Family life · Leominster, Massachusetts · Places worth returning to

We Went to the Mall. We Didn't Need to Buy Anything.

A return to my childhood mall, a family pastime that has lasted for years, and all the wonderful things to do in a place where shopping is optional.

There is something about returning to a mall you knew as a child.

In my memory, it is Searstown Mall in Leominster. Today it is the Mall at Whitney Field. The name has changed, and so have plenty of the stores, but walking through those corridors still feels a little like visiting a place where a younger version of me is waiting.

I can remember where stores used to be. I can remember when going to the mall was an outing in itself. Not an errand to finish as quickly as possible, but an afternoon.

And, years later, I have discovered that an afternoon at the mall is still one of our family's favorite things.

Even if we buy absolutely nothing.

To me, it feels like a classic American childhood experience: going to the mall not because you urgently need something, but because going is the thing. The wandering, the window-shopping, the possibility of a snack. An afternoon that doesn't need much of a plan.

I'm a movie fan, too. From Mallrats to Scenes from a Mall, I have a soft spot for a mall as a setting. All those lives sharing the same corridors. People arriving with entirely different plans, or no plans at all. For me, the place holds a little of that movie-world possibility alongside my own memories of Searstown.

A whole little world under one roof

Think about how much a mall contains. Bright storefronts and quiet corners. Music, conversations, food courts, and benches. Seasonal decorations. A carousel, if you're lucky. Elevators, escalators, stairs, long corridors, and all sorts of little things to notice along the way.

There are places to sit and people to watch, busy stretches and quieter ones. You can wander for a while, stop for a snack, visit one store, or simply take another lap.

When the New England weather is miserable, an indoor place where you can spend an hour without buying admission tickets or making a reservation is rather wonderful.

We have photographs from malls all over, taken over many years. Some are of James when he was younger. Some are more recent. Together, they remind me that the mall has been a backdrop to a remarkable number of our ordinary family days.

Mall Photos Over the Years. These photographs come from different malls and different years, not all from Whitney Field. The three newest are from Burlington Mall in Burlington, Massachusetts. Together, they are a little album of our family’s mall afternoons.

Halloween, escalators, and the people you meet

I have wonderful memories of trick-or-treating at Emerald Square, too. When James was little, going up and down the escalator at that mall's Sears could be part of the outing in its own right. We didn't need a bag of purchases to have had a good time.

One visit brought something rather less expected. We heard knocking from an elevator some distance away and discovered that people were inside and couldn't get out. We were able to find staff, and the people were quickly freed.

What stays with me about that isn't just the unexpected excitement. It's that we were there to hear someone and could find the people who could help. For a few minutes, strangers who had arrived for entirely different reasons became part of one another's day.

Life happens at the mall. So does camaraderie. In its own way, it offers some of the same chance encounters as a hike: a hello as you pass, a brief conversation, or noticing that someone could use a hand. You set out for a walk, and other people become part of the outing.

I appreciate that especially in a New England winter, when a hike isn't always the outing that works for us. A walk through the mall can still get us out of the house and into the company of other people. The scenery is different, but the pleasure of crossing paths with strangers is familiar. We don't have to know anyone there to feel part of the day happening around us.

The trick-or-treating, the rides between floors, the people we happened to encounter: all of it became part of our family life. Those memories have very little to do with what was in our shopping bags.

So much to practice. So much to enjoy.

For James, who is autistic and has substantial support needs, a mall can offer an interesting variety of experiences in one place. Some of them happen to be opportunities to practice everyday skills.

There are doors to open and navigate, elevators with buttons, stairs, and escalators that call for the support and safety decisions appropriate for him. Walking from one end to the other offers opportunities to work on movement, balance, coordination, and navigating shared spaces. We can practice waiting, taking turns, making choices, communicating, and moving through a crowd.

And then there is the food court. What do we want? Where should we sit? Do we want to stay, or are we ready to go?

