No doubt the following story occurred in the Spring or Fall, considering our geographical environment at the time, but I can’t speak authoritatively about this. But as my father might easily have testified in a court of law, Miami’s weather wasn’t for the faint at heart, (especially since he spent his days mopping hot tar on flat roofs, and carrying heavy buckets of the same stuff up tall ladders.)
(And by way
of footnote, there was a time when daddy was climbing a straight ladder up the
side of a commercial building, when his foot slipped. He and a five gallon
bucket of scalding tar rode the ladder all the way to ground level.
Unfortunately for him, his left leg landed in similar bucket of the fiery
material, and immersed itself up to the knee. I cannot begin to imagine pain
such as this. My father spent several weeks in the hospital. During that time the
tar had to be stripped in layers off his lower leg. Reminiscent of the tattoo
on his forearm, he wore some grisly scars on that limb ‘til the day he took his
last breath.)
I think
after my parents’ failed attempt to see a movie, only to discover I was safe
and secure, (thank you very much) my mother’s anxiety about leaving me with
Mrs. Hisey abated, and she was able to enjoy herself during their occasional
attempts at marital recreation.
But not to
be deterred, like a political candidate on television, I was “given equal time”
and we also did things together as a family.
…“if this is
all there is to family fun, I need to avoid it at all costs!”
For on a
given day, month and year, my dad and mom packed me into the family automobile,
(I can’t tell you the make or model this far along) and off we went. Had I any
inkling what “lay in wait” for me, I would have definitely avoided the excursion
at all costs.
My mother
might best comment on my first words, and when those first words were spoken,
but I can imagine asking her,
“Mommie,
where we be goin? Daddy plomised me a I-creme cone, if I be good.”
To which she
may have replied.
“Yes, he
told me. We’ll pick it up on our way home, Royce… if you’re good. But if you’re
not, then…”
Well, I
guess we drove 5-6 miles, and pulled into a busy parking lot. I looked around,
and then upward. We were surrounded by tall buildings, and I could smell the
salt air. It turns out daddy had laid a roof on one of these massive
structures, and had discovered a little known attraction; at least little known
in our little corner of the world.
“Royce,”
daddy spoke. “We’re gonna do something super fun today. Look up at the top of
that building,” (and I followed his finger to the sky.)
“Son, watch
this.”
I strained
to see what my dad was referring to. Suddenly I saw it. A flash of orange and
green color moving like a swift caterpillar along the edge of the roof. And
then it was gone, but the noisy clatter continued and cut the surrounding air
like a razor. Daddy told me to keep watching, and again a speeding flash of
color, and as quickly as it appeared, it had vanished again.
My father’s
voice was tinged with expectation and a bit of humor.
“Well, my
boy. Do I have a surprise for you today!”
Judging from
the speed of the whatchamacallit and its proximity to the edge of the roof, I
wasn’t sure I wanted to be surprised.
I’m sure I
looked at my mother, and no doubt, her face wore an anxious, “I don’t know how
smart this is, but I guess we’ll give it a whirl” sort of expression.
As we closed
in on the building, I could no longer see IT, but the sound of the machine grew
louder with each step. Now we found ourselves in what I later learned was a
revolving door, which brought us face to face with the ground floor of a vast
department store, filled with everything from blue jeans to light bulbs to pogo
sticks. While my attention was diverted, (I may well have been looking at the
latter of the three afore mentioned items) my dad navigated his small family up
to a set of two massive double doors.
Suddenly, I
heard a thump that seemed to shake the floor beneath my feet. I think I felt it
more than I heard it, and the vibration startled me. Then the large metal doors
parted like Moses and the Red Sea.
I was so
transfixed by it all that my mom almost dragged me into the elevator. This was
a first for me, but considering my tender age, almost everything was a first
for me. And as I soon discovered, the “firsts” for that day were far from over.
I recall a
feeling of being suspended in mid-air as the elevator lifted off, and I found
myself holding onto my mother’s left knee for dear life. As I glanced up at my
dad, it seemed he was a veteran of this little floating room with no furniture.
As a matter of fact, a mischievous smile played about his lips, and somehow
this comforted me. I turned loose of my mom’s knee, and as much as a four year
old can manage it, I tried to act nonchalant. But I could only wonder what
terrible surprise awaited me on the roof top.
The buttons
on the control panel were labeled 1-14, and when we drew to a stop, I noticed
there was a circular pattern of green light around button #14. Mama had been
teaching me to count, and I realized there was no #13. I vowed to ask her about
the absence of this number later.
