Category: Blogroll

Don’t take anything for granted

Auntie Bea (Beatrice Buell) 1917-2015

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Auntie Bea

Talks like this are never easy, and something would surely be lost in the emotion of it all, if I tried to do it off the top of my head. Such talks are a piece of this puzzle we call living and dying. We do them because of those that are gone, but especially for those still present.  What we share can be revealing glimpses into the lives of the ones that have left us that can be added to the memories of our own.

We can only trust that the things we say, also got said while the person was still alive, or at least that we are OK with pretending those things did not need to be said. In general my family had lots of moments like that.

The “word” love was not thrown around freely in my family, but there was never any question but what love was there—you learned how to read between the lines. I have attempted to be better in this respect with my own kids, but I am sure it is still not enough.

Toward the end, Auntie Bea was a lot freer with the word.

I am sure that we all wish we could hear what people might have to say about us after we are gone–but then again perhaps not. Fortunately, one fringe benefit that comes with being 99 plus is you don’t have to care much about what people think. It really doesn’t matter too much whether you brush your teeth before you go to bed or whether you eat only lemon meringue pie for supper.

lily3While she outlived most of her peers, I think she would be quite impressed if she could see the size of this crowd here today, and she would probably wonder what all the fuss was about, but she would nonetheless take it all in stride.

While Auntie Bea, was not my birth mother, she was for all intents and purposes the one that raised me.

At some point, I started acknowledging that fact to her directly, and I know she appreciated that. I had the good fortune of having had many mothers in my life, including my birth mother.

Growing up on the farm, in the two family house, my Aunt June, who just lived a hallway away, also filled that role, as did Aunt Theresa, who lived a short sprint through the rocky pasture away. Today I have the opportunity and pleasure to hopefully make Aunt Theresa blush a bit remembering a certain snake in her basement that attempted to take years off her life.

I am quite sure, as a kid, I needed all these mothers in my life. I feel incredibly lucky to have had them.
But today is only a little bit about these other mothers and a lot about Auntie Bea.

When you get to be 99 years old, it means you have witnessed a lot of changes in the world. When you are young, you think what is important should last forever. When you live to be 99, you have had to adjust your life theories many times, to better reconcile the number of times you have had to accept that nothing lasts forever—that “should” is not even part of the equation. We have to embrace nothing lasts forever, yet live our lives as if they do.

Chermoshnyuk (77)Life is full of surprises and it is better to roll with the punches than to be taken out by them. It is easy to maintain theories that never get tested. It is a sign of strength to adjust when necessary–when stubbornly refusing to change means risking losing everything. The impermanence of everything in our lives is painful at times but eventually it morphs into a kind of freedom that cannot be arrived at in any other way.

One of my last conversations with her, just two days before she died, was about her realization of how much work it can be to just chew. But I could still hear the “Auntie Bea chuckle” in her voice. To her it was just one more thing that she had not realized she had taken for granted. It had taken her 99 years to realize this one little thing.

“We can’t take anything for granted,” she said to me.

You know you have arrived at the “very basics,” when all the things you once could easily do while chewing, have been stripped away.

The last few years I called her the “energizer bunny” because she always seemed to take a licking and keep on ticking—bounding back from one close call after another. Somehow she always found a way to recharge those batteries and stay here with us, leaving those around her with a sense that she would always bounce back.

Epiphyllum4We all know that sooner or later it becomes impossible to recharge the batteries—that is simply the way it is with batteries—and with people.

For the two people in the State of Connecticut born before 1971 that never had Auntie Bea for first grade, I can’t imagine how you got through first grade.

I know that my own experience of first grade in 1953 was much different than the experience of first graders in 2015 and even the first graders toward the end of her career. She received several teachers’ awards during her career that were proof of her ability to change and grow with the expectations of a changing world.

I’ll bet it is a very small group of people that have ever actually had their mother as their own first grade teacher–it probably is not even allowed anymore. When I had her for first grade she was closer to the beginning of her career and likely some of the disciplinary actions she employed (like being tied in my chair and having my mouth taped shut) would be frowned upon today. But it was consistent with what I said before about having lots of mothers growing up—and probably needing all I could get. Those were different times for sure.

brownies1In teaching situations, I can only imagine how often it must have been true that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the one, as someone else that recently passed away once said.

Today they have books full of labels and cabinets full of medications for kids like that.
Which method is better for the kid, or whether there are as yet undiscovered methods that will prove to be better than either, remains to be seen.

