Dad’s magic wallet

The magic wallet made its first appearance at the county fair when I was only 7. That summer, we all piled into the back of the green station wagon with brown faux wood panels, and after a short drive, we stood at the gates of the Lakewood Fair Grounds.

The thing separating us from the best amusement park rides, cotton candy, greasy Polish sausages, and grape slushies ever found on the planet was of course, the admission price. It was a whole $2 each.

Dad stepped up to the unshaven, burly man selling tickets and counted out twelve crisp $1 bills. I don’t know if it was because I had never paid attention, or whether it was because I was really smart at age 7, but I had never seen so much money come out of Dad’s wallet before.

Wanting to see how much money really was in Dad’s wallet, I did what any kid my age would do: I pushed my brothers and sister out of the way.

It was easy; they were looking at the clowns fighting on stilts (which is where we got the idea to build our own clown-fighting stilts and fight in the backyard). That’s how Older Brother Richard broke his arm. But clown stilts are another story for another time.

This story’s about Dad’s Magic Wallet. I took a couple of steps forward and stood on my toes but didn’t want to get too close because he smelled really bad. Not my Dad — the unshaven burly man selling tickets — he smelled just like Big Brother James had set off a stink bomb in his pocket. And trust me; even at 7 years old, I knew what that smelled like.

Right before I was able to see how much money was inside, Dad snapped the magic wallet shut. We pinched our noses and shuffled past the ticket man. Then we ran to the king of all rides — Goliath — one of the last wooden roller coasters still standing in Georgia.

We watched in awe as red and white cars full of screaming passengers sped past. The coaster shook the wooden braces so hard we thought the bolts were going to fly apart, making the whole thing fall down. But like its namesake, Goliath stood strong.

Through terrifying climbs and stomach-churning plunges into turns that flipped the cars almost completely upside-down, somehow the wooden coaster held together. Finally it slowed and snaked its way back into the tunnel from where it had emerged just minutes before.

Unfortunately, the line for Goliath was too long. Dad made us go to the big tent first. He pulled out the magic wallet again and paid our admission. Once inside the big top, the circus filled our senses. The music from the huge organ on the far side of the tent fought to reach our ears, losing the battle to the trumpeting of the elephants announcing their arrival into the tent.

We watched in awe when the massive, smelly pachyderms lumbered past us, and Dad used his wallet again. This time he bought refreshments for all of us. With cotton candy in one hand and a big box of Milk Duds in the other, we found our seats on the wood bench of the very front row. The sawdust on the walkways stuck to our shoes almost as good as the pink cotton candy stuck to the Sister’s hair.

Twin Brother Mark missed the first act – Clowns on Stilts. Coming in, he had stepped in some elephant poop, and Dad took him to clean his shoes. When they got back, Mark said Dad had used his magic wallet yet again. He paid a bunch of money to the elephant handler. Seems elephant poop is the best thing one can put on a vegetable garden.

Every year going to the Lakewood Fair Ground was truly a magical time for all of us kids, one that Dad’s magic wallet easily paid for.

Alas, many years later, I sat with many and watched as they blew up the mighty Goliath. It was for a movie called “Smokey and The Bandit.” Bad movie, great roller coaster. Some things they just ought to leave alone.

But not all good things come to an end. Even at almost 80 years old, Dad’s magic wallet seems fuller now than it ever was before.

Today, being a dad myself, I know there really isn’t such thing as a magic wallet. Mom and Dad struggled to raise us five kids: sent us through college and paid out of state tuition for all of those years. Even as fat as Dad’s magic wallet was, it would have been exhausted under the financial strain.

The Wife and I went down to Florida over the holidays, and when I asked Dad how he paid for everything, we went out into the backyard and showed us.

There, standing in a sunny area in the middle of his garden, just beyond a big pile of elephant poop, was a tree. It was the only one he had transplanted from our house at 110 Flamingo Street. It was his money tree.

I just hope the trimming he gave us takes root and grows soon. The Boy’s starting his second year at Auburn, and the out of state tuition is really taxing our magic credit card.