The Ferris Wheel
Last night His Holiness and I went to a small Carnival that sets up each summer behind a nearby racetrack. The huge parking lot rests on a hilltop and affords a sweeping view of the surrounding hillsides. The weather was perfect for an early evening out, the humidity was low, the mountain air was cool and crisp and the sky was radiantly blue as the sun arced toward setting then slowing warmed to gold then orange then soft purple before surrendering itself to the night. HH and I were feeling bold and after spending a small fortune on rides in the small cars that he finds endlessly fascinating, we both summoned up our courage and went for a ride on the Ferris wheel. I have a thing about heights – they scare me to death. The last time I was on a Ferris wheel was in Paris, a few years ago. It was during the early days of a beautiful love affair and she was from Paris and showing me her city. When our long warming walk ended at the Ferris wheel I came close to loosing my nerve but weighing the upside (the promise of passion) against the downside (near certain death and dismemberment) I chose passion and did my level best not to grasp the guard rail of the seating compartment too desperately as we swung high above the city of love. I was in a similar, albeit quite different situation last night with HH … The Ferris wheel was (thank you Great Spirit) a much smaller version of the Paris nightmare, but I was still at great pains not to let HH know that Papa was more than a little apprehensive about making the ascent. But there is almost nothing I wouldn’t do for him so up we went … The view was spectacular, the lights, the sky, the carnival grounds below us filled with movement, but more fantastic than all of that was the expression on HH’s face as we rode up and over the top of the arc, into the air and down again. He was radiant and laughing and I expect we will be talking about that ride and that night for a long, long time.