I have managed to get to be 68 years old so she did get to have a good laugh, and get even with me, when I turned 50. You see, when she turned 50 I made a big deal out of her being “half a century old.” When you are a kid, a half century seems like a long time. When you get older you realize it is but a blink of an eye. I had really hoped to give her an equally hard time when she actually reached the “century old” mark, but I reminded her enough about the “turning-50-joke” the last couple of years, I am sure she got the point anyway.

brownies2No doubt my brother and I challenged her wits at times. Her frustration would sometimes boil over and she would magically turn us into one person, thereby cutting the problem in half, as she would combine our names into “Chon!”

Auntie Bea had an incredible ability to allow me to be who I was—within reason, and always supported me throughout my life even when at times I probably seemed un-supportable. Perhaps she was just good at keeping her displeasure to herself.  Sometimes we could all benefit from such a skill.

She would take me to art classes on Saturday mornings at Ris-D, and make me stay in Saturday mornings to work on math problems. Although I will always wonder if that is why, to this day, math and I are not friends—even on facebook.

Forsythia
Forsythia

All of my kids pretty much grew up on a modified version of her rice pudding, and I have several of her recipes, like the one for coconut brownies, and blueberry buckle typed with an actual typewriter.  Auntie Bea is likely responsible for me not being afraid of cooking, doing laundry or washing dishes.

As I went through a couple of divorces and other life changes, I could always count on her to embrace my next seemingly poor choice with only an occasional, “Charles Albert, I didn’t raise you that way!”

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Creamery Brook

You always knew you were in trouble when the middle name came out.

Auntie Bea always allowed me a certain amount of “outrageousness” or “eccentricity” that would sometimes make her smile and giggle. She would play at being outraged, but the twinkle in her eye, and the bear hugs when it was time to leave, would give away, if not her secret approval, at least that she still loved me regardless.

We are thrown into the world kicking and screaming, charged up like energizer bunnies, hop around for a while, sometimes for as long as 99 years, and then our batteries wear out.

We can all only wish we had her batteries.

I am sure she will continue to hop-on in all of us.

Charles Buell

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John,Auntie Bea, Dottie, Me

 

 

Charles Buell

My Spare Time

Caving into the relentless pressure of several friends, I decided to see a therapist.

religionsHowever, my ultimate decision to go was more of a lark than anything else and to a lesser degree calculated to get the whiners off my back. I am not a big fan of “interventions.”

I decided to go on-line and see if I could find out what the “therapy” would be all about. As one can imagine, I discovered there was no shortage of information about “fixing oneself.” It appears to be an epidemic! On one site, I found a “Psychological Evaluation Questionnaire” that was supposedly designed to help a person figure out if they needed therapy or not. Deep down, I knew I was OK–but I thought it might be interesting to fill it out nonetheless, in preparation for meeting with a therapist. Who could know—perhaps I might be surprised by something—or better yet, perhaps the therapist might be surprised by something.

The questionnaire was simple enough, and I had very little problem with any of the questions on it. I arranged an appointment with one of the most respected therapists in my area. As it turns out, he was one of the preeminent psychotherapists in the world who had been published numerous times. Given my own reputation, I felt a bit put out he would not be able to see me for a few weeks. It never even occurred to me, because he was the “best,” he would also be very busy. It just so happens, I am a pretty busy guy myself, damn it!

When I arrived at the Doctor’s office, he greeted me at the door and shook my hand. He apologized for not being able to get me in sooner but really appreciated that I considered him when there were others therapists to choose from. I was impressed he did not have a waiting room with a secretary to tell me where to sit, where to go, or offer me tea & coffee. We simply walked into his office. The office was a pleasant enough place, not brightly lit and there were lots of bookcases full of books and memorabilia.

On one shelf there was a ship in a large bottle with a broken mast. On another shelf there was a basketball and a model airplane–a blue bi-plane to be precise. There was a giant ornate framed mirror, which someone might walk into and disappear. There were several paintings that did not relate to each other in any obvious way to me. A large Dracaena strangled a corner near the window. I strolled slowly around the room looking at the various things.

Next to the entrance there was a bi-plane blue water cooler with a stack of cups where one could get either hot or cold water for tea. There was no sign of coffee, which seemed odd.

