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After dinner on warm summer nights, the young crowd traded Rainbow Beach for Uncle John’s Kiddieland, a small amusement park at the edge of town. A local family operated the attraction and, according to neighborhood rumor, had once owned a traveling carnival.

Getting there sometimes required a little persuasion. Mikey, my nephew and only nine years younger than me, had perfected the strategy. He would telephone his grandmother and casually ask whether Kiddieland might be open. Within moments, she would invite him over, promise to check the park and add an overnight stay to the plan.

Once inside, we spent ten-cent tickets on a train that circled the grounds and a boat ride with a bell we rang with the enthusiasm of a fire crew. I loved the roller coaster, though Mikey found it too frightening.

The merry-go-round was the star attraction. Its rearing horses, flashing lights and calliope music created a spectacle that stayed with me long after childhood.

When the tickets were gone, we visited the baby goats and bought 25-cent cups of pellets to feed them. My friend Cheryl and I had done the same thing years earlier, when our mothers brought us to Kiddieland at ages four and five. Much later, Mikey and I continued the tradition.

Then it was our turn for a treat. Cotton candy offered a sweet, pink cloud of spun sugar, while Dairy Queen provided relief on especially warm evenings. My regular order was a ten-cent vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. Mikey chose the smaller five-cent version.

The entertainment may sound modest now, but to us, those summer nights felt extravagant.