The merry-go-round is housed in a glorious pavilion designed by Cooperstown's own Kurt Ofer. And it was built by locals, too. At the dedication I met Fred Wyckoff, whose woodworking shop is in downtown Fly Creek.

"Hey, Fred, I asked, "What part did you have in that great pavilion?" Fred, modest and soft-spoken man, broke into a boy's broad grin. "We built it!" Well, let's hear it for hiring locals.

Fred went on to say that the carousel project had defined his life since last October. Later, I saw both him and Kurt watching the carousel as it swung round and round with its gleeful first customers. Those two deserve all the delight that must now be theirs, as does everyone involved in bringing this wonder to Cooperstown.

Throughout the dedication ceremony, Anne and I were at our station just outside the gift shop tent, signing my book and displaying prints of her illustrations. With a clear view of the pavilion across the lawn, we waited expectantly for the dedication speeches to end and the handsome paneled doors to rise out of sight. Finally the doors glided up, and there was the carousel. No one was on it yet. It was lit and in circling, a sight out of a fairy tale. What a treasure.

Only one detail diminished the moment. The merry-go-round was slowly circling to recorded music. Hey! Where was the burst of rich, heart-swelling music from the built-in Stinson Military Band Organ? That machine is equipped to make grand music on its array of wooden pipes backed by drums, cymbals, glockenspiel, and even a red-headed woodpecker tapping rhythm on a wood block. But instead of live music, we heard a band-organ recording. That's not the same thing.

On a carousel, you're bombarded with sense impressions, and the band organ music is what ties them all together. The dancing steeds, the lights flashing off the mirrored core, the blur of surrounding faces, and the blast of exuberant music-they're all of a piece, all make the carousel experience. But for some reason, the experience had been dimmed. What had happened?

Somebody, I was told, had said that the band organ was dangerously loud. It could cause ear damage, or distract and cause a fall. And management, gun-shy in these litigious days, had knuckled under. So, on its dedication day, the Stinson Military Band Organ was only played a couple of times, and only when the carousel was stopped and empty.

One of those times, I went and stood in front of the band organ as it blared out "Meet Me in St. Louis." The pipes tootled mightily, hammers clanged on the glockenspiel, and that wooden woodpecker pounded time merrily. The bird was only one of the mechanized features. A carved John Phillip Sousa stood high above the moving works, his right hand raising and lowering a baton, right in tempo. He's flanked up there by two other New York patron saints of music, George M. Cohan and Irving Berlin.

Was the band organ loud? You bet! Delightfully, barbarously, joyfully loud. Was it too loud? No way!

Too bad the hand-wringers won out on dedication day. I hope someone will reconsider.

And did I get a ride? You bet! As I stood among the splendid carved animals, I was almost paralyzed by choice. But I opted for a furtive-looking raccoon, settled onto its saddle, and fastened my safety belt. (Now there's a feature I don't remember. And of course there's no brass ring to grab for; much too risky.)

All the wonderful basswood carvings have been given names; in the program, they even have brief biographies. I was on Reggie, who "operated mostly at night, specializing in raiding garbage cans." There's even a fictive link made between the carousel's two pigs. Prunella is an antique carving from a 1923 merry-go-round. But she has fixated on Percy, a mere young shoat. I guess she's destined to pursue and he to flee, circling endlessly, around and around.

As I waited for the ride to begin, I glanced into the mirrored panel nearest to me. That was a mistake. It didn't reflect the boy I saw fifty years ago, when I last rode "the flying horses." But if there was no boy in the mirror, there was one, somehow, now sitting on that playful raccoon. He had a great ride.

When I got off, giddy, I met Paul Connolly getting ready to board. That good man said, "I'm taking a memorial ride for Bob Seaver! How he'd have loved all this!" And indeed he would. And I also know The Badger would have laughed uproariously at my later adventure in the main barn's men's room.

The crowd that day had been full of military re-enactors, French and British soldier who at one point fought a noisy skirmish in the village's main street. Well, toward the end of the day I had repaired to the barn's rest room and was standing in quiet meditation at the middle urinal.

Suddenly I was bracketed by two huge redcoats, their chests crossed by white belts supporting powder flask, cartridge box, flint pouch, and tin canteen. In thick-soled boots and wearing enormous tricorn hats, they towered on both sides of me. And each of them had a musket's barrel balanced against his left shoulder as he undid a lot of buttons.

I followed strict men's room etiquette and studied the wall tiles in front of me. But between those uniformed giants, I felt dwarfed, taken in custody. I felt very civilian. What to do? Salute? Perhaps not, under the circumstances.

But Bob Seaver would have roared with laughter in that situation. And salute? I'll bet money he would have.

Bob, you relished life, especially its craziness. And here's a promise, Badger. Like you, I'll try to keep my seat on this ride till it comes to full stop.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. He can be found on the web at JimAtwell.com.