Ticket to Ride

This story, "Ticket to Ride," is one of my favorite.  It is a true story about my summer of creativity with my Aunt Betty Stainbrook.  She was a true gem of a lady whose spirit remains a part of me even to this day.  I read this story before a live audience at Tales from the South in Little Rock, Arkansas, in July 2012.  I've enjoyed sharing this story and hope you enjoy it as well.

TICKET TO RIDE by Sara Etgen-Baker

At 61, Sara Etgen-Baker still enjoys Ferris wheels and setting her spirit free.  She’s found that that living life beyond convention has filled both her spirit and her life with adventure, eagerness, creativity, and soulfulness.  

“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—hypnotized—as the magical wheel with its clockwise, circular motions cut through the heavy August 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, sir…she’s the oldest; she’ll ride by herself.”

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

Aunt Betty scooted me to the next seat and said, “You’re okay with that, aren’t you sweetie?”

I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Unable to speak, I nodded yes hoping not to show my fear and doubt.

Within an instant, I sat paralyzed and alone in the seat, waiting, pushing aside my fear of heights and 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 on the fairgrounds.  I imagined climbing aboard one of the cars; riding the circle of lights; watching the sun set over the Mississippi; seeing the city’s lights from atop; and feeling the chair sway in the summer breeze.   My fascination had turned to fear—fluttering in my stomach like crazy butterflies.

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

The wheel turned slowly, then faster; the earth below me moved and became smaller; then the chair rocked back and forth, and I came to rest high upon the apogee—stranded, alone, looking across the Mississippi River at 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 below me. Every inch of the legendary waterway brought something new into view—odd little islands, hills, woods, and towns.   For a brief moment I thought I saw Lewis and Clark standing atop the bluffs mapping the river’s course.

No longer landlocked, I sat silent between anguish and ecstasy—suddenly empty of fearful thoughts and full of soothing thoughts. I closed my eyes as the Ferris wheel slowly turned round ‘n round and carried me to heaven. As I re-opened my eyes, evening approached; I felt as if I was traveling into space. The rhythmic rat tat tat tuh of the Ferris wheel’s machinery freed my thoughts as my spirit soared 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, now girlee. Ya looks a bit dizzy.”

I stumbled anyway and fell backwards, looked up, and found Aunt Betty’s face smiling down at me.

“Yahoo, sweetie! I knew you could ride alone. I’m proud of you! Stand next to the Carney, and I’ll take your picture with my new Polaroid.  Okay, smile!”

Later that night Aunt Betty gave me that picture and said, “You grew up tonight.  So, tomorrow you’re going to work with me. Get a good night’s rest!”  I lay awake most of the night wondering just what she might have in store for me at the office where she worked.

The following morning, she took me into a poorly-lit, 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 Royal manual typewriter; placing my hands on the “home keys,” she demonstrated the reaches.  “You can read, can’t ya, sweetie? Now follow the instructions on each page; you’re old enough to type.  Remember… sit up straight and keep your wrists up.”

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

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

I nodded—relishing her suggestion like a new pianist who embraces reading sheet music for the first time.  Before summer ended 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, leaving me to wonder whatever happened to my Shoebox Stories. Then while cleaning out my parents’ attic, I uncovered a somewhat dilapidated shoebox that smelled dusty like memories waiting to be explored.

As I gingerly opened the shoebox, a heartwarming aroma flooded my nostrils. I sniffed the yellowed, timeworn paper that smelled a bit like grass with a hint of vanilla over an underlying mustiness. I opened the folded pages and recognized the faded ink of the stories I had created so long ago.

The photographs—discolored and worn—immediately ignited memories of both 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.

Here's what the editor at Page and Spine said about "Ticket to Ride"
Bloody brilliant!
This is very good. The writer leads us into the story with perfect timing and intrigue. The emotional roller-coaster of emotions cleverly introduced made me think of facing my own fears and being abandoned.I swore I thought it was fiction and only in the last two paragraphs does the writer reveal it is autobiographical---a fact that made it an even stronger story to share with readers.I’d congratulate the writer on a well penned piece of writing and I’d publish it in a heartbeat. -Jade

View the story at the following digital magazine: 

 http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca/p/2013.html