Terror on the Caterpillar
My Dad was not dramatic and he never talked about his service in England during WWII with the US Army.
But he did, occasionally, share some of his most frightening life experiences, often because he thought it might help others who looked like they were about to repeat his own mistakes, or others’ mistakes he had witnessed.
He was 19 when he was ordained as a minister (pastor). He was about forty when he told me about his first duty as a pastor.
We spoke on the phone nearly every day, and during a call I mentioned we had bought a kerosene heater to help our struggling furnace during a cold winter. There was a long pause, long enough that I asked, “Dad? You still there?” When he spoke, he was crying. “Dad? What’s wrong?
He said he and Mom were fine, and he’d call me back.
About half an hour later, he called back. He was more composed, but his tone was unusually bleak. He related the story I’d never heard. In the first week after his ordination, he got a phone call in the middle of the night asking if he would please go to a nearby farm. The people who lived there needed him.
He went. What he found was a tragedy by any standard. They were a couple in their early thirties who had recently bought a farm, complete with a dilapidated house that they were repairing. As was customary in the 1940s, they had five children, aged infant to a thirteen year old. That too was a cold winter. They used a kerosene heater to cut the edge of the night cold, placing it at the end of the upstairs hall where the children slept.
Some parental instinct woke them in the night and when they went to check the children all five were dead or close to it due to carbon dioxide poisoning. None of the children survived.
His first pastoral duty was to comfort the devastated parents and officiate at a funeral with five small coffins.
We turned off the heater and put it in the garage.
The other incident was when Mom and Dad took their three year old son to an amusement park. I think the ride was called the Caterpillar. It consisted of a series of cars on a track that undulated around in a circle while a canvas canopy slowly covered and uncovered the cars. Dad and my brother Cal got into a car, Dad on the inside near the machinery that powered the ride, Cal on the outside. They belted in, and Dad put his arm around Cal.
It was fine at first, until the ride picked up speed.
Gradually, as the canopy slid open and shut and the velocity increased, Dad felt his arm trying to pull away from Cal and Cal slowly slid to the wall of the car. Cal started to slide out of his belt. Dad gripped harder and screamed, but screams are what you hear on amusement park rides.
Just when Dad was sure the centrifugal force was going to tear his son from his hold, the ride slowed and stopped.
Dad and Cal got out of the car and Mom came up to them, smiling. Then Dad politely walked over to a trash can and vomited while he cried.
So when you see those signs that say, “You have to be THIS tall to ride,” think about obeying them.
But he did, occasionally, share some of his most frightening life experiences, often because he thought it might help others who looked like they were about to repeat his own mistakes, or others’ mistakes he had witnessed.
He was 19 when he was ordained as a minister (pastor). He was about forty when he told me about his first duty as a pastor.
We spoke on the phone nearly every day, and during a call I mentioned we had bought a kerosene heater to help our struggling furnace during a cold winter. There was a long pause, long enough that I asked, “Dad? You still there?” When he spoke, he was crying. “Dad? What’s wrong?
He said he and Mom were fine, and he’d call me back.
About half an hour later, he called back. He was more composed, but his tone was unusually bleak. He related the story I’d never heard. In the first week after his ordination, he got a phone call in the middle of the night asking if he would please go to a nearby farm. The people who lived there needed him.
He went. What he found was a tragedy by any standard. They were a couple in their early thirties who had recently bought a farm, complete with a dilapidated house that they were repairing. As was customary in the 1940s, they had five children, aged infant to a thirteen year old. That too was a cold winter. They used a kerosene heater to cut the edge of the night cold, placing it at the end of the upstairs hall where the children slept.
Some parental instinct woke them in the night and when they went to check the children all five were dead or close to it due to carbon dioxide poisoning. None of the children survived.
His first pastoral duty was to comfort the devastated parents and officiate at a funeral with five small coffins.
We turned off the heater and put it in the garage.
The other incident was when Mom and Dad took their three year old son to an amusement park. I think the ride was called the Caterpillar. It consisted of a series of cars on a track that undulated around in a circle while a canvas canopy slowly covered and uncovered the cars. Dad and my brother Cal got into a car, Dad on the inside near the machinery that powered the ride, Cal on the outside. They belted in, and Dad put his arm around Cal.
It was fine at first, until the ride picked up speed.
Gradually, as the canopy slid open and shut and the velocity increased, Dad felt his arm trying to pull away from Cal and Cal slowly slid to the wall of the car. Cal started to slide out of his belt. Dad gripped harder and screamed, but screams are what you hear on amusement park rides.
Just when Dad was sure the centrifugal force was going to tear his son from his hold, the ride slowed and stopped.
Dad and Cal got out of the car and Mom came up to them, smiling. Then Dad politely walked over to a trash can and vomited while he cried.
So when you see those signs that say, “You have to be THIS tall to ride,” think about obeying them.
