Packin’ a Roll of Quarters

I grew up as a tag-along to a mother whose Holy Grail was in quest of the best bargain. At first I thought whatever my hometown could offer was the outer limits of her search. But life’s perceptions certainly changed with the development of shopping malls.

My boyhood hometown transformed from farming community to bedroom community right before my eyes. A radical shift in lifestyle happened when Highway 40 gave way to Interstate 70. Eventually, city jobs and shopping habits changed everything in the 1960s.

Oh, I can remember the former ways …much anticipated trips to the “dime store” to point out my choice of 1-cent hard candies in a glass counter display case. The best cafe in town was also the Greyhound bus stop. The aroma from coffee beans being ground at the end of the checkout counter dominates memories of the A&P on one corner of the 4-way stop, one of three grocery stores serving a town of less than 2,000.

Like Woodruff’s once serving Gallatin, an ice cream factory served my hometown. It was strategically located, only a few steps from the high school. The juke box at the ice cream factory picked your pocket for whatever change you had left over after buying a chocolate malt to celebrate the end of another football or basketball practice.

Men wore hats and ties and the women wore dresses to church. We had a roller skating rink. The local theater was appropriately called “The Dixie” where, inappropriately and embarrassingly, the balcony provided lingering vestiges of segregation.

There was no need for speed bumps in our town; angle parking packed vehicles so tightly that nobody drove very fast down Main Street. After all, a fender bender quite likely might involve a relative or at least a personal acquaintance. You didn’t really need much gasoline; “gas wars” sometimes pushed prices down to 19.9 cents a gallon to prod demand.

Yes, before shopping malls you could literally live a Norman Rockwell painting. But eventually, and in hindsight predictably, the mall helped change all that.

The developers who built the Blue Ridge Mall on the east side of KC put a target on every small town along I-70. Shopping habits were already beyond the farmers’ Saturday night bath and sashay to town. Going to the mall was the next big event, proof that mobile was modern. Everything just seemed different and more exciting at the mall, or so we were sold.

Well, not everything.

If you’re a boy without any spending money, a trip to the mall meant hours upon hours of wasted time. A lot of the free stuff was for girls – smelly perfume or makeup samples and such. I roamed for food and learned to stay far away from the good stuff – any place selling pizza (the aroma was just too much to take) or Coca-Cola (I kept a lookout to be among the first to volunteer, but I never was offered the Pepsi Challenge). When you’re broke, the only way to avoid such financial snares was just don’t go.

Still, despite such safeguards, there are no guarantees. On one particular occasion, not eating didn’t save me from normal consequences of consumption. I needed to go to the bathroom. Bad. But where?

I usually liked it when mom allowed me to separate and meander on my own recognizance. But that meant you had to pay attention, to anticipate the unanticipated on your own. I think I recalled some restrooms at the Jones Store, or was it was in the basement of Penney’s? I couldn’t remember. And why, oh why, did they always have to put the largest stores with public restrooms as anchors at the furthest walking points within the mall?

My situation dictated prompt action. So, I ducked into the next doorway and bounded over the tortoise-slow escalator to the basement. To my great relief, one of the two large grey doors towards the corner said “Gentlemen.” But to my utter disbelief, there was a newfangled gizmo where the door handle would be found on any door back home. Thus, the mall introduced me to a most ugly side of capitalist greed: my first coin-operated bathroom.

I literally sank to my knees in that busy hallway in utter disbelief. Surprisingly, this temporarily afforded enough relief for me to think more clearly. I knew I was quicker than the last ol’ man I saw making a deposit to make his deposit. And here I was, already crouched and ready as if in sprinter’s blocks.

Then an unnerving thought struck: If you had to pay to get in, what if you had to pay to get out?

I can’t remember whether the coin slot demanded a dime or a quarter. No matter. At the time I had neither. But to my greeeeeeat relief, a stranger took pity on this little beggar on his knees to offer assistance. The Bible story about the Good Samaritan told during many a Sunday School never had such impact.

All this comes to mind because Liz and I plan to celebrate our 40^th wedding anniversary by taking a little trip. It’s been quite awhile since our last real vacation. I know some things have changed.

We’re thinking about heading north into Minnesota before swinging through Wisconsin and across to Michigan. It’s not going to be normal for us. We won’t answer the phone. We’re not going to be on a schedule. We don’t exactly know what we’re going to do until we get there. The only sure things are that we won’t have enough money, we have to be back home by a certain time, and we’ll be dog tired from doin’ nothing.

Kinda like whenever mom took me to the mall.

It could be we’ll drive within a few miles of the Mall of America in Bloomington, MN – also known as “The Megamall” or the “Sprawl of America.” Since it opened in 1992, the huge shopping mall near the Twin Cities has averaged over 40 million visitors each year. I’m sure most of these are friendly folks, but that’s a few million this small town boy can do without.

And if against my better judgment we do go to the mall, I’m going to have at least one quarter in my pocket just in case of an emergency. That’s why a roll of quarters is the first thing that will go into my suitcase. If it was a dime back then, I’m sure it’s a quarter by now. Maybe more.

Wish me luck.