Farewell My Old Friend

 

Did you ever feel that a place you visited was more like an old friend than a destination? That is what Conneaut Lake Park had been in my lifetime. From when I was a little girl up until only about three years ago, this wonderfully nostalgic park held a special place in my heart.

As a small child, we didn't take elaborate vacations. When Dad said, let's pack up the car and go, I knew that it meant the simple one-and-a-half hour trip to Conneaut Lake Park. There, we would find a cheap, small motel or even a cottage. Musty, even with a smattering of mildew, these places were wonderful to me. For two nights and three days, we bonded closely as a family enjoying midway games such as Fascination, balloon darts (which Mom was super good at), and the ever-popular fish pond.

I'd ride ponies in Kiddie Land, drive metal cars around a track and boats with a bell to ring around a type of pool, sit upon elaborate, decorated horses in the carousel, laugh until we almost peed on The Turtle, and especially awaited the trip in a ride-through haunted house.

When my brother came along, we began bringing him to our family fun destination. I know he loved it as much as I did. So many happy days and nights! So many memories made.

My own children enjoyed Conneaut Park in their time too. They spent hours in an old-fashioned arcade playing video games, ski ball, and mostly claw machines. We'd eat corn dogs, pizza, and French fries. We'd enjoy an ice cream cone afterward. 

For all of our generations, The Devils Den, the "haunted ride" was a favorite. There was the familiar smell of grease and metal as you waited on the platform. There were sounds of the clack, clack, clack, as the carts rode along the track. There was anticipation of thrills, squeals, and maybe even a shriek as ghosts, witches and other spooktacular goblins lit up in the darkened hallways as we approached.

One of the more recent and special visits for me was time spent with my son on a Mother's Day just a few years ago. We ate a lovely meal at the Hotel Conneaut, and walked through the quiet park as it awaited a new season. Yes, it was getting a bit old. It was showing signs of neglect. But there had been people who seemed to care as much as we did. They tried renovating, repairing, and adding a little extra zip and newness to the atmosphere of antiquity.

My son adored the extremely frightening, yet very popular Blue Streak rollercoaster. When we first heard it was being torn down last year, our hearts sank. Then, little by little, other bits and pieces of the park were hauled away.

I told myself I didn't want to see it in that condition. I never wanted to be privy to behind-the-scenes of its demolition. Yet this past weekend, I did just that. My heart sank as the sight of weeds and tall grasses growing in every direction. The pit in my stomach widened seeing gaping holes in the landscape of an area which held colorful, fun rides. A wasteland. A waste to me. I wish someone would have been able to make it a historic landmark. I wish it could have been there for future generations and that my own grandchildren would laugh, squeal, play, and know what a simple, but unique vacation spot this park was meant to be.

I am going to mourn a little today. I will tell myself it will be okay. It had to be this way. After all, this is progress, time marching on, money to be made by property that will probably sport condos and such. Future generation won't know what I knew. And you know what? That makes me feel a little special.

Death of a family destination.

Almost impossible to tell what was there.

Sad-looking Devil's Den during demolition.

The Devil's Den in better days

Remember When

Lightning bugs winking into the night. The last rays of sunshine on the horizon as a mother calls out for her child to hurry home. Skinned knees, the clean  smell of a Bandaid. The cure for every ailment.

 The tangy taste or Orange Crush pop. Telephones with curly cords and rotary dials. A shiny red Schwinn bike, and the first time ridden without training wheels. Drawing on a cement sidewalk with a rock. Pulling vivid yellow dandelions, the bouquet clutched in a tiny hand, a present for a mother.

 A grandfather's wine cellar, the coolness in the deep dark, and the smell of crushed grapes. Sunday dinner at one o'clock sharp. The clinking of forks on plates, the taste of veal cutlet and homemade noodles. Dishes washed with cousins, laughter, talking, fun,

 Easter baskets filled with shiny plastic grass. Solid chocolate bunnies, fingers licked with the remnants of melted goodness. Christmas bulbs, glitter, tinsel, The Grinch. A new vinyl baby doll, her face, sweet. The smell of candle wax in the stillness of a darkened church. Bags of Halloween candy, plastic princess masks, their smiling faces "frozen" for all eternity.

A snowflake falling, falling. Warm, wool mittens on tiny hands, fingers outstretched. A snowman melting on a warm day, his carrot nose falling to the ground. A wooden sled is put away for a long nap to return again.

New comic books, super heroes to become. Imagination.

 Nostalgia. The scents, sounds and feeling of times long past. Memories that never quite fade, but only grow more vivid with age sometime. Savor them, but never tarry. For time marches on, and though the new drummer beats a rhythm that we sometimes may not like, we must press ever forward, not living in the past, only stopping by for a short visit as we journey through our life.