I am on a roller coaster which is click clacking up a steep incline. Lily, my eight-year-old granddaughter, is sitting next to me.
"This is boring," she laments, gazing languidly over the side of our coaster.
"It gets better," I assure her. "See the apex up ahead?"
"What's an apex?"
"The top. That's where we start to go down."
Lily shrugs. This is her first roller coaster ride, and so far, she is not impressed.
As the coaster continues its painfully slow ascent, I try to distract Lily by pointing out the shrinking people watching from below.
"They're not actually shrinking, Gramps," she states emphatically, adding an eye roll for good measure. "It's just perspective."
I marvel that my eight-year-old granddaughter understands ‘perspective,' something I didn't learn about until . . . oh, sometime around high school. As for the eyeroll—it's something I'm used to as she clearly inherited it from the woman she calls Gramma and I call my wife.
Our ascent is about to become a descent, and I feel my palms begin to sweat. And pretty much every other part of me as well. I am not a roller coaster aficionado. I do not like Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds, or bumper cars. Just walking past the spinning teacups gives me the heebie-jeebies. My idea of a thrill ride is a glass of cabernet on the porch swing.
Which makes me wonder how the heck I got here.
It began two weeks ago, on the cusp of Lily's birthday. My wife casually mentioned it, as if to minimize any trauma associated with what she was about to suggest.
"It's Lily's birthday next week."
"Number eight, if I'm not mistaken. What does she want? Easy Bake Oven? Barbie Doll? Etch-a-Sketch?"
"Welcome to 2024, Mr. Time traveler from the 50s."
"Okay, okay, enough sarcasm. What does she want?"
"She wants to ride the roller coaster at Joy Land. She's finally tall enough."
I shifted uneasily, fearing where this was going. "Sounds like a terrific grandmother-granddaughter outing."
"I've got acrophobia."
"What does a fear of acrobats have to do with it?"
My wife gave me THE LOOK. If you're married, you know what I'm talking about.
"You know how I feel about thrill rides," I protested. "I have rollercoastaphobia."
"There's no such thing."
"Yes, there is, and I have it."
Another look.
And that's how I ended up on a roller coaster ride at Joy Land with my eight-year-old granddaughter.
I cannot adequately describe the roller coaster ride because my eyes are closed for the duration of it. And I am screaming. A lot.
Lily is screaming too, but for a different reason. She is having a grand old time.
It is the longest two and a half minutes of my life, and when it is over, the roller coaster attendant, who has obviously dealt with rider trauma before, calmly explains that it is necessary for me to release my vice-like grip on the safety bar in order to exit the ride.
Lily is ecstatic and breathlessly recounts the ride—its dips, its turns, its drops—in excruciating detail.
And then we come to the photo display.
It is one of those photos that is surreptitiously taken at the precise moment that riders are experiencing their most profound moment of elation. Or, in my case, terror. And the photo does not disappoint.
There's Lily, laughing, screaming, her eyes conveying pure joy. And sitting next to her, hair astray, eyes and mouth wedged shut, looking like a crazed neanderthal—is me.
"Oooooh, let's get the picture, Gramps."
Great. The most embarrassing picture ever taken of me is about to become the public domain of my extended family.
Seeking a refuge for my wobbly knees and nerves, I steer Lily to a refreshment stand where we take up residence in a somewhat secluded corner with corn dogs, fries, and lemonade.
"You look funny, Gramps," Lily pronounces between bites as she studies the roller coaster picture. "Were you scared?"
I looked at Lily and consider this. Here I am, Gramps with Granddaughter, helping her to celebrate her first roller coaster ride, something she will reminisce about, no doubt, in years to come. And whenever she sees a roller coaster as a teenager, young adult, mom . . . she will remember me. Long after ‘Gramps' is gone, she will remember this moment we shared.
What could possibly be better than that?
"This is a day," I begin, my voice cracking a bit, "that I will remember forever. Thank you, Granddaughter, for letting me share it with you."
Lily smiles, pleased with my response.
And then I do something that surprises Lily as well as myself—something that is almost sure to gain me entrance into the Grandfather Hall of Fame.
"Say, Lil. Whaddya say we give that roller coaster another whirl?"
And just like that, hand-in-hand, we're headed off to the roller coaster.
As we board our car and pull the safety bar down, Lily gently places her hand on mine, leans in, and whispers, "Try smiling this time, Gramps."
I promise her I will.
When the ride is over, we wind our way down the exit ramp and before long, come to the photo display. And there we are, Granddaughter joyful and happy, Grandfather sitting beside her, eyes wide open this time, with the biggest, silliest, teeth-gritting grin you've ever seen.