High on a mountain near Monticello, the open sky has replaced the river as my summer muse. Like the water, its face changes with the hour; from the pale blue of morning to the deep purple and orange of sunset and sparkling star-lit blue of night. Clouds sculpt their way across the open palette of sky, moving from thin wisps of vapor to thick dark pillows obscuring all traces of blue. 

Each twilight sky trumps the previous one, perfecting the blue from turquoise to cobalt, adding streaks of colorful cloud. Precocious Venus, so bright and constant, looks like she’s coming in for a landing.

Age can find ample entertainment in these natural antics, but children yearn for greater thrills. Last night found us at a makeshift carnival in Monticello, an assortment of portable rides spread out on the broken, empty parking lot of the fading Apollo Mall. The garish lights of the carny were a poor challenge to the voluptuous clouds of the night sky, bathed in pink and orange light before fading to dark. Oblivious to nature’s charms, the children rushed to the first ride, a tea-cup affair with swiveling seats spinning on arms that danced a two-step back and forth across the pavement. Parental radar flashed at the thought of danger; of careless maintenance or slipshod repair.

Before action could replace thought, the children were harnessed in and the carny man started the motor, flashing a toothless grin at the squealing throng. His haggard face and body were only lifelike courtesy of a deep tan and sun-drenched blond hair. His body was rail-thin and his eyes popped out of his face like balloons on the dart-board game across the way. Bantering with the children, he seemed more cheerful than he had a right to be. As the riders spun near him he stepped up close to them and yelled in their faces to increase the thrill.

My daughter’s screams of pleasure pulsed through the dimming night as a sense of vulnerability swarmed over me. Were these rides safe? I doubted anyone was monitoring them, and the workers all looked a little dazed, not even alert enough to bark their attractions to the thin crowd of patrons. Just then the next ride, a pendulum shaped pirate ship, clattered noisily. A trio of metal signs, propped up against a rickety free-standing fence, had fallen to the ground as the ride’s speed increased. Comforting myself with the thought that no one was hurt, I looked back to my grinning brood, still twirling through the night.

Soon I noticed a cluster of people near the bungee-jump and watched as the carnival workers turned their attention to the giant yellow cushion that surrounded it. A young boy had bounced off the pillow and fallen backwards, smashing his head against the pock-marked blacktop. As his mother kneeled beside him cradling his head, his blood streamed through her fingers, dripping onto the pavement. The boy was still in his bungee harness as he lay flat but conscious, his head split open by the fall.

The tea-cup ride ended and my family tumbled toward me, their faces lit by the thrill of speed. My daughter leapt in the air, exclaiming ‘That was so much fun!’ and promptly fell in a heap of limbs, her equilibrium disturbed. She wanted to go on another ride immediately and her face fell when we told her we were leaving. My initial fears had been confirmed by another child’s misfortune. 

Opting for brownies and ice cream back at the bungalow, we watched the night sky glow with falling stars as we nestled together on the porch swing, feeling safe from all harm.