so I can get out of my seat at the end of the flight. But, hey, thirty dollars is thirty dollars. I’m now up to $133.98 and at the mercy of computer-pick seating, which is like a poor-man lottery.

Now we come to the fine print—baggage fees. One is allowed to carry on a purse or wallet for no charge. However, on Cheap-Seats-R-Us, a carry-on bag costs $30.00 if you pre-pay. More if you wait until you check in. The first checked bag costs $50.00 and the next one costs $80.00, pre-paid, more at check in. This brought my $86.30 ticket to a grand total of $235.96; that is for myself and one bag, pre-paid. Get the picture?

Ha! I created the perfect solution. I was headed to sunny shores for a short couple weeks. I had to smile at how clever I was. First I put on an adequate number of sets of undergarments. Then I squeezed into my bathing suit. Over that I pulled on two pair of shorts, two short pants, one long trousers, one loose wide-legged dressy pants. With five or six blouses and shirts, I was set. I strung several necklaces around my neck and jammed a ring on each finger. I didn’t say I looked stylish but I certainly did look cheerful. I could tell because everybody grinned at me. I wore my best sandals. In my oversize purse I tucked my toothbrush and several "beach read" type books and a folded large plastic trash bag. I could hardly move my arms or legs.

I knew I’d be in trouble if I had to take off my clothes to clear Security. What a relief when I was directed through the full-body scanner. The person monitoring the scanner made me stand on the mat with my arms up while he called over several co-workers to take a look. Finally he waved me through with a friendly smile. When I boarded the airplane, all I had to do was squeeze into the seat, extend the seatbelt to the longest length and tug it to fasten it.

When I got off the plane I waddled down the concourse to the nearest bathroom. I quickly stripped down to one set of clothing and stowed the rest of my garments in the plastic garbage bag. Voila. I walked out of the terminal carrying my plastic luggage and a savings of $102.00.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 13, 2013_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Riding the Rails

Riding the Rails
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I love trains. And that is a good thing because my home is plunk across the street from the tracks. I never did figure out why my Dad built his house here, where the trains practically run through the living room. He never did say. Maybe Dad liked trains too. I remember summer times when, out in the fields, we would hear the whistle and stop our work to watch the Empire Builder roll by. To this day, when I hear that lonesome whistle blow, I bless Hank Williams and fight off a hankering to hit the rails.

Back in high school my friend Charlotte and I day-dreamed of adventures, long bicycle trips, heading down the highway. We had no money, but we each had a bicycle. Bikes were different in those days. They had one speed and only went as fast as one could push the pedals. We planned elaborate trips to Chicago or Denver or San Francisco , our luggage a change of clothes and a bar of soap wrapped in canvas, tied on the rack in back. We planned to stop in small towns along the way. We imagined ourselves sauntering into the local café and offering to wait tables (Her) and wash dishes (Me) in exchange for food and maybe a cot in the back pantry. Then we would head down the road again in a few days. In our minds she and I criss-crossed the entire continental United States. We never once considered any risk or danger to ourselves. Our dreams never came to fruition. Once we graduated high school, we both got married, an altogether different adventure, much more risky and dangerous.

So I have never hitch-hiked or biked around the country, but I ride the trains when I get a chance. Living where I live, trains are ever present. Each train has a different whistle tone. Often when the Empire Builder halts on the tracks right outside my front door, I stand on my porch, lean on the railing, and wave to the passengers. In the middle of the night a 2:30 freight rumbles through town. For some reason, I always hear its whistle and it is a comfort to me. Much of the train traffic, though, is just wallpaper, background scenery.

Yesterday afternoon while I took a break from my work and sipped a cup of tea, I opened the door to watch a westbound freight slow nearly to a stop as it rolled through town on its trek toward the sea. Two men with a shepherd dog on a leash jumped from a boxcar. “Hoboes” I thought.

My imagination shifted into overdrive. The hoboes would see me standing in my open front door, cross the street, and say, “Ma’am, you got any work we can do for a bite to eat.” I would point to the snow shovel, the ice chipper, and my driveway, piled high with crusted snow.

While they worked I would go into my kitchen and make them thick, hearty sandwiches, brew a pot of coffee and carry it outside for them to eat. I would get a pail of water for the dog, Ralph. I would scrape together something for the dog to eat, perhaps the left-over meat loaf. In the stories that came out of the Great Depression the woman always carried the sandwiches outside for the hoboes to eat on the steps. I would ache to know who they were and where they were going, but I would not ask personal questions; the Code of the West, you know. Before they continued their journey, they would have chalked my door with the secret symbol, letting other travelers know I was an easy mark for a bite of food.

However, these two men did not cross the street. They did not clear my snow-filled driveway. I noticed that both men carried hiking packs that looked like state-of-the-art models. They wore insulated clothing and parkas, the kind you buy from LL Bean. There was nothing shabby about this duo. The men removed their parkas and stood alongside the tracks for several minutes in conversation. They had a relaxed look about them. The dog looked well fed and well groomed. I wondered why they taken to traveling in a boxcar. I know times are tough but these two did not appear destitute. They looked like they might have the rail fare along with a sheaf of credit cards tucked in their wallets. One man took a map from his backpack. After a few minutes, they tied their coats to their packs, slung the packs onto their backs and hiked down the street toward the highway and out of sight.

A part of me yearned to grab my own pack and hurry to catch up with them, to go wherever they were headed, to go beyond my everyday life. Oh, heck. I finished my tea, closed my front door, and went back to work.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 11, 2010
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