The doctor interrupted my exploration and said, “These are some of the props I use in therapy. In some cases they take people where they have been, in some cases to where they are going, and in some cases they take them to where they wish they had never been or to where they wish they could go. Please take a seat,” he added, motioning to the heavily padded chair near his desk.

I laughed and said, “I figured you would want me to lie on the couch.”

“Not this time,” he laughed back, as if to make me feel more comfortable.

The apparent goal of the first session was to merely go through a questionnaire, one question at a time.

He said it was often a good way to establish rapport; and he had always found it useful to get a sense of a direction for any subsequent actual sessions.

I told him about the questionnaire I had seen on-line. He seemed pleased I had tried to prepare myself. He added he knew the questionnaire I spoke of and told me his questionnaire would be only slightly different. Nonetheless I felt I was well prepared for his questions—there would likely be no surprises.

The first question was easy enough, as the therapist started down the list:

“Do you have any physical problems you are concerned about or are taking any medications for?” he asked.

“Most certainly not–healthy as a horse—considering my age,” I answered.

“Do you sometimes feel depressed, sad, or burned out?” he continued.

He was now writing something on his note pad.

“Of course, who doesn’t—at least the burned out part,” I answered as if the question was a bit rhetorical.

“Have you ever had any feelings of wanting to hurt yourself?”

This time the psychiatrist was looking at me intently over the top of his glasses as if to see if anything could be discerned in my manner, as well as in what I might answer.

“Not myself–but certainly others,” I chuckled.

The therapist looked at me blankly, and wrote something in his notebook. He did not give any clue in either his words or demeanor how much this statement was a red-flag of the problems we were going to have to work through over the coming weeks, if not months.

“Do you ever get angry or show your temper?” he asked next.

“Sure—who doesn’t,” I barked back sarcastically.

“Does your anger get worse when you have been drinking?”

This is the problem with lists like this—it “assumes” things not yet in play. But I decided to play along even though drinking was not big on my list of ways to get blathered.

“Is this a serious question? Of course I get angrier,” I answered, just to give an answer.

We could sort out, the drinking bit later.

After writing for what seemed like a couple of minutes on his pad, the doctor asked, “How do you feel when someone gives you advice?”

I was lost in the painting behind him, a painting of a woman with black hair and a yellow rose. She was not nude but was dressed in a way that made you want her to be. The doctor looked directly at me and waited for my answer.

“NOBODY gives me advice,” I answered. “Sometimes I think people try to or wish they could,” I added.

He gave me a look I am sure he did not intend to give, and scribbled loudly on his pad.

After seeing my involvement with the painting, it almost seemed like he wanted to change the subject.

“What do you like to do for fun?” he continued?

For some reason this just made me smile—beam actually.

“Can we come back to this question later?” I asked.

The question had a “complicated” answer, and I did not feel like getting into it right from the get-go, because I did not want to risk being misunderstood. I had spent my entire life being misunderstood, misinterpreted, and misrepresented; he would have to wait until I got a better sense of how well he could understand where I was coming from, before I felt comfortable answering this question.
He nodded it would be OK to come back to it and then he asked another question.

“Do you think people take advantage of you when they can?”

“Absolutely–isn’t that obvious?” I asked, raising my voice beyond what was necessary.

This question wasn’t on the other questionnaire and he was pissing me off now.

“Are you sensitive to what other people think?”

After my outburst at the last question I would not have thought it was even necessary to ask this question.

“Certainly,” I said,” What gives them the right to say the things they do?”

I was beginning to get a sense the questionnaire was designed to provoke a response—to break down defenses or at least see where the weaknesses in the defenses were.

“Are you anxious or nervous or worry a lot?” he asked.

“Probably, but no more than anyone else—I would call it more ‘annoyed’,” I answered truthfully.

“Do you feel isolated as though everyone is against you?” he asked.

Once again he had that intense stare, and the poker face was back.

“Certainly,” I said without any hesitation.

I think this question with the easiest to answer so far. Once again there was a long pause while he wrote some notes, and the girl with the rose beckoned me back.

“Do you get bored easily, or always feel like you have to being doing something?” he continued.

“Sure—there is so much to do,” I answered excitedly.

I would love to have elaborated on all my big plans, but he moved right on to the next question.

“Are you uncomfortable in social situations?”

“Depends on who is there—there are some groups of people I could do without!”

