Minnesota Prairie Roots

Once every few years, I go to a movie because that’s how often I feel one worthy of viewing on the big screen.

So on Saturday, an unseasonably cold and cloudy day here in southeastern Minnesota, I propose to my husband, Randy, that we meet our three-year movie quota. We should see The Proposal, I suggest, while our teenaged son, Caleb, attends the latest Harry Potter flick.

I check the daily newspaper ad for show times, which are within a half hour of each other. This will work.

Fast forward a few hours and we are pulling into the parking lot of the Faribo West Mall Cinema Six.

“Are you sure The Proposal is showing?” Caleb asks as we approach the theater entrance. “I didn’t see it on the sign.”

“Yes, it was in the ad,” I assure him.

We are nearly to the door. I stop. My mouth drops open in disbelief as I read: “The Proposal is no longer showing. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

“What? The one time I want to see a movie!” I am mad.

Our son laughs.

I may have heard my husband chuckle too. Or maybe he was heaving a sigh of relief that he didn’t have to sit through a “girl movie” with his wife.

We return to the car, drive across the highway and down the service road to HyVee. Randy goes inside the grocery store to purchase softener salt.

Caleb and I wait in the car. I am still stewing. I suggest bowling.

“Come on, bowling, Mom. I want to go to the Harry Potter movie.”

Thirty minutes later, when we drop our son off at the theater, he is still snickering.