The elevator
“stopped with a start” and the doors parted again. My parents and I stepped
out, and I was surprised to find we seemed to be in the midst of a garden
center. Rakes, and sprinklers and work gloves filled bins of all shapes and
sizes. And then I noticed the sound, the same sound I’d heard outside the
building, but now it was almost overpowering. And if sound can be perceived as
a circular motion, these acoustic vibrations had such an impact on me.
Mama allowed
daddy to lead the way, since he had first told her about this place. It seems
my dad had come home all excited talking about this cool ride on the roof of
the Webb City Building. It was only years later that I learned the details.
Daddy led us
to an open doorway, and as I stood directly in front of it, I noticed a short
flight of stairs. It was about this time that mama leaned over, and considering
the decibel level, almost shouted in my ear, (in a tone of voice that was
anything but reassuring.)
…”Honey, I think you’re really gonna like this.”
I was led
like a lamb to the slaughter up that short flight of stairs which seemed to
grow progressively longer with each successive step.
And then… we
were there.
As I stared
in awe at the colorful, but foreboding piece of machinery, I almost mused
aloud,
…“You want
me to do what?”
Though my
childish mind was immature and incapable of formulating such a phrase, with the
passing of years I think those six words are as close as any to describing my perception
of what greeted me that day.
“Royce,
you’ll absolutely love it.”
“What
daddy?”
I had been
so transfixed with the scene before me that I hadn’t grasped what he said to
me.
“Your mother
and I will wait. Go ahead and get in line behind those other boys and girls.”
“You mean…
all by myself, daddy?”
“Yes son. Of
course.”
I hesitated
a moment to see if he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. And so I dutifully
obeyed.
Even at this
age I could do the math. There were seven children in front of me, and I
noticed that the metal ogre was slowing to a stop. It wasn’t enough that the
machine emitted creaks and groans and whistles, as it sailed along the circular
track, but the boys and girls who rode that iron horse of a thing were even
louder. I watched them as they stepped out of their respective cars. Smiles lit
up the faces of a couple of eight or ten year olds. But without exception, the
younger kids seemed as pale as ghosts, and a little girl, (she might have been
5 or 6) first stumbled, and then “lost her cookies” on the boarding platform.
The
attendant could only shake his head and groan. I felt something welling up
inside of me, and I was close to emulating the behavior of the little girl. The
seven of us, who had previously formed a perfectly straight line, had by now backed
into a cluster. Had Mr. Nielsen been there that day, his rating would, no
doubt, have revealed an utter contempt for this mechanical beast, and a very
strong desire in all our hearts to simply… go home.
Now the
attendant was mopping up the mess with a mop and bucket. I turned around so I
didn’t have to watch the least favorite part of his less than professional
vocation. And I noticed my daddy and
mama were watching me from the sidelines.
Henry
McDonald’s son wasn’t about to chicken out at such a God-awful moment. No way,
Jose. I didn’t have to ask. I knew what the answer would be. And as much as
everything inside of me screamed for a way out,
… I knew it
didn’t exist.
Then I did
something that I would soon live to regret. As the young fella was putting away
his mop and bucket, I stepped up into the number one boarding position, (but
only three of the original seven children stepped up behind me.) I turned to
look, and it was then I noticed two girls and one boy walking towards the
staircase; hand in hand with their mothers and fathers.
But I had
made my choice, if indeed a choice existed, and as the frustrated attendant
opened the door of a brightly painted car… I stepped in and sat down. The young
man buckled my seat belt and pulled it tight around my waist. I was committed,
come hell or high water.
…(At least
it was a good theory.)
The metal
monster picked up some momentum now, and my parents’ faces whizzed past at
dizzying speed. I felt that old familiar queasyness in my belly and rising up
in my throat. Someone nearby was screaming loudly!
And then I
realized that someone
… was me!
I was on the
back of a raging tiger. I was riding the crest of a hurricane-driven wave. I
was a hapless bowling pin in the hands of a giant juggler.
Somehow I
caught the eye of my mother, and she knew what she had to do. She rushed over
to the little booth where the attendant sat with his hands on the controls.
And as my vehicle completed yet another circle, I added words to my previously
unintelligible tirade,
“Mommy.
Mommy. Help me. I want off. Now!”
As the car
slowed to a stop I remember looking over at my dad. He was still standing in
his original spot near the staircase; looking slightly embarrassed. How could a
son of his, no matter how young, sacrifice an opportunity to prove his
fearlessness, and wrest victory from defeat?
(Well,
perhaps the foregoing implication is reading a bit too much into the scenario.
