Late spring or summer it must be, the year 1945. At the zenith of the season, Breckenridge Park can be wickedly warm; but the sun and that acrid aroma of confined beasts leave no lasting imprint upon my small being. I am far too giddy for that.
At the end of interminable waiting, we are the vanguard of the queue; I look at my parents and they seem like giants beside me. A genial, annoyed man, standing to the side of a wood booth, barters tickets for cash: it is time for the boarding. Up and up, to dizzying heights, I am being propelled; but… in mid-hoist I mutiny.
"No! I want down! It has HAIRS!" The normally reticent child has found her voice. What appeared from afar as smooth gray pelt, up close proves to possess a scary addendum. The elephant’s hide is a leprous-looking affair, sparsely whiskered with black prickly fur.
"But we’ve already paid!" At mother’s tone, I tear up.
"The hairs," I say in smallest plaint.
"But it has a chair, see?" But my parents’ words fail of their consequence. It still looks to me like the hide will contaminate and the hairs will scratch. Reluctantly they lead me away.
I look over my shoulder. Other children about to ride are happy and excited. I survey the elephant. It is the magnificent beast from Lands and Peoples. "I want to ride!"
"What? But I thought you… Look at that line! No, it’s too late." A sense of loss: weeping.
"Please?" I promise.
My father nudges my mother, "Let her try!"
How many times did those hideous black hairs induce a wave of doubt? Did I ever ride the elephant?" My mother who was born in 1914 will be 92 this April. Just the other day I thought it was high time I ask.
"About four, I think, and yes, but of course is was your father." I knew just what she meant. My dad was right there with me – on the elephant’s back.
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