By Angie Vogt, political commentary
The mind is a terrible thing — it can be your best friend or worst enemy.
The tendency to build expectations, then learning how to handle our disappointments can make the difference between war and peace, happiness and depression, anger and humor. The best memories can come from our disappointments, if only we adjust our attitudes.
Recently I took my children on a Northwest experience, the “Snowball Express.” It’s billed as a “scenic railroad around Mt. Rainier.” Tickets are $15 to $25 depending on when you go. The train travels through a scenic area and ends up at Santa’s workshop where passengers can visit with Santa, get some cookies from “Mrs. Claus” before heading back. It’s a three-hour round trip. I even waited until two days before our excursion to tell my kids about it because I knew they’d be too excited and the anticipation would be too much.
We drove to this open field, a very muddy area, with railroad tracks. No building, no cool station…just a bunch of people bundled up with their thermoses and blankets. Finally at 10:35 a.m. (they told us to be there at 10 a.m. for a 10:30 departure), a train lumbered on the tracks in front of us. We boarded the train through one entry (there was only one platform). Most of the cars were gross — old and smelly with that “public bench” feeling. Luckily all except one car was heated.
Finally, we’re on the train — OK, now we’re in business. Time to experience the “Snowball Express!” We were told to expect a 45-minute ride to Santa’s workshop and that Santa would travel back part of the way with us. This could be fun!
As soon as the train started, a gaggle of people rushed to the “gift shop” car and came back carrying hot dogs, chips, cookies and muffins. That’s America for you — we can’t tolerate 45 minutes without stuffing our faces. The smell of old, musty train cars mixed with greasy hot dogs, ketchup and coffee felt more like Wal-Mart than the snowball express. Sorry for that elitist comment, but Christmas spirit was hard to muster at this point.
OK, well, just look out the window, I told myself. It is, after all, “the scenic railroad.” As I’m thinking this, one of my children yells, “Oh, look, mom! An RV!” (They are still very upset that we have not bought one of these mobile palaces). I look to see someone’s backyard with a rusted old washing machine, blue tarp, old cars and yes, an old RV parked on a cement platform. Sigh. I tried to imagine the entire scene with a blanket of snow — snow makes everything seem elegant and in its proper place.
We’re not too far from Santa’s workshop, at least we have that to look forward to — some pictures of the kids on Santa’s lap, some cookies from Mrs. Claus and we’ll be on our way. It seemed like we had only been moving about 20 minutes when the the train slowed down right next to some old, rusty train cars parked on an adjacent track. I held my breath — surely, this isn’t it…Santa’s workshop? Through the window I could see a Christmas tree, some lights…oh dear, this was it.
We were herded out one doorway in a painfully slow line from our train, three steps down and three steps up to the “Santa’s workshop” train car. Santa’s workshop was a train car more narrow than the one we rode in. This car had that “grandma’s basement” smell. We finally got to Santa, but my kids wanted to just keep walking past the obvious Santa impersonator. To his credit, he kindly offered a cute little stuffed toy to my daughter and a Nerf football to my son and asked them if they were ready for Christmas. He wasn’t one of those creepy, too eager Santas.
As we left, Mrs. Claus seemed a little grumpy that some kids were still eating their giant “gift shop” chocolate chunk cookies while taking some of her commercial, bulk-buy tiny cookies (the kind with the cherry jelly in the middle). Did I mention how Americans like to eat?
We got back to our seats and I poured hot cocoa from home in some Pokemon birthday party cups. We had a nice little lunch together and soon the train started back.
Something magical happened on the way back. A man with a guitar started singing Christmas carols. He sang real Christmas songs, not the contemporary hip-hop ones, but the ones that dare to mention that politically incorrect savior child that we Western imperialists are so devoted to.
I chatted and laughed with some friends. Before we knew it, the train had returned to the muddy field where we departed. We bundled together for a great group picture with friends. My kids piled in the car. While I was thinking “what a disappointment,” my kids brought me back to reality with that phrase every parent longs to hear: “Can we do it again?”
Ah, yes, and Merry Christmas to you, my children. Thank you for reminding me.
Federal Way resident Angie Vogt can be reached at vogt.e@comcast.net.
