Ticket to Ride

by Sara Etgen-Baker

"You gotta have a ticket to ride!” snapped the Carney. “Get a ticket or move outta da way, kid. You’re takin’ up space!”

I stared motionless as the Ferris wheel cut through the heavy summer clouds.

“Here’s her ticket, sir. We three are ridin’ together.”

“Not happenin’ lady—only two per chair. One of youz has to ride by yerself.”

“No problem! She’s the oldest; she’ll ride by herself.”

“Whatever ya say, lady. She seems a bit scared to me though.”

“Your brother and I will be in the seat right in front of you.” Aunt Betty scooted me to the next chair. “You’re okay with that, aren’t you sweetie?”

Unable to speak, I nodded yes and sat paralyzed in the seat and waited, wondering why my dear Aunt Betty left me to ride alone. Just two days earlier I’d stood on the banks of the Mississippi River and watched the Ferris wheel being assembled. I dreamed of climbing aboard one of the cars; riding the circle of lights; watching the sun set over the Mississippi; and seeing the city’s lights from atop. Now my fascination had turned to fear—fluttering in my stomach like crazy butterflies.

“Single rider!” barked the Carney. “Put down the bar so we can all go!”

I snapped the safety bar into place, breathed deeply, and closed my eyes. The Ferris wheel bolted into action and slowly turned. As it gained momentum, I opened my eyes and looked down. The earth below me moved and became smaller. Then the Ferris wheel stopped leaving me to rest high upon the apogee. I squinted my eyes and looked out across Cape Girardeau until I saw the Old Mississippi River Bridge and the Old Lorimier Cemetery.

Above me soft white clouds drifted by. Below me, a Mississippi steamboat—reminiscent of the one that Mark Twain piloted—glided its way through the mighty river’s current. I followed the muddy river as it snaked its way through the countryside. Every inch of the legendary waterway brought something new into view—odd little islands, hills, woods, and towns.

Without warning, the Ferris wheel jolted forward and resumed its circular journey. I closed my eyes, and the rhythmic rat tat tat tuh of the Ferris wheel’s machinery freed my thoughts lifting my spirit high above the ground. Inspired and unexpectedly shaken from my self-imposed timidity, I was forever transformed.

The rhythmic melody slowed then ended; when my chair approached ground level, the Carney released the safety bar and growled, “Careful, girlee. Ya looks a bit dizzy.”

I stumbled; fell backwards; and looked up to see Aunt Betty’s face smiling down at me.

“Yahoo, sweetie! I knew you could ride alone! Stand next to the Carney, and I’ll take your picture. Okay, smile!”

Later that night Aunt Betty gave me that picture saying, “You grew up tonight. So, tomorrow you’re going to work with me. Get a good night’s rest!” The following morning, she took me into a musty smelling back room and sat me down at an antiquated, wooden office chair that was as stiff as an old man’s arthritic joints. She rolled me in front of a vintage manual typewriter; placed my hands on the home keys; and demonstrated the reaches. “You can read, can’t ya, sweetie? Follow the instructions on each page of this book. Remember, sit up straight and keep your wrists up.”

With that, she abandoned me—just as she’d done the night before. For the next few days, I silently sat perched at the keyboard, practicing until my wrists ached and my fingers numbed. When boredom set in, Aunt Betty handed me a shoebox full of picture postcards and old family photographs.

“Look inside, sweetie. Aren’t these pictures interesting? Why not use ‘em to type and create some stories? I’d love to read ‘em when you’re finished. How’d that be?”

I nodded—relishing her suggestion like a new pianist who embraces reading sheet music for the first time. By summer’s end, I typed several stories carrying them home in a shoebox I aptly labeled “Shoebox Stories.”

The years since—like summer days—have burned and melted away, leaving me to wonder whatever happened to my Shoebox Stories. Then one autumn morning while cleaning out my parents’ attic, I uncovered a somewhat dilapidated shoebox that smelled dusty like memories waiting to be explored. I gingerly opened the shoebox and sniffed the yellowed, timeworn paper; I opened the folded pages and recognized the faded ink of the stories I had created long ago.

The discolored, worn photographs ignited memories of the enchanting Ferris wheel and my summer of creativity when Aunt Betty gave me more than a ticket to ride a Ferris wheel. As I rode above the horizon, she unknowingly gave me a ticket to ride above convention—past my fears—into a life filled with anticipation, adventure, courage, resourcefulness, and a level of inspiration enjoyed only by those who have had their spirit set free.

Now I appreciate the beauty in sunsets and the joy in unexpected, sweet surprises. Although the Mississippi River inspired Mark Twain and gave birth to his creativity, the magical Ferris wheel transformed me and gave rise to my imagination—ever flowing like the river—ever turning tales to be told.