Content

After the summer was over, when the pumpkins still needed a couple more weeks on the vine, on one of those Sunday afternoons my father might say, “How about a mystery ride?” He didn’t even have to get that last word out and the four of us would be running toward the car, his old, reliable International Scout.

The ride itself was part of the mystery. We took back roads. We’d end up at a pond we’d never seen before with a huge tire swing, where we could take our last swim of the year or at a farm tucked away someplace and we could feed the cows handfuls of hay. Once, in the middle of winter, we went on a ride up along Route 8. The hills were blanketed in snow and he found a park with trails we could explore and a few grills meant for summer picnicking. He dusted the snow off and we roasted mini hot dogs and marshmallows on sticks.    

Often our rides led us to a carnival which was what I would be hoping for all along. We would spy the outline of a ferris wheel  just beyond the bend in the road and we couldn’t be contained. A carnival!  My brothers would race off for a haunted house or some rickety little roller coaster. My sister and I would head for the Tilta-whirl. We threw darts at balloons and never seemed to win prizes. We’d watch our chins fall to our knees in the fun house mirrors. 

I passed a carnival the other day and I thought about my father.  I wondered how he’d found those knock-about, homespun carnivals on the far edges of the state and how he knew about the windy river.  I thought too about how those mystery rides could shake away that Sunday night feeling, the wistfulness that can roll in just as night falls. 

We’d barnstorm into the house, our mother waiting to hear about all this latest adventure. We were sun-warmed, dirt-stained or snow- covered, so tired and so content.