The Twilight Zone

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

‘Tis the season for families to visit amusements parks with children racing from ride to ride seeking adrenaline and nausea simultaneously. Risk-taking has never been part of my nature. I’ve always had a secret, nagging fear in the back of my mind that I’d be thrown off the Wild Mouse as it flipped around a corner, or we’d all crash into a line of stranded cars on the roller coaster. But I never expected it would be the mellow Carousel which would launch me into the Twilight Zone.

My husband used to work for an internationally famous computer simulation company housed on the University of Utah campus. Every year to celebrate their on-going success, Evans and Sutherland threw the company picnic at Lagoon for families of employees: free passes and lots of food for as long as you could stand to stay. Starting in mid-winter, my teenagers charted the date on the calendar, asking for time off work months in advance. When the big day came, they hooked up with friends in other employee families. My husband, who got bored easily, usually volunteered to take the middle-aged children to the water park, which that year left me solely in charge of only Son #6. He was a study little fellow, two-and-a-half years old, who cheerfully dragged me across the park to ride on his heart’s desire—the merry-go-round.

The Lagoon Carousel and I had a long history. It had been the site of most of my children’s first amusement park rides when they were very young. Son #6 knew the drill, and he was adamant that he would chose only the finest horse–which meant that first we had to circle the entire ride so he could see all his options (thank you, very much). When he finally decided on his mount,  I helped him up and strapped him in, intending to stand next to him to keep him from colliding with the floor. He had other ideas. He kicked me and demanded, “Do it myself!” I sighed, backed off, and settled on a bench held up by a pair of swans conveniently provided for parents in my situation.

The calliope began. My son rotated up and down, squealing with glee as we circled round and round. I had my eyes glued to him, when suddenly, the music dimmed. The noise of the midway crowds disappeared, and a clear voice across from me said, “Are you happy?” Startled, I ripped my gaze away from Son #6 and saw a sleek, sophisticated older woman with graying hair and piercing eyes seated across the swans from me. I remember wondering if she were an E & S employee? Or maybe Mrs. Evans, herself?

“What?” I said, annoyed at being distracted from my protection detail. Now I noticed the quiet all around me. It was unnerving.

“Are you happy?” she repeated.

I stared at her; then my tongue took on a life of it’s own. “Of course, I’m not happy. I have a bunch of kids. My husband’s salary doesn’t stretch far enough. I spend my days changing diapers and refereeing arguments,” and I reeled off a long litany of minor irritations. I could still see my son laughing as he bobbed up and down on his horse, but no sound came from his lips.

Calmly, the woman listened to my tirade. When I ran out of breath, she said, “You should do something about that.”

Mesmerized for a moment, my mother-instincts finally broke the connection between us, and I stole another glance at my little boy. As I did, calliope music on the merry-go-round rose again in volume; the clamor of the midway enveloped us. When I turned back to the woman, she had literally vanished. Though I searched as I roamed through the park with my children for the rest of the day, I  never saw her again.

Some hours after I went to bed that night, I lay awake, troubled by my encounter on the carousel. About 2 AM, restless and unable to sleep, I crawled out of bed and wandered into the dining room, switching on the overhead light as I went. “I SHOULD do something about that,” I thought. And pulling out a pen, I wrote the down words which I intend NEVER to be inscribed on my tombstone. (I should warn you, your English teacher was right—people in the free world still write limericks. This is mine.)

Here lies the mother of eight,

Whose life was in such a terrible state,

She got nothing done,

Never had any fun—

A fate too awful to contemplate.

I posted my little poem on the bathroom mirror, and that simple action changed the direction of my life. I took a vow that night I would learn something new every single year from that day on. And I have kept my promise.

Among other adventures since then, I have rappelled off an 80-foot cliff, made a wedding dress, snorkeled in Hawaii, hiked in Denali, earned a master’s degree, written a novel, taken watercolor lessons (with less than stellar results, I might add). I’ve been white water rafting, stood on a hill in Greece surrounded by the winds of 4,000 years of history, read a 400 page book in Spanish (a language which I do not speak), became a high school English teacher, learned to make ganache—think deep rich chocolate and heavy cream. I have spoken face to face with kangaroos in Australia (it should be noted that they did not speak back), made dozens of quilts for the babies of people I care about, explored the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, and was elected to public office.

I’ve never been inclined to fanciful imagination. But even after more than 30 years, I cannot explain those moments on the carousel. Still today, I sometimes hear the eerie, tinkling music of The Twilight Zone whispering in my head. Shakespeare was right—there really are “more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” I have been there. I know.