Again I would love to have elaborated on this as well, because it was quite a lot more complicated than my answer made it sound. Given my short answer it could be interpreted my not wanting to be in the same room with people was somehow my fault.

“Do you feel guilty about drinking?

“Not really—why—should I?” I asked, being a bit snarky.

What is with all the drinking questions anyway—apparently this must be a big issue for lots of people for it to be so front and center on a simple questionnaire like this! I was surprised when the therapist actually answered my question.

“The questions are generic, so don’t worry about them. I am just taking notes for now,” he said, “We will get back to each of these questions in more depth later on, as warranted—in future sessions if you like.”

He continued on to the next question.

“Are you aware of being afraid or fearful of anything?” he asked.

“Nope,” I answered.

Finally he asked a question with an answer even shorter than the one about how everyone is picking on me. I had the feeling he would like for me to have responded differently, but for me it was the truth.

“Do you have any family members who are alcoholics or drug addicts?”

This question almost made me burst out laughing and I certainly was not able to hide my feelings from him.

“Most certainly,” I exclaimed, “I can honestly say, it seems almost all of them are addicted to something.”

I so much wanted to rattle off the endless list of things like: sex, love, drugs, coffee, rock-n-roll, gambling, the Internet, video games, shopping, negativity, body image, exercise, food, bungee jumping, work, reading religion etc, but he just continued on with the questions; and anyway, my answer proved to be an interesting segue.

“Do you see ‘hope’ for the future?” he asked next.

“Not much,” I answered very directly.

I surprised myself by how easy the answer came and how much the answer did not bother me. I know I was prepared ahead of time for the question—but nonetheless my lack of reaction still surprised me.

The doctor was scribbling away as fast as he could now.

“Why do you feel this way?” he asked, looking up from his pad.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I replied sarcastically.

Some of these questions seemed so stupid. Anyone with eyes in their head and access to the Internet could see how things are falling apart! That anyone could seriously think there is any “hope,” or that hope is even part of the equation, seemed patently ludicrous to me. At this point it just seemed too simplistic to be continuing though this silly list of unimportant questions just to get to some mysterious “starting point!” I was ready to get into the meat of the matter.

“Why do you use drugs?” he asked, seemingly out of left field.

“Who said I do drugs? Are you counting alcohol? Chocolate? I like to have a glass of wine now and then—that is normal isn’t it?” I pleaded.

I was not being defensive—simply realistic. I never held much stock in “normal” anyway—but it was a useful word at the moment.

I got the feeling we were coming to the end of the list.

“Do you have any family or friends who could come to group counseling with you?” he asked.

“I seriously doubt you would ever get very many of us in the same room together! Most of the time, they would just as soon forget we are, were, or ever will be, family or friends. The rest of the time they are just in denial about it,” I answered.

Has anyone ever “abused” you?” he asked, as if the list was about to heat up again in another direction.

“Almost every day as long as I can remember,” I answered matter-of-factly.

The doctor took off his glasses and set them on the note pad on his desk and looked intensely at me.
In what seemed at first like a departure from the list, he asked, “Can you discuss this abuse further?”

“It is just the way it has always been is all—no big deal really—I typically just abuse them right back.”

The psychiatrist gave me an odd look after my answer, the poker face was gone and a look of concern was obvious. I am not sure why—but perhaps he was wondering how I could have accomplished the abuse back when I was little. It also occurred to me he might be wondering what form the current abuse took—given a lack of visible physical evidence. After all, I did tell him I was in good health.

“Revenge has just always been easy for me,” I added, as if the answer would be any kind of acceptable explanation.

To me it just showed how little he really knew about me, and probably reflected something about me he felt needed fixing. He put his glasses back on and sat back in his chair—like he was about to shift gears, and steer away from this topic for now.

“Can we come back to the question about what you do for fun—how you spend your spare time?” he asked, scribbling away again.

“I am the creative type Doc. Among other things, I enjoy making tsunamis, religious wars and holocausts,” I said excitedly.

I certainly had the doctor’s attention now. He put down his pen and pad again and was looking at me intently without a bit of poker face. I could have added: making lighting, plagues, mud slides, tornadoes, volcanoes, earthquakes, beheadings, sex slaves, birth defects, Alzheimer’s and endless other things to my list, but he seemed to get the point well enough.

“But by far, I have the most fun watching people think I care, or thinking I somehow take sides, or thinking there is any real difference between all the different versions of me people come up with. I love feeding these illusions. There is nothing quite like making these things happen–to get the old juices flowing,” I exclaimed!

