The two of us, Charlene and me, were either giddy or angry, one or the other, at this stage of life.  Of course, we were.  We were 13 and hormonal as only pubescent teenagers can be. 

The air smelled of fried foods and popcorn, horse manure, and the first hint of cool, crisp autumn days.  It was October in coastal Carolina and the heat was waning.  We actually had long sleeves on.

The sound of barkers, the music from the individual rides, the roar of the roller coaster.  Our senses were on high alert with all the stimuli – the smells, the sounds, the feel of cool air and a breeze rippling our long hair. – Charlene was a blonde, and I was a brunette — both of us impossibly skinny and tall.

The night of the carnival we were giddy – in love with life, comfortable in our friendship, full of laughter, and looking to meet our true loves.  Or at least someone interesting. 

There we were in our Levi jeans, desert boots, flannel shirts, and corduroy jackets.  We were young, we were beautiful. 

And we were obnoxious.

But boy did we have fun.

We rode the spider first, the cars twirling round and round while moving in and out of the circle.  I love the feeling of being dizzy.  The tea cups at Disney Land were my favorite ride.  The spider was a poor substitute but it would do.  We went through the haunted house, the fun house, the Ferris wheel. 

And then, we experienced that damn thing that worked like a centrifuge.  You stand against the wall, in a giant circular container, the contraption spins around, and the floor drops and you remain stuck against the wall, the force of the revolutions holding you there unable to move.  Inevitably, somebody gets sick and the vomit sprays back into their face.  It’s an unholy terror of an experience.  The haunted house has a lot to learn from that thing.

Afterward, we were even more giddy. Feeling like we had come close to death but vanquished the old bastard. 

We were immortal.

We wanted to get our fortunes told but couldn’t afford it so we sat on a bench eating cotton candy while trying to keep our blowing hair from getting stuck in it.  Or maybe it was a candy apple.  In all likelihood, we had both.

In a graduation speech by a Chicago columnist that went viral, Mary Schmich said, “Enjoy the beauty and power of your youth.”

That night we were fully immersed in it.  Wallowing in the pleasure of being young and alive and on the cusp of what we thought was adulthood.  Little did we know then that at 63 we’d still be trying to figure out the adult thing.  Well, at least I am. 

I have lost track of Charlene.  I moved.  The letters between us got fewer and fewer.  We drifted. 

Now we’re practically strangers.  Fifty years is a long time.  A very long time.

I tell myself to enjoy the beauty and power of my old age, but it’s not quite the same.  Instead of the sensual onslaught of the carnival, I now prefer a quiet chair in the garden watching the birds feed.  With my two feet planted firmly on the ground.

It’s all in the moments that you notice. Wallow in your feelings. Feel all the feels.  And get giddy when the floor disappears and you survive it.  Enjoy the beauty and the power of your whatever.