10 of 24 - Redruth Fair Big Wheel 1973

I was seventeen and had become rather religious, the fire-and-brimstone kind, preaching in the streets and bible study— but also youth group socials, tepid fruit squash, and acoustic choruses sung with conviction. That’s where I met Jim. Cerebral palsy, wheelchair-bound, speech that made you lean in. Many didn’t. I did.

One afternoon, we got talking about the funfair that had rolled into Redruth—diesel fumes, neon lights, and the scent of fried onions. Jim said he’d love to go. I said I’d take him. No one stopped us.

I wheeled him all the way from Gladys Holman to Redruth, through the park gates like we belonged. He pointed at the rifle stall. I fired. Missed. Then the coconut shy—he gestured, I threw. Missed again. But the stallholders, bless them, handed over prizes anyway. A soft toy, a plastic whistle. Not out of pity, but something quieter. Recognition, maybe. Or just a shared moment of kindness.

Then Jim looked up at the big wheel.

“Can we?” he asked, or something close to it. I understood.

Nobody had been daft enough to take Jim on the big wheel before. But I was seventeen, and daft felt like courage. We got him into the seat—awkwardly, limbs stiff and unpredictable—and the operator pulled the bar across us with a shrug that said, Your funeral.

As the wheel began its slow ascent, Jim went rigid with excitement. His body arched, spasmed, and slipped beneath the guard rail. I grabbed him. One arm around his chest, the other clinging to the rail. We were halfway up, and I was grabbing on to him like his life depended on it. Which it may well have done.

I shouted. Loud and scared. The operator stopped the wheel and reversed us down. The other riders groaned. Jim didn’t care. He’d ridden the big wheel. And I’d learned that kindness doesn’t always come with a safety briefing.

We left without winning anything. But Jim had prizes. And a story. And I had a memory that still makes me wince, laugh, and wonder what possessed me. Maybe it was faith. Or foolishness. Or just the kind of reckless compassion that only seventeen-year-olds possess.

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