The County Fair was a magical place. Other weeks of the year it was little more than an overgrown field. But during those few weeks in August it came to life. Games of skill and chance. Fairground food–the one time a year we were sure to get cotton candy. Tents full of stables temporarily housing all species of farm animals. Hawkers selling the latest kitchen and farming gadgets. Competitions for the most artistic presentations of canned goods, baked goods, and grains. Rows and rows of cars in the “parking lot” of flattened, tall, dry grass.
Everybody came to the Fair. And those who didn’t, wished they could. It was the place to be during those couple weeks in August. From the noise of the engines which powered the rides, the bleating and mooing of farm animals, fast-talking auctioneers and game barkers. To the smells of the pens, the sizzling hot dogs, and the smoke and grease from the rides. For me, the Fair was a complete sensory overload. And I loved it.
Each year I’d walk through the fairgrounds looking at ribbons on animal pens, watching and listening to the auctioneers. I’d gobble up a hot dog and take my time savoring the cotton candy. I’d play as many games as I could, and usually bring home at least one small prize. But there was one thing that always plagued me. One thing that year after year kept my Fair experience from being perfect. The scary rides.
There was the giant Ferris wheel, that whisked its riders up into the sky, higher than anything else around, and held them there—narrowly escaping certain death. Suspended by nothing more than a rickety, wooden frame.
The Hammer, which threw its riders violently back and forth, as its name suggests.
The Tilt-a-Wheel, which spun its riders around in a circle, then rose up off the ground like a giant spinning elevator until the centrifugal force was powerful enough to pin the riders against the outer edge of the ride. Then the bottom fell out, suspending the riders seemingly in space
There was the one that looked like a giant black widow spider, which must have really scared me because I have no idea what that ride actually did.
And there was the Scrambler.
The Scrambler was silver and shaped a little like an octopus. Those brave enough to ride the Scrambler got strapped into their double bucket seats. Then the attendant came by and lowered a metal bar across the riders’ laps. When the ride began the riders were whipped and thrown, spun and twisted in crazy eight patterns, faster and faster until their eyes could no longer register on any one point outside the ride. They were given up to the ride. Given up to the lack of perspective, the lack of bearings. And ultimately, given up to the rising nausea.
I remember watching admiringly those kid who were no bigger than me, staggering off the rides. They were smiling. A little queasy maybe. But brave enough to smile anyway. They had done something which I couldn’t quite make myself do. They had tackled the scary rides. And survived.
Each year on the long drive to the Fair I would have a conversation in my head. Telling myself that this was the year. I was going to do it. No longer would I remain on the outside looking in. I was going to bite the bullet. If those other kids could do it, so could I. And this was the year. I could feel it. This was the year that I would become one of those brave, smiling kids.
And each year on the long drive home from the Fair my satisfaction with my Fair experience would be complete but for that one area. Another year of staying on the outside. Of letting fear keep me from something I really wanted to tackle.
And so was the inner turmoil, the summer I was 11. My sister Jude, three years older than me, was going on the rides. Jude was always the brave one. She had asked Dad for a ticket to ride the Scrambler. I don’t recall now if Dad had actually asked if I wanted to go, too. In which case, all that was required of me was to nod. Or if I actually found my voice and asked for a ticket to join her. I was, after all, 11. I could do it. And maybe a little of her bravery would wear off on me. Maybe I could do it. Maybe this was going to be the year after all.
Next thing I knew, Jude and I were climbing up into one of those silver bucket seats. Willing my fingers to still work, I strapped myself in just like I’d watched her do. Then I sat there, squinting into the bright afternoon sun. Heart pounding outside my chest.
And now that I’m thinking about it, I wish I could remember how it was that I was able to actually sit with her. I suppose Dad standing just outside the fence weighed in on her letting her annoying kid sister take up the seat next to her.
Regardless of how we got there, she was excited, and I was terrified. I tried to swallow, just as the attendant came to slam the metal bar down across our laps, locking us in for safety. Clang. I was committed. Again I tried to swallow. I heard the rumble of the motor start up and knew that any second now my world would change. And please God just let me get through this without throwing up.
And that’s when it happened. That’s when Jude leaned over and shouted into my ear. The secret.
“If you get scared, just laugh. It’ll help you not feel so scared anymore. That’s what I do.”
I nodded. Okay. Just laugh. I could probably manage that. I mean, assuming I was still breathing, and all.
A moment later we were thrust sideways. And it’s funny, but when you’re standing outside the fence on ground that is comfortingly still, the movements of the Scrambler always appeared fluid and smooth. But when you’re the one who’s strapped into one of its octopus-like tentacles, and your entire world is spinning and thrusting and slipping and flying, those movements are anything but fluid and smooth. They are abrupt and fitful.
Ten seconds into the ride my eyes gave up. I caught one brief sighting of Dad and felt safer for just an instant. But then everything else, everything outside of our bucket seat, became a blur. My eyes could no longer focus. I lost my bearings. My perspective. I was being violently thrown in directions my body could no longer anticipate. I was strapped to the end of an eggbeater for crying out loud. The fear rose up in my chest. Followed immediately by the nausea.
Jude elbowed me then. I turned, swallowing my lunch back down, and looked at her. She was smiling. And laughing.
Oh yeah. Just laugh.
Haha. I forced a hollow laugh. Haha. Come on. You can do this. You have the secret now. So laugh. Haha. Again we were flung sideways, and then forward, to the other side, and then back, twisting and turning in a blurred world. Hahaha. I gave in to it. Gave in to the lack of perspective. Gave in to the lack of bearings. I just had to relax and go with it. And laugh. Hahaha.
Next thing I knew the ride was ending. And I was still laughing. For real. The attendant came and lifted the metal bar with another clang. I awkwardly climbed out of the bucket seat, and found it difficult to walk straight on rubbery legs. I staggered after my sister, the brave one, back out through the fence. I was wobbly. But that was okay. Because I was finally one of those kids. One of those smiling, brave, kids.
That summer, the year I was 11, the long ride home from the Fair was different for me. There was nothing left undone. Nothing which detracted from my full satisfaction with the day. My experience of the Fair that year was complete. I had ridden a scary ride.
But what I didn’t realize that day was that I’d been given a secret to surviving far bigger things than just scary rides at the County Fair. I’d been given a secret that would be useful time and again throughout life. When I lose my bearings, and my perspective blurs. When I can’t figure out and anticipate which direction I’m going to be flung next. When I have no control and no other options than to just give in to it and ride it out. When there’s nothing I can do but try to relax and go with it. Knowing that I will probably, at least, survive this.
That’s when I return again for just an instant to that silver bucket seat on a hot August afternoon. With the bar clanging shut across my lap, the fear and the nausea welling up inside of me. And my sister Jude turning to tell me the secret to survival.
“If you get scared, just laugh. It’ll help.”
And it still does.
J – Thanks for always letting me tag along. R
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