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As a child, Aaron Calafato believed that clouds were made in factories—until his classmates’ laughter shattered that illusion. In this episode, he shares a written adaptation of this story that’s gained popularity on Instagram Threads, along with reader comments reflecting on their own childhood misconceptions. Plus, a guest story by Karl Gerhard (Medina, OH) about the beauty and unexpected complexity of ice sculptures—because sometimes, what seems simple is anything but.
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Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Birce
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Music: thomas j. duke
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
They Laughed Me Out of the Room. I was crushed, but up until that moment, I had no idea I had said anything funny. I was in the second grade, standing in front of my elementary school class, excited to share two things: a summer vacation that felt like the greatest trip of my life and a fun fact I had believed since I was four years old.
I thought I was about to blow the class's minds. Instead, I ended up learning a very hard truth.
Let’s start with the vacation. My mom, brother, and I spent a weekend at a Holiday Inn. For me, this was paradise—air conditioning, a pool, even water slides. Are you kidding me? We didn’t go on vacations, so this was everything.
But as I spoke to the class, I heard giggling, laughing. Then someone said, That’s not a vacation. That’s just a hotel. They said it just like that, too. I felt my face burning as I realized my classmates had been to Paris, Mexico, fancy resorts all around the world. And my special memory—my little Holiday Inn getaway—suddenly felt very small.
But I had one more chance to win them back. I confidently shared my wild fact.
I told the class that clouds were made in factories—specifically, the giant smokestacks near Cleveland, Ohio. My dad had told me this when I was four, and I didn’t realize he was joking. I filed it away as fact. So when I shared it with my class, hoping to win back their affection, they erupted in laughter. I wanted to disappear.
Later, I was talking to my pastor, and he told me something that stuck. He said, You know, Aaron, not everyone can see the beauty in small things. That is a precious gift that you should be grateful for.
If you’ve been with me week to week, that story might sound familiar. Last season, I released a story called The Cloud Factory, a seven-minute audio version of this very moment. What I just told you was an adapted short version—think of it like 7 Minute Stories in a snap. A written short story version, like the ones I’ve been sharing on Instagram Threads a couple of times a week. A lot of people seem to be enjoying them.
So, if you want a weekly dose of 7 Minute Stories, but in written form, follow me on Instagram Threads. I’ll put the link in the description.
I want to read a couple of comments from that story, then we’ll end this episode with a listener-submitted piece.
After reading The Cloud Factory story on Threads, Annie wrote in:
"My mom told me brown cows make chocolate milk. So I was embarrassed when I told everybody that fun fact. I was embarrassed that for all those years, I had believed her."
I feel you, Annie.
Cheryl shared:
"When I was five, we were moving from Minnesota to California. We stayed in a motel, and even though it was for one night, I called it home. It was so exciting."
Totally relate, Cheryl.
And finally, here’s a reflection from Sarah Ellen:
*"In 1985, I was five, my brother was three, and my mother was driving us cross-country from my grandparents' home—where we vacationed most of our childhood because their condo had a pool. On our way back, our car broke down on the interstate, hundreds of miles from home. We accepted a ride from a traveling salesman. We didn’t end up getting murdered, clearly.
We stayed in a motel while the car was fixed. To us kids, it was like the vacation got extended. My mother said we were happy as clams. Our dinners mostly came from vending machines and convenience store snacks. Eventually, we made it home, and my mom had just $3.50 left in her pocket. It was all the money we had."*
Great replies, great conversation happening on Threads. Hope you join me there.
Now, I want to end with a listener-submitted story, narrated by a friend of mine—a local columnist. It’s perfect for February, when everything is frozen in Ohio, the flu is spreading like crazy, and sometimes, in the middle of winter, all you need is an ice sculpture to remind you that spring is coming.
I Can Carve That!
by Karl Gerhard
Medina Square has always been special to me—it was even a deciding factor in moving here to raise our son. But one event stands out above the rest: the Ice Festival. I just can’t stay away.
It could be negative 10, and I’d still be there, snapping way too many photos of the carvers at work. But my favorite part? The Monday after, when the crowds are gone, and only the sculptures remain—some melting into abstract forms, others toppled into shards. It’s a quiet, frozen gallery of transformation.
As a lifelong carpentry aficionado, I always thought, I can carve that! One year, in 2015, after a particularly snowy festival, I decided to prove it. A large ice remnant caught my eye, and I hauled it into the back of my Kia Soul. With my boys’ help, I set up in the backyard, or as I called it, Man’s World—where barbecue was made, cigars were occasionally smoked, and now, ice would be carved.
Armed with a Sawzall, an angle grinder, and a drill, I went to work. The result? A disaster. Turns out, I needed real tools—the expensive kind. This was pre “Amazon can get that here this afternoon” days, and it turns out the real tools were real expensive. So, I did what anyone would do at that point. I took the now smaller ice chunks to the curb, and I added them to the tops of my curbside snow piles.
In the end, it looked a bit like a Stegosaurus—unexpected, but still kind of cool. Lesson learned: I can’t really carve that.
Aaron:
Whether you're from Medina, Ohio, where this podcast streams from, or wherever you are in the country—if you have a story that you'd like me to read and consider, go to 7minutestoriespod.com , hit the contact form, and submit your story.
