Looking Back at My Childhood in Missouri: How Rollercoasters Became an Unforgettable Experience

I was born in the Show Me State, and I think it shows to this day. Since I was a little girl, I’ve always had a healthy sense of curiosity. If I encountered something I’d never seen before, I instantly needed to know everything about it. Indoors, shows like Sesame Street and the slightly more obscure but beloved 3-2-1 Contact kept me completely rapt. Outside, places like Swope Park near Kansas City opened endless doors to wonder.

But the thing that piqued my interest most in those early days? Rollercoasters.

Picture a tiny, Hulk-loving girl with wild hair and scraped knees, too shy to say hi to neighbors but endlessly fascinated by anything bigger, faster, and louder than she was. She was a fraidy cat, sure, but a determined one. One day, her parents cajoled her into the station wagon and headed toward Worlds of Fun in Kansas City.

Have you ever been to Worlds of Fun? Today, it’s a kid’s dreamland: colorful rollercoasters twisting across the skyline, water rides roaring in the distance, and the smell of funnel cakes practically punching you in the nose. Every corner looks like it was built for adventure... and every line comes with its own soundtrack.

Back in the 80s, though? It was simpler. Fewer coasters. Fewer shops. Way fewer people. But just as much fun. I remember stepping onto those kiddie rides, feeling the wind whip through my hair as I zipped around in tiny airplanes and pint-sized cars. The world seemed enormous, but somehow I felt bigger for daring to ride.

My Nana was a big part of those memories. She had a lot of health problems when I was growing up—things that kept her from traveling far or staying out late—but her spirit was another story. She had married a GI during World War II and learned to speak English using comic books. She could quote Superman faster than most teenagers. Nana was one of a kind, and a closet thrill-seeker to the very end.

One of my favorite memories with Nana at Worlds of Fun was riding the Flying Dutchman together, over and over. It was one of the few rides she felt safe enough to try, so of course, I rode it with her as many times as she wanted. I didn't care about bigger rides when I was next to her, spinning in slow, happy circles, laughing until we both lost our voices.

But the Flying Dutchman didn’t change my life. The Zambezi Zinger did.

The first time I laid eyes on the Zambezi Zinger, I felt like a cartoon character seeing a pie on a windowsill... completely hypnotized. All that gleaming steel spiraling up into the sky just called to me. I was too short to ride it that year, but I spent the next twelve months dreaming about it.

When I finally got my chance, it was everything I'd hoped for: the slow climb up the spiral lift hill, the clack-clack-clack of the chain underneath, and then... freedom. The Zinger didn’t just drop you; it released you. It wound through trees so fast the branches blurred. It raced close to the ground, almost daring you to stick out your hands. Every twist and turn felt like an invitation to be braver than I thought I could be.

After that ride, I was hooked. Rollercoasters weren’t just thrilling: they were transformational.

When I moved to Georgia, my summers belonged to Six Flags Over Georgia. My best friend Billy and I would ride the Great American Scream Machine over and over, shrieking as we caught that perfect moment of airtime over the first big hill. Later, when my dad traveled for work, he’d drop Billy and me off at nearby amusement parks while he headed to meetings. It was the best kind of freedom.

Over the years, I’ve been lucky enough to ride some of the country’s best coasters. The Beast at Kings Island in Ohio remains my all-time favorite: the tallest, fastest, longest wooden coaster in the world. Racing through the woods at night, barely able to see where you’re going, it’s as close to flying as you can get without leaving the ground. I also loved the Loch Ness Monster at Busch Gardens Williamsburg, a twisting, looping masterpiece that somehow feels as timeless as the legends it's named after.

Theme parks were different back then. The 90s had a kind of magic you can’t quite recapture.

These days, I live in Michigan, near Detroit. After spending many years in Orlando, right in the heart of theme park country, you’d think I’d have my fill. I lived close to Disney and Universal, and while I loved parts of those parks, my heart always leaned toward the smaller, hidden treasures, like the Curious George Ball Factory at Universal, where pure chaos reigned in the best way possible, or the tiny tucked-away museum inside Epcot’s Morocco pavilion, where you could get blissfully lost for an hour and never see another soul.

Now, I’m looking forward to exploring a new park closer to home: Michigan’s Adventure. I can’t wait to visit, mostly because of Snoopy. You’d better believe I'll be front and center in Camp Snoopy, probably grinning like a five-year-old meeting their favorite cartoon pal. Yes, I'll even bring a retro Polaroid-style camera to snap pics.

Theme parks make me feel at home. Rollercoasters make me feel alive.

What brings you that spark?