On High Places

At the last minute, I decided to take Rosie to the carnival– a friend generously bought her an armband that entitled her to rides all day long, and gave me some spending money for treats.  Rosie and I rode the carousel together; we jostled about in the bumper cars. Rosie rode up and down in some torturous thing that looked like an elevator more than twenty times. And then, she wanted to go on the Ferris wheel.

“I think you’re tall enough they’ll let you go by yourself,” I said.

As we waited in line, I eyed the giant circle, wondering to myself how anyone decided to make going round and round on a bench dangling from a metal scaffold a form of entertainment. This wheel wasn’t nearly as big as the nightmare Ferris wheel at Hershey Park. Still, it was a Ferris wheel, and I hated it for being one.

Rosie wanted to ride it, though, and I was determined to let her.

When we got to the front of the line, Rosie tried to get into the bench by herself.

The attendant waved at me. “She has to be two people,” he said with a thick accent.

“Two people?”

Rosie looked crushed.

I felt again that I would rather die. I would rather be strapped to a burning wheel and martyred like Saint Catherine than go for a ride on a Ferris wheel. There is only one thing in the world I would like less than a ride on a Ferris wheel– and that is to disappoint my daughter.

I sat down next to Rosie.

The attendant strapped us in, and we were off.

I wish I could say it was a learning experience, that I grew up and discovered that I actually like high places, but it wasn’t. It was a nightmare. I kept my eyes squeezed shut for most of the ride, gasping in panic as the little bench reached the crest and sighing with relief as I went down again. Rosie complained that I was pinching her– but then again, she was pinching me, clinging to me, because we were both afraid.

And then came the worst part, when the attendant stopped the ride to let people off– with Rosie and me stranded at the very top.

It seemed to take so much longer than I thought it would.

In my panic, I felt like there must be something wrong. The Ferris wheel must be broken. It was stalled completely, and they’d have to call the fire department– I would end up on the evening news, sobbing in some firefighter’s arms at the top of a ladder. Or worse, the ride would collapse. The whole thing would fall sideways and clatter on the ground like a great coin, and that would be the end of me.

Of course, the moment I imagined such a thing, my body accepted it as truth. I could have sworn I felt the whole ride listing to one side.

I clung to Rose harder, and she clung to me. She whimpered, and I whimpered.

I opened my eyes for just a moment. I saw the parking lot spread out before me, the line of trees that blocks it off from the housing development. Below me was the awning of the bumper car pavilion, triangles of purple and red.

I closed them again, and prayed. I am almost thirty-five years old, and I was clinging to an almost eight-year-old and praying to Jesus to deliver me from the top of an amusement park ride.

And then the ride was moving, and I was down on the ground again, and the ride attendant was removing the bar from my lap.

“Can we go again?” asked Rose.

“How about some cotton candy?” I offered, and we had some.

Rosie went up on the giant slide next– I stood on the ground and watched her whooshing down with pure bliss all over her face.

I watched her face, you see. I wasn’t ashamed to look at my daughter’s face.

It changes nothing.

Still, it was good that we went to the carnival– even with all those dreadful high places.

(image via Pixabay)