Dad’s Carny Summer

When the Skerbeck Carnival stopped
in Wakefield for a week each summer,
you’d work the food stand to earn some cash,
hoping to impress a girl you liked from Ramsey.
You also manned the Penny-Pitch stand,
waxing the board to a gleaming sheen
so no one could win a big prize—
your boss blown away by the job you did.

It was a nice escape from your dad’s rants
and scowls. Not much could endear you
to that old cuss, who never did an honest day’s work,
you’d later say. Ma sending you to fetch him
from the bar each payday, until he got pinched
beneath a coal car trying to fix the springs—
not that he was crippled or anything,
but he never worked after that.

Who was he to boss you around?
So the summer before eleventh grade
you left with the carnival. Spent six weeks
rolling county to county, smiling at the girls,
handing them their corndogs. You liked it fine
until your carny boss made you clean
the cheese vats with muriatic acid.
“The fumes were horrible,” you said.

Also toxic, according to EPA. Skin corrosion,
serious eye damage. I don’t expect
you wore much in the way of protective gear
those days, but I know you would have scrubbed
those vats until the metal gleamed.
By the time your folks caught up with you,
you were a hundred miles away in Hancock.
By then carny life was starting to lose its shine.

Dad balled you out all the long ride home
but you were looking out the window
at fields ripe for harvest, your frown a front
for the smile inside, thinking about a dozen
cute girls between Gogebic and Keweenaw,
each with a sparkle in her eyes for you,
and the pay you said nothing about folded
in your back pocket, saving it for the day
you’d roll out on your own—not far off now.
Only two years left to go at Wakefield High.

Hagelstein’s

I’m standing outside Hagelstein’s Bakery
at the corner of Lincoln and Washington
with Nathan Riley. We’ve delivered the last paper
on his route through downtown Royal Oak.
We pop the tops on two bottles of Coke,
tip back the cold, sweating curved glass
to slake a well-earned thirst. He’s chomping
on a dusty powdered donut while I munch
my Better Made barbeque chips. We’re what?
Eleven? Twelve? Reveling in the rewards
of working men. We sit, our backs against
the bricks beneath the frosted glass window,
watching people pass along the sidewalk.
The door swings open with a chime
and we’re bathed in the scent of baking bread
and chocolate chip cookies. We lean back
sipping our Cokes, and for a long moment
that will come and go, all of this is ours.

Christmases I Recall

I remember one Christmas Dad was so broke,
all we got in our stockings was Brazil nuts
and undersized apples. Our presents were socks,
knit hats and gloves. Things we needed to survive
another Michigan winter.

I recall just as well Christmases he went
over the top: G.I. Joe with kung fu grip,
a whole military base setup with a jeep for recon.
He did what he could. There’s not a day I remember
he didn’t put those hands to work.

If he wasn’t on the job at the Chrysler plant,
or starting his own carpet cleaning business,
he was changing the oil in the station wagon
or laying down tile, or building a privacy fence
for the backyard. Not that I appreciated it then.

You know how kids are, residing in a world
of their own construction. But he was steadfast.
Loyal to his own ideals. He would never be more
than a working man. But after the war, a family
and an honest living were the only gifts he asked for.

Storms at 13

How we craved extreme weather then,
standing on your front porch
praising the lightning.
Slate clouds slashed by charged knives,
sonic boom resonating
through our bones.
So much better than easy summer sun,
long schoolless days in search
of any kind of trouble.

Nothing could match the lure
of nature’s long restrained desire
edging toward formidable release.
Two boys with compressed breath
longing for a closer strike—
a tree exploding into flame
like a holy sign from God.
Scanning over rooftops
for nascent funnel clouds,
swirls of rushing wind
to sweep us up like Dorothy
to spin above the humdrum streets.

Others with good sense huddled inside
while you and I with baseball gloves
folded on the porch      listened
for that first slow patter of rain
on cartops and pavement,
giving way to a downpour so loud
it drowned our gasps and sighs,
flooding streets and sidewalks.
Submerging the lawn
where we played catch.

Photo by Taylor on Unsplash.