But nonetheless, daddy didn’t appear to be a “happy camper.”)
No one had
to beg me to get off the THING. I found myself helping the guy as he fumbled
with my seat beat. I couldn’t get back on terra firma fast enough. I must have
felt rather like the military veteran returning from combat duty, (though I
wasn’t savvy enough at the time to bend over and kiss the ground.)
For the
moment no one was in line to ride, and the hideous sound of metal against metal
had been stilled. Suffice it to say, I made a quick departure from “the scene
of the crime.”
I think my
dad was smart enough not to verbalize what he might have considered cowardice.
After all, I had my mother to defend me. And she had cooperated in my
unexpected pardon from the throes of a fate worse than death; (or so it seemed
at the time.)
I never
returned to that place, with or without my parents. At this juncture in life, the
attendant would be my parents’ age, and my fellow patrons would, like me, be
living out their early golden years. Amazing, how quickly six decades can fall
through the sandy hourglass of time.
But I can
assure you those two minutes that I “rode the whirlwind” impacted me far beyond
their comparative brevity in terms of the expenditure of time.
For as a
rule, I simply do not
… ride ROLLERCOASTERS.
Don’t,
Won’t, Can’t, Shan’t, Nada
I am
altogether cognizant that the rollercoaster on the rooftop was a pitifully
small affair, and in the scheme of things no more than a kiddy ride. But they
say everything is relative, and at least to me, I would have sooner climbed
Mount Everest than finish the ride that day. And to be fair, that tiny piece of
equipment could not have climbed much higher than a man’s head, nor shadowed a
piece of ground much larger than half a tennis court.
And I have
stood below some rather substantial coasters, and marveled at their width and
height and length and breath. And I have wondered whether I could strap myself
into one of those contraptions again; if my very life depended on it. (And it
is amazing for me to consider how ten and twelve year old children find the
wherewithal to ride such awesomely larger versions of the tiny machine I rode
so long ago. It is beyond my comprehension.)
Well, I am
pleased to report that on such and such a day, perhaps six or eight years ago,
I summoned up whatever one finds to summon up, and for at least the space of a
few moments, I conquered those old, enduring fears which had limited me, and
held me back in ways too numerous to count.
My wife and
I live near the now defunct Cypress Gardens. There on the grounds of this
famous tourist attraction sat two ancient torture devices, (or so it has ALWAYS
seemed to me.) Jean suggested I conquer my age-old fears, and step into a line
of perhaps twenty people waiting to board the smaller of the two “torture
chambers.”
But there
was nothing remotely small about this one. Oh, of course it was a “David”
compared to the “Goliaths” I have seen in some theme parks, but it was still
plenty big; easily thirty feet from ground to crest, and covering the space of almost
half a football field.
I admit standing
there, waiting to board, I sensed a sure and abiding kinship with that small,
familiar boy who once stood in a line, not unlike this one, so many years
hence. And as my wife, in essence, assumed the role of my parents, it was all
so fresh, and new, and present again.
And perhaps
in some not so explainable way, that little tyke, from a bygone era, stood with
me, and once again abject terror filled his tear-filled eyes. And in some
mysterious, but not so impossible manner he placed his hand in mine, and we
steeled ourselves for a mission that neither of us had the wherewithal to
complete
… alone.
Hand in hand
we sat down together, and allowed a young attendant, (who looked remarkably
like the one who had long since grown old) to buckle us in. And as our personal
little “time machine” gained momentum, and we approached the steep incline of
its first loop, I think that tiny, mirror-image of myself envisioned an
opportunity where he might complete that which he had once begun.
And I think
the older, heavier, balder version of that little man cast his thoughts
backwards to
a time and place when he had summoned up all that was good, and true, and brave
about himself, when he took his place at the front of the line.
And as our
colorful, little vehicle mounted the first, yet highest crest of that small-gauged
track, and proceeded to drop into oblivion, I thought I felt the tender grasp
of a tiny hand in mine, and somehow the boy compelled me to join him, and so we
lifted our arms in unison.
Time
elapsing. Slowing now.
… Mission
completed.
The
friendly, young attendant unbuckles our seatbelt, and allows us to step out. My
wife waves, and doubles her hands above her head, as if to say,
“It
certainly took you long enough,
… but you
did it!”
And for the
briefest moment I think I see him again, and his little hand slips from my
grasp, and he steps away. And with his fading presence, I think I hear a voice,
a familiar voice, but young and vibrant once again.
“See. I told
you that you could do it.
… Now, let’s
go home.”
(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots of a Life (Not Always So) Well Lived" Vol. 1)
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