September 14th, 2025
I just took Asher to a new playground. By that I mean I took Asher to a playground that was unfamiliar to him. Asher is a connoisseur of play places. He loves to explore. This place is in Grant Park, close to Lake Michigan. Asher was excited as soon as he saw all the equipment. I wasn’t so excited, because I noticed right away that there was no parking. The area was reserved for a major gathering, and it was already crowded.
We parked some ways down the road. Asher was pumped about checking out the playground. I was curious about who was having the party. I noticed men who looked like they might be from the Middle East. Near the picnic tables they had a huge Afghan flag on display. Some were in traditional Afghan clothing, baggy trousers and a long tunic (shalwar kameez?). Others were in casual American garb. They were hanging out in the part of the picnic area furthest away from the playground. The women, who were also in traditional dress, sat on rugs in the grass close to the playground. Could it be just coincidence that the moms were near to the kids, while the menfolk were as far away as possible? I think not.
The kids were all dressed up for the festivities. The girls were in beautiful dresses in vibrant colors, with intricate embroidery, and plenty of sequins. Some of them had tiny coins hanging from the hems of shawls or long skirts. The girls, even young ones, had on makeup. Most of them had their long dark hair braided. Some of the boys dressed in tunics and loose trousers like the men. Some dressed like Asher did. All the children initially looked clean and neat. That lasted for maybe five minutes.
Asher experimented with different things at the playground. I kept close to him. I tend to hover when there is a crowd. The Afghan adults remained aloof. The men were out of earshot, and the moms were deeply engaged in feminine conversation. Apparently, that worked for them. Their kids raised a little hell, but nobody suffered grievous injury.
Shortly after Asher and I arrived at the playground, an old Mexican pushing an ice cream cart made an appearance. Almost instantaneously, the word went out that there was ice cream. Asher swept past me, screaming,
“Grandpa, there’s ice cream!”
Indeed there, and it was expensive. The younger children had assumed that the old guy was going to just give them ice cream bars. He made it clear that they needed money that they did not have. Asher was jumping up and down, because he knew I had cash on hand. The old man pointed to the side of his cart and told Asher to pick out what he wanted. Asher selected a “Sonic the Hedgehog” ice cream bar. I asked the guy, “How much?”
He said, “Five dollars.”
It was far too late to haggle, so I pulled a twenty out of my wallet. While I was doing so, a little Afghan boy was lying on the ground sobbing uncontrollably because Asher was getting ice cream and he was not. Maybe I was feeling guilty, or maybe I just wanted the kid to shut up, but I told the old guy,
“Give me two of them. One for Asher and one for the boy on the ground.”
Both boys were thrilled. Suddenly, from nowhere, the boy’s mother appeared. She asked,
“Who bought him the ice cream?!”
“I did.”
She told me, “I want to pay you for it.”
“No. Don’t. I just wanted to help the kid out.”
She led her boy and his ice cream away from the playground.
It should be noted at this point that these ice cream bars are uniquely inappropriate for small children. They contain some evil food dye that stains clothes in such a way that the spot can never be removed. If the kid gets this ice cream on their shirt, use the garment as a rag or just throw it away. Asher looks like his lips have been tattooed blue. The ice cream seems to melt instantly upon being taken from the freezer. Asher held his ice cream bar upright, causing it to drip down the wooden stick on to his right hand. His hand is also now blue in color.
While we were dealing with the ice cream crisis, the other kids are finding new ways to create mayhem. One boy figured out how to shake up a can of Coke, puncture the side of the can, and then spray the contents all over the girls on the playground. They screamed loudly and ran.
Some of the older boys started an impromptu cricket match. That gradually degenerated into chaos. Some girls decided to kick empty soda cans around the playground. One boy was playing in the sandbox with Asher. Two of his compadres came up to him and said,
“Somebody pooped here! It’s stinky!”
They laughed at the lad and ran off. Then a herd of boys raced here and there; for reasons that are obscure to me. An older girl, looking inconsolable, sat alone on a bench, clutching her smart phone like it was her baby.
One boy approached me and asked, “Are you old?”
I told him, “Yes, I’m old.”
“How old? Are you over one hundred?””
I bent down and asked, “Do you really want to know how old I am?”
He nodded.
I whispered, “I’m sixty-seven.”
The boy repeated, “Sixty-seven”, and shook his head in dismay.
Asher and I were at the playground for nearly two hours. Before we left, I spoke with a couple of the guys from the Afghan group. I told them that I knew a few Afghan refugees. I mentioned one guy who fled from Kabul and wound up in Portugal. I had worked with an organization to get him and his family there.
They asked if we wanted any food. I declined the offer. I just wanted to get Asher home.
I shook their hands and told them, “I’m glad you’re here!”
I really am.
Frank is Emptiness 