We can use familiar communication supports, notice what James is telling us in his own ways, and change our plans accordingly.

But I don't want to turn every family outing into a therapy assignment. James is allowed to like the mall simply because he likes the mall. If he enjoys a carousel, a holiday decoration, or the sight of people moving through a busy corridor, that enjoyment is enough.

Sometimes the most useful thing about an ordinary outing is that it gets to be ordinary.

Quiet spots, loud spots, and knowing we can leave

One of the things I appreciate about a mall is that the environment changes as you move through it. A food court can be busy and noisy. A side corridor might be peaceful. One store might have music playing while another feels almost still.

Of course, that variety does not make every mall accessible or comfortable for everyone. Crowds, lighting, noise, and unexpected changes can be difficult. Escalators and stairs aren't suitable for everyone, and accessibility varies from place to place.

For us, the ability to choose matters. We can seek out a quieter route, pause on a bench, take a break, or call it a day. A short visit is still a visit.

We don't have to accomplish anything in particular.

A little room, with us still in sight

At some of the less busy malls, when the setting is right for James, there is enough space for him to wander a little while staying within our sight. We are still watching and ready to help. We just don't have to be right alongside him at every moment.

That feels wonderful to us. I imagine it can be a relief for him, too. We love him enormously, and we are around him an awful lot. Even the most devoted parents must get a little taxing sometimes.

He'll even sit at a different table from us at the food court. Still in sight, of course. But a table of his own.

Photograph not taken. Ahem.

I joke that he's pretending not to know us. And honestly, what could be more teenage than putting a little distance between yourself and your parents at the mall?

Needing support doesn't mean never wanting space. I love that, in the right setting, he can have both.

A very American teenage afternoon

Sometimes, while we are walking through a mall, I spot another mother with an older child who reminds me a little of James. I love those moments. I don't presume to know their story, or what kind of support anyone needs. I just feel happy to see families like ours out enjoying an ordinary afternoon.

Going to the mall is such a familiar American pastime, and such a teenage one, too. Getting a snack, looking in shop windows, wandering without much of an agenda: these are the things I associate with a teenage mall afternoon. I love that James can take part in his own way. He belongs in these everyday public places just as much as anyone else.

That is part of what makes returning to my childhood mall so lovely. I am not trying to give him a replica of my childhood. I get to watch him make his own version, with the support he needs and room for his own choices.

Of course, not every mall is fully accessible to every person, and some families need more planning, quieter hours, mobility access or support than others. That's why the little practical details matter. But the simple pleasure of going somewhere without having to spend money or accomplish a task should be open to all of us.

Mall Photos Over the Years

Looking through our pictures, I see a carousel ride with Dad. A holiday afternoon. An Easter Bunny. A mall hallway. James at different ages, in different places, with different things catching his eye.

At the time, I doubt I thought of these as photographs of milestones. They were just pictures from the day.

But now I can see how much life has happened in these ordinary public places. I can see how much James has grown. I can remember all the little outings we made possible simply by getting out the door.

And I am glad we did.

Back to Searstown, and forward with James

Returning to Whitney Field, I felt the familiar tug of nostalgia. The mall of my childhood and the mall in front of me were not quite the same place. That is how it goes when we revisit somewhere we once knew so well.

Are malls a dying institution, or simply changing? I am not trying to settle that question here. I do think there is something worth defending about a place where you can spend time among other people without needing an elaborate plan.

The mall's value to us has never fitted neatly into what we spent there. It is in the room to move, the familiar rituals, the people we might otherwise never meet, and the chance for James to be a teenager in a place that is part of my own childhood, too.

A mall can still be a place to go just because you want to go somewhere. To look at things. To try a snack. To ride an elevator. To sit and watch the world. To enjoy being out together.

James doesn't need to remember the stores I remember. He is making his own memories.

And I love that something so ordinary has given us so many chances to do that.

We can go to the mall, spend a lovely afternoon, and come home with nothing in our bags.

Except, of course, the afternoon itself.