I could feel the excitement start to make my heart race, just talking about it.

“How about you Doc, what do you like to do in your spare time?”

A Story by Charles Buell

Roller Coaster

gullHenry would not likely ever forget his 10th birthday. This was his biggest baddest birthday yet, because it would be the year he would finally be tall enough to ride the roller coaster.

Last year he had optimistically put cardboard in his shoes but he was still an inch too short and he would have to wait another year. Being the runt of the litter and being “old enough” but just not “tall enough” to ride the coaster, made it all the more humiliating to endure. Most of his friends were tall enough last year.

But before the roller coaster, there would be the party at Chuck E Cheese’s.

All his friends were invited. It started at noon, and one by one the boys straggled in like chickens with blinders. Each raced to choose which seat to sit in. It morphed from bee-lining chickens to looking more like musical-chairs for squirrels. Henry of course, had the place of honor at the head of the table. There is nothing quite as magical as a table full of ten-year-old boys in cone hats, out of control with poor choices of party favors and sugar. The nearby table of mothers (and a token father) would sit in uncomfortable denial as to who the boys belonged to. The moms talked amongst themselves, only occasionally glancing with one eye, like watchful sheep dogs, ever ready to intervene if someone was dying.

The boys became a few decibels quieter as soon as the pizza arrived, but the quiet was as short lived as the pizza. Soon, some of the boys resorted to chasing each other around the table, punctuated by dipping a friend’s pizza crust in their glass of Pepsi, popping balloons, blowing roll-up horns in each others faces or dropping ice cubes down someone’s shirt.

The moms—on cue—descended like sheep dogs to corral the kids back into their chairs with promises of cake and meaningless threats of: “NO roller-coaster!”

The cool thing about this party was there was not a “girl” in sight (obviously moms don’t count—moms are not girls after all). The fact most girls his age were already tall enough to go on the roller coaster was just another straw that broke the camel’s back. Next year might be different and they might become more than just another four letter word, but this year was perfect.

The requisite chocolate cake with water-melon-red frosting, ablaze with nine, blue, fizzing candles, left a stream of smoke like the Titanic as it streamed toward the table. Henry tried to blow them out, only to have them re-light like sparklers and continue melting all over the top of the cake. He loved those trick candles even though his parents had been putting them on his cake for as long as he could remember. They had only done it the last two years–but how much do you remember about previous years when you are a kid? The most important thing he remembered from last year was how he was not tall enough to go on the roller coaster.

The candles were eventually successfully extinguished and the cake was served up to the antsy boys. The cake was unceremoniously extinguished much more easily than the candles.

Then came the gift exchange. This is where Henry got to recoup all the similar baubles he had given to all his friends over the last year.

Next stop—the roller coaster.

All the parents and the 7 boys clambered into two mini-vans and headed off to the amusement park.
The day would not be just about the roller coaster however–although that was paramount in Henry’s mind. There would be a whole lifetime of adventure, and ten-year-old-mayhem, that would lead up to the grand finale!

There were all the rigged games like ring toss, whack-a-mole and the shooting gallery. It was not like you could ever get good at these games, they were just fun—just part of what you did at the amusement park. Of course, almost always, whatever trinket you did manage to win was never worth what you spent winning it–but sometimes winning at any cost had its own reward. This would become even more apparent to Henry in future trips to the park.

Unlike the games, there were some rides you actually could get good at. Henry’s favorite was the swinging gym. The gym was like a giant steel hamster cage, big enough for four adult human guinea pigs, which worked like a pendulum. You were safely locked inside and had to swing back and forth until you got it to go over the top–the way you always imagined yourself doing on a swing. Henry was good enough at it, that the guy running the ride would let Henry twirl around and around just to attract other riders. The secret was, however, it was much easier to accomplish the task alone than trying to work in sync with someone else. Go figure! He even got to ride for free. Henry loved the carnival part of the amusement park about the best of all.

In previous years, it was not uncommon for Henry and his big brother to run off around the park by themselves. Whenever his brother went on a ride he was not big enough to go on (which he was not supposed to do), Henry would have to wait by the ticket booth until the ride was over. One time, he heard a little girl crying close by. She was huddled under the skirt of the merry-go-round—the horses prancing up and down wildly above her—the monotonous music almost drowned out her crying. Her bright red hair seemed to somehow fit right in.

