The Fairest Wheel

During my childhood trips to Carolina Beach in the 1960s, I remember the excitement of going to The Boardwalk in the evening where the highlights would be a couple of hot melt-in-your mouth donuts from Britt’s and a ride on the Ferris Wheel. The Ferris Wheel for me had just the right balance of danger and exhilaration. Those metal parts endured the salty air year round. Rust, painted over annually, was a constant threat. Light from slender, colored fluorescent bulbs reflected off the spindly beams. As I stood in line with my siblings waiting our turn to ascend the ramp and take a seat, I could hear the whir of motors, the churning of wheels and gears lubricated by globs of grease, and squeak of rubber against metal as the operator manipulated a long lever to stop and start the contraption. When the operator brought the wheel to a stop and unlatched the safety bar, riders would scoot out of the swinging bench seat. When the operator beckoned us to approach, we’d scurry into place, trembling with anticipation. Once clamped in, with a tug of the lever, the operator launched us upward. We accelerated into the blue-black night sky as the ground disappeared beneath us. Colorful lights twinkled below. The stars became more vivid as we rose into the cooler air. Flying past the zenith, the bench would tilt and pivot as we began a descent with a floating sense of lightness. Arcing downward and backward and then surging forward we’d approach the low point, plowing through warmer air with scents of diesel fumes and popcorn and funnel cakes. And then we swept upward to another summit.

Periodically during our ride, we’d come to a halt as riders who’d been on for a while would be motioned to exit. Upon departure, some would be satisfied. You could see on their faces that they felt their turn had been long enough, and included enough highs and lows, to be fondly remembered. Others might leave dissatisfied or disappointed, their turns interrupted by too many stops and starts and not enough intervals of uninterrupted circuits.

Sometimes the operator, losing track of who got on when, would expel riders prematurely. Others might by chance have extended rides.

With each spin, we’d grow ever more concerned that our time would be up. We’d catch glimpses of the operator and hope that his tug on the lever was intended for some other passenger whose time was expiring.

Eventually we’d realize we were the target of his deceleration as the operator nudged the lever and brought our ride to an end. We’d scamper down the off ramp into the fresh grip of gravity and the colors and smells and salt-air humidity.

…..

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, I regularly returned to the Carolina Beach Boardwalk with my wife and our children. I shared the ritualistic indulgence in Britt’s donuts. We’d get a dozen skimmed right off the simmering oil and retreat to a bench within earshot of the ocean waves to gobble them down before the molten sugar coating could form a thin, flaky crust.

“Can we ride the Fairest Wheel now?” they’d plead. Who cared if they didn’t know the proper name? I rather liked their nomenclature.

Off we’d go. My kids seemed to relish the ride as much as I had at their age. I was happy and content on these nights, taking a spin on that ancient machine.

…..

My father was not a man who read books or wrote letters. When we went through his belongings after he passed, there was not a single envelope containing something he had written. No love letters. No poems. No essays from high school. There were no books to be sorted and distributed to heirs. He was not a man who recorded any of his deepest musings so I listened carefully when he told me once that life is like a ride on a Ferris wheel. You get on. You ride for a while, experiencing the ups and down, the lows and highs, the pauses for others to get off and on (deaths and births) and eventually your time is up. Others take your place when you leave. And the Wheel goes round and round.

As a lifelong Presbyterian, Daddy knew and trusted the Operator. When his time was up, he left content and satisfied.

But his wife and partner of more than 60 years wonders why the Operator is allowing her to ride so long after the pleasure has subsided. She’s outlived all five of her siblings and each of their spouses. All of her closest friends have died. She depends on my sister and brother-in-law for all her daily needs. Dementia is gradually dissolving even her most reliable memories. Accumulating physical infirmities have rendered her barely mobile.

On a recent visit when we had a moment alone, Mamma earnestly and bluntly asked me “How much longer do I have?”

“Mamma, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure you have days or weeks and probably months. You might even have a year or two. But I really don't know.”

Already sure of her answer, I asked “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

“Then stay ready and trust the Operator.”

GR Davis

14 November 2020