HOMETOWN

I was around someone recently whose significant other had gone to Disney World, leaving him behind, hundreds of miles away from Mickey Mouse and all the theme park’s other trappings, a distance that brought comfort. My friend loves his partner, but Disney World is not his thing.

It is also not my thing. And if that indifference makes me a crank or a killjoy, I am at peace with the label. I have some contacts on social media, contemporaries of mine, for whom trips to Disney seem to be a focus in their lives, a priority on their calendars. I’m glad they enjoy the experience but don’t understand the fascination.

When I was dealing with a detached retina several years ago, the surgeon who made the repair and monitored my recovery — I count my blessings that thanks to his expertise I got my vision back — offered a warning among his post-op advice.

“Stay off rollercoasters,” he said. The doctor’s admonition was so unnecessary he might just as well have urged me to avoid stepping in a rattlesnake den. I had no plans to do either.

Perhaps if I were a parent, if I had experienced a little one having a magical moment between turnstiles, I would feel differently about such amusements at my advanced age. But I also had been a teenager in North Carolina during the 1970s who didn’t feel there was a void in my life because I never traveled to Carowinds, in Charlotte, despite multiple youth group opportunities to do so. Although I loved going to the annual Moore County Fair, I was far from a regular attendee at the North Carolina State Fair, going just once with a large family from my neighborhood.

My last visit to a theme park occurred in 2008, when a friend and I went to Universal Orlando. On a boat ride during which “pirates” attack, there was an expectation of getting lightly splashed during one of their “explosions.” Instead, a geyser erupted from the lake not far from our seats on the starboard side, and we received a drenching from head to toe that sent us to the exit and toward a change of clothes.

I was not far from my 50th birthday at the time of that unexpected soaking. If I had been 12, I might have relished it. When I was that age, in the summer of 1971, my parents and I made a highly anticipated trip — I was looking forward to it, that is — to Six Flags Over Georgia, outside Atlanta.

Going to Six Flags was part of the biggest journey of my young life. We went all the way to Tallahassee, Florida, to visit my sister, Dianne, and her husband, Bob, who had been living in the Sunshine State’s capital city for a couple of years. Opened in 1967, Six Flags Over Georgia was the brainchild of Dallas businessman Angus Wynne Jr., whose Six Flags Over Texas was built in 1961.

Leading up to our unprecedented vacation, I had sent away for a Six Flags Over Georgia brochure and was familiar with its attractions by the time we pulled out of our driveway in Southern Pines for the long drive south. The park’s “Dahlonega Mine Train,” a rollercoaster, and “Log Jamboree,” a water flume, were both highly touted in its promotional material. Six Flags was described as having a “clean, cheerful and friendly atmosphere.”

I entered Six Flags most excited to get in a log-shaped raft and travel the 1,200-foot channel of the “Log Jamboree.” Its nose-diving, spray-flying conclusion didn’t disappoint, and the modest rides offered each fall in Carthage never thrilled in quite the same way after riding that water flume.

My parents were good sports that afternoon, even though Six Flags surely wasn’t their idea of a great time. When we were getting ready to leave, they even indulged me by traipsing hundreds of yards across the park to a souvenir kiosk. I had been whining about wanting a helium balloon.

Tired, happy, hungry, and holding a big blue balloon on a string, when we got out of the car at the suburban Holiday Inn where we were spending the night, my father looked at the $2 purchase in my hand. “Be careful with that thing,” he said. “Don’t pop it.”

Along with some other guests, we stepped into an elevator. A man got out on a floor below ours. As he did, I carelessly let the string attached to my coveted memento go slack, allowing it to be sandwiched by the closing doors.

I was smart enough not to ask if I could have dessert that night.