Henry had a momentary flash of when the merry-go-round was scary to him–back when the faces of the horses were real, as they snorted and foamed at the bits in their mouths. He remembered hanging on to the shiny slick pipe as the horses screamed and kicked around and around, up and down. The memories of life altering events tend to stay with a kid.

He went over to the merry-go-round to ask the little girl if he could help, even if it did seem a bit like the blind leading the blind. Henry was only about six then, but he was actually pretty adept in such situations–even if he was afraid of the gaudy painted horses when he was younger.

The little girl wiped away her tears and told him she couldn’t find her parents. Henry took her by the hand and led her to the guy in charge of the rid his brother was on. The operator had complicated colorful tattoos all over his arms, a shiny gold earring and a pack of cigarettes was rolled up in his shirt sleeve. To Henry he looked exactly like an amusement ride operator should look—the way they always looked.

Henry told the ride operator the little girl had lost her parents and he wanted to know what he should do. The worker didn’t say anything, his unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He just held up his finger like a “one,” patted the whimpering girl on her head and went inside his little stripped ticket booth that looked like it might be lifted off the ground by the colorful balloons tugging at it. Henry could see him inside the booth calling someone. He came back out in a minute or so and stood with the two kids while keeping an eye on his ride. Pretty soon a policeman came with a couple of other official looking people. They wanted to know if Henry was lost too and Henry told them no—he was waiting for his brother, as he pointed in the direction of the ride behind him.

The policeman could see Henry’s brother spinning around in his seat as the ride went around. He was looking down, trying to keep his eye on Henry, trying to figure out what was going on. He looked nervous and concerned and helpless. The policeman was apparently satisfied as to what was going on. He shook a scolding finger at Henry’s brother and then took the girl by the hand and led her away. The little girl turned her red head and looked back at him and smiled.

Soon the ride came to an end and Henry was able to tell his brother the whole story.

Big brother told Henry he deserved a treat for being such a hero (and because he felt a bit guilty), so he bought him a cotton candy, which Henry ate like a dog with a treat. Afterwards he had a sticky pink clown-mouth to wear the rest of the day.

The next ride they went on was the swings. It was not the most exciting ride at the park, but Henry still liked spinning around with outstretched arms which made him feel like he was flying. This time was different however and he did not think he would be able to fly all the way to the end of the ride without throwing up. In fact, as soon as Henry’s feet hit the ground, up came all the hastily eaten cotton candy into a bubbly pink puddle at his feet. Even though he was now standing firmly on the ground, it was quite a while before he didn’t feel like he was still on the swings. His brother took him to the men’s room and helped him get cleaned up—he even washed off the big clown mouth.

But that was years ago, he was ten now and he was with his friends–not his big brother. He was ready to ride the “coaster of death.” This was HIS year.

Henry loved the smell of the amusement park. The air was thick with the smells of hot dogs, pizza, sugar and fried dough, and the boys were all getting their fill of each between rides.

The boys could see the giant roller coaster off in the distance, towering like some religious edifice—and certainly worthy of their pilgrimage. This would be the final event of the day. The boys got their tickets, Henry was tall enough with height to spare, and they all lined up to get into the train of coaster-cars.

There were already a few passengers on board and they all scrambled toward the empty cars–two boys to a car. The last car, which was also the first car, the one apparently with Henry’s name on it, already had a passenger. All the other cars were full. He was left with NO CHOICE, as he sheepishly took the last seat available—next to a “girl” with bright red hair. Behind him, Henry could hear his friends laughing at him as the attendant lowered the bar to trap the two of them together. Henry looked straight ahead at the shiny tracks that curved sharply upwards and disappeared somewhere near the clouds and blue sky.

The girl spoke and asked in a very squeaky voice, “What’s your name?”

“Henry,” he said politely, but wishing he was invisible.

“Mine is Christine,” she said, as if she knew better than to wait for him to ask her, and knowing full well she was not invisible.

“Is this your first……….,”

The train lurched forward cutting her off and then smoothed out as it strained to climb the mountain ahead of them. There was a clicking sound like someone ratcheting a giant egg timer that you just knew, sooner or later, would have to go off relentlessly. They were now laying on their backs, instead of sitting on their butts, as the train climbed the vertical hill one tick at a time. Their knees fell against the bar that kept them from falling out.

“Is this your first time on the roller coaster,” she continued, her voice wobbling in sync with the timer?

