Paltry Sum

A few days ago, Husby and I went to a movie. 

We enjoyed it.

And we got in for the price of $25.00 for the two of us.

And that included two drinks, and a bag of popcorn to share.

Bargain.

And as he was swiping his debit card, I was remembering another theatre experience.

In another time.

For the paltry sum of fifty cents . . .

Fifty cents used to be a lot of money.

And gave you the ability to do amazing things.

Let me explain . . .

Saturday.

That wonderful day of the week when one didn't have to dive frantically from their beds, feverishly dash through a morning routine, and drive frantically to catch the school bus.

No.

On Saturday, one could leisurely climb out of bed.

Enjoy a healthy breakfast.

And spend the morning . . . diverting.

Okay, well I don't know about the rest of the family (ie. Mom . . . and everyone else), but I could.

And the best part of Saturday?

Talking Dad into taking me and my siblings into town for the movies.

Remember, we lived twenty miles away.

On sketchy 'gravelled' roads.

Sometimes, it took a great deal of talking.

On the days we were successful, he would pull up to the theatre, hand each of us fifty cents, and wave as we scrambled for the door.

The smell of freshly popped and popping corn would wash over me the instant I stepped inside. Clutching my money, I made a dash for the admissions counter and handed over half of my precious coins.

Then I took up a post in front of the all-important concession and eyed the limitless possibilities.

After several moments of tempting myself with mouth-watering indecision, I made my choice.

Inevitably, a glass bottle of Grape Crush (with the all-important paper straw) and a bag of popcorn.

With a nickle for a package of red licorice.

Then, clutching my booty and my ticket, I would approach that magical doorway to infinite worlds and possibilities.

The door-keeper would tear my precious ticket in half with a grin and an, “Enjoy the show!” and I was inside.

The curtains, deep green velvet, would be tightly closed, hiding the magic behind them.

Reverently, eyes glued to them, I would slowly make my way down the sloping, creaking wooden floor to my chosen seat.

Somewhere near the front.

Preferably in the first two rows.

Then, one hand stuffing popcorn into my mouth, and the other clutching my precious bottle of pop, I would settle back.

Waiting for the magic.

Waiting to be transported to another place and time.

Suddenly, the house lights would dim and a bright beam would shoot through the air and snare the green curtains in a noose of light.

They would slowly begin to part.

I should mention here that, for years, I thought that the thick, heavy curtains actually became opaque.

And that the beam of light was shining through them from the back.

Yeah. So, Einstein, I wasn't.

Moving on . . .

For the next two hours, I was somewhere else.

Watching the lives and/or exploits of someone else.

It was magic.

Occasionally, reality would intrude for precious seconds.

Especially if the projectionist was a bit slow in starting the second and/or third reels.

But mostly, my immersion was happy and complete.

Another world.

Another time.

Another life.

Complete with yummy snacks.

All opened to me for the paltry sum of fifty cents.