On my bedroom wall hangs a picture that has given me much pleasure over the years. When I walk by it, I can’t hold back the smile that automatically leaps to my face in response to the smiling boy in the picture. I’m so glad now that I let him talk me into having the picture drawn that hot July day at Six Flags.
The picture is a hand-drawn caricature of my youngest son, Josh, at twelve years old. The generous sprinkling of freckles almost matches his bright red hair, or the part of it that shows under the black baseball cap that perched forever on his head back then. His eyes are the bright blue of the sky behind him, and lively, beaming with excitement to be at Six Flags with his friend Jeremy and me. His full lips spread in a grin and he wears his Hard Rock Café tee shirt. A gold chain encircles his sunburned neck. The artist even captured his pug nose and the bit of shadow that drew a line in his hair from the cap’s bill.
Josh never grew weary of Six Flags during his childhood. He ignored the heat and long lines. This impatient child stood patiently waiting in the long lines and the heat to reach the ride of the moment, be it the Scream Machine, the Parachute, the Ninja, or the Flying Dutchman. He had no interest in the tamer rides. When I tried to talk him into the swamp ride that took us in a boat and through cool tunnels, he declined. Too babyish. He craved the excitement of flying down the curves of the tallest roller coaster or the breath-taking Free Fall.
Back in those days, and most of my life actually, I suffered from...
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