Henry’s heart was racing and he was starting to have doubts about what he had gotten himself into. How could he have wanted to do something so badly and now wish so badly he could change his mind? And how the heck could this girl be going on the ride by herself?

“Yup,” he said, desperately clinging to the bar that spanned across them.

He would love to have been able to pretend he had tons of experience with roller coasters, but that would have been difficult to fake at the moment. He didn’t know that was his job yet.

DSCF2950bThe train was barely moving as it inched up the hill; and he could hear all his friend’s panicked excitement behind him. They were now almost at the top and it started to flatten out. As the train started to go down the hill, Henry could no longer breathe, the bottom was nowhere in sight–it was a dead vertical drop. Not just steep—it went down until it disappeared into a tunnel at least a mile below.
Henry could see miniature people on the ground milling around in the miniature streets of the miniature village of colorful tents.

He knew for sure now he was in way over his head.

As the last car got dragged over the top, the train accelerated to the speed of light! Christine screamed the loudest scream he had ever heard in his entire life as she grabbed onto his hand with all her might. This shocked him so much he literally forgot where he was or what he was doing. The next thing he knew the coaster had disappeared into the dark tunnel and floated by a series of colorful windows full of fish. It was all made to look like one was traveling under water. When the train shot out of the darkness and into the light of day, there were new twists, turns and loops to endure.

Christine eventually let go of his hand and he could not remember another single thing about the ride as it abruptly came to a stop back where they started. The security bar was swung away from them and they both hopped out onto the platform as if to escape some wild primal animal. Christine thanked him for riding with her and he said thanks back. As they went their separate ways he was not sure what he was thankful for. He could still feel the grasp of her hand on his, but he had no clue who saved who. Was this another cotton candy moment? He was indeed in over his head.

When she turned and smiled at him as she left, Henry had the oddest familiar feeling. Henry would forever be altered by that red haired girl’s tight grip on his hand–on his first roller coaster ride.

It was a quiet ride home in the two vans for the group of ten-year-olds and it did not take long before they were sound asleep from their day’s adventure. Henry drifted off to sleep and immediately found himself back on the roller coaster. This time his friends were not with him, but Christine was. Somehow they were both older though—like maybe eleven—but he knew it was Christine and him. There was that same red hair and smile.

It was as if they were at the amusement park together the next year or something. This year was different though because she was holding his hand from the start. It was all very confusing to Henry, even in his dream. How did something that seemed so unimaginable one moment, suddenly become not only imaginable but somehow unavoidable—and with no explanation—the next moment? There must be all kinds of sleep one can be awakened from.

He won Christine a Panda Bear, almost as big as she was, by knocking down a stack of milk bottles. Some guy twice his size and twice his age had spent a lot of money trying to win one and Henry knocked over all the bottles on his second try. Luck is worth a lot when you are on a mission. The look on the big guy’s face was priceless.

Over the years, Henry would often be visited by this dream, and of course as he got older, so did Christine. The dreams got much more interesting and the prizes that could be won got more valuable as well—although some of the games got harder and harder.

One time the roller coaster seemed to get stuck at the top of that first big hill. A seagull swooped in and fearlessly landed on the front edge of the coaster–right at Henry’s feet. While the train was stopped, almost floating in air, they had time to look out over the amusement park and see how it was like an island of color, light and sound surrounded by the rest of the world—with precise incongruous boundaries between them. They could see the Ferris wheel spinning around below them—almost as high as they were. Inevitably though, they were again plunged, screaming, seagull squawking, with hair streaming, eyes watering and cheeks flapping, into the darkness below.

Henry never lost interest in the park, there was always some new adventure to capture his attention, some new game with impossible odds, or some new ride to scare the pants of him. There was always the red head with the smile and the loudest scream he had ever heard—and would ever hear.

The roller coaster bumped and screeched to a stop and he wondered how the ride could be over so soon. It always seemed to end too soon and seemed shorter every year.

The jolt woke him up from his dream and he became aware of actually being in their car—not on the roller coaster at all.

Christine was driving. She looked over at him and smiled as she realized she had wakened him by braking too hard–her wild red hair was now mostly grey.

Suzy, their granddaughter was asleep in the back seat–it had been a long day with grandma and grandpa at the amusement park; and they all had too much fun on the roller coaster—Suzy was tall enough this year.

 

By Charles Buell