Janice Monahan Rodgers's Blog, page 3

Indian Trail Park Memories

Indian Trail  Is a place you can sail,  On a ride in the sun!

Sung to ‘Indian Lake’ by the Cowsill’s

I hung on to my horse as we sailed into the wind, the gusts whipping through my curls.  Faster, Faster.

My horse’s black hide glistened in the summer sun.  Go Charger.

We picked up more speed.  Closer.  Getting closer.

I straightened myself in the saddle.   Almost there now.

The red wooden hinged arm came down and I leaned forward in the saddle, extending my arm.  This is it!

It’s now or never, I thought.

I leaned over and reached out.

Yesss!  I felt the cold metal slip onto my index finger as my trusty steed and I whirled into the sun, a band of gold twinkling on my finger.

I did it!  I did it! I caught the brass ring!

It was the early 1950’s and I was on my third or fourth ride on the Merry-go- Round at Indian Trail Park.

Accompanied by my family and my Aunt, Uncle and cousins, we arrived at the park early that bright Sunday in July.  Just as in past years, we secured the best spot under the covered pavilion right beside the creek.  And lost no time in putting our bottles of A-Treat soda in the creek to keep cold.  Cooler?  Who needed one with the creek right there?

My Mom and Aunt set up the tablecloths and picnic baskets, which contained a treasure trove of picnic delights, like Aunt Polly’s potato salad, ham, fried chicken and deviled eggs.

And just in case that wasn’t enough food, there were popcorn and candy apple concession stands just a few steps away.

Or, for the truly insatiable, the Trading Post, a quaint stone and natural wood siding building, was situated beside the park and featured a luncheonette and soda fountain.

Indian Trail Park was a little gem of an amusement park nestled in the hilly woods alongside Indian Creek in Pennsville, Pennsylvania.

Built by an Allentown building contractor named Samuel Solliday and his brother, it was billed as a “Cool Retreat from the Summer’s Heat.”  In 1929, Samuel and his brother William purchased the property to construct the park.  Early photos show a beautifully landscaped complex that included plenty of picnic areas, a huge swimming pool, fountains, benches, sun umbrellas and gardens.

Two of the most popular rides, the Merry-go-Round and the Roller Coaster, were the first rides at the park and were soon joined by other favorites, like the Whip.

And, it was all there for us in one sylvan setting.  There were trees everywhere for shade, and the burbling Indian Creek was a tranquilizer for city dwellers escaping their hectic lives.

Looking back now, I think one of the most unique features of Indian Trail Park was its smallness.  Our parents could sit comfortably at our pavilion and see us from just about any vantage point.

Indian Trail Park was a natural, simple haven where kids could enjoy the park’s entertainments under the watchful eyes of their parents.  Running back and forth to the rides, the swimming pool, the Penny Arcade, and the Trading Post, the mouth-watering aroma of freshly made caramel corn was sure to eventually lure us to the popcorn stand.

Nor was there any standing around forever in a serpentine line to get on a particular ride.

No, it was far removed from today’s mega amusement parks which cost a bundle and are not nearly as enjoyable as Indian Trail Park once was with its mellow pace.

Sadly, with the advent of Mega Parks, many little amusement parks like Indian Trail, fell by the wayside. And I deeply regret their passing.  So much was lost when they disappeared.

In 1984 after enduring many setbacks, Indian Trail Park slowly ceased operations as an amusement park. The park I once knew as a child with its musical Merry-go- Round, jaunty Roller Coaster and whirling Whip, slipped into history.

Today, the park now serves Lehigh Township as a recreation facility.  It still has several pavilions and the Indian Creek flows gently beside them.  Beautiful shade trees dot the park as they once did many years ago.

The Trading Post was rebuilt and serves as a local museum, a fun destination for anyone wishing to revisit those halcyon days of their youth as I recently did.

Walking through the park that morning, I was transported back to a gentler time when the laughter of families at a church picnic echoed through the valley and the delighted cries of children filled the air as they rode the roller coaster or caught the brass ring on the Merry-go-Round.

Oh, and what was my ‘prize’ for getting the brass ring, you ask?

Why, another ride on the Merry-go-Round, of course.

Go, Charger!

THE 39TH MARIGOLD

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I arched my sore back, stood back and surveyed my work.  Ten little marigolds, all in a row, just like ten little Indians.  Nice, I thought.  But then I looked at the plants in flats behind me. Only fifty more to go.

Fifty more!  What was I thinking.  Really.  Sixty marigolds!

Well, I’ll tell you what I was thinking when I started this project.  How pretty they were going to look around midsummer when they filled out; a long golden ribbon of marigolds lining the path to my front door.

I’d done this before. But this year, I was late with my gardening.

After a late March knockout bout with the flu, my back seemed stiffer, my knees creakier and my flower planting spirits, saggier.

But now, surveying my handiwork as sweat dripped down my neck, I had run out of excuses.

I knelt down in the dirt and placed ten more little plants in a row. The late morning sun beat down on my head and the hum of insects told me summer was here.  Get a move on, the bees buzzed.

At least the soil was nice and loose, thanks to husband turning it over earlier. I didn’t have to struggle with hard soil and pieces of shale.  The marigolds slipped easily into their new homes.   Nineteen, twenty.

I stood up and rubbed the small of my back.  They were looking pretty good, I thought. Nice and straight – for eyeballing it.  Only forty more.

Maybe I should take a break and have a nice cold lemonade.  Tempting, but no.

I took out another ten, placed them in the row and resumed planting.

A black shadow suddenly loomed over my twenty-first marigold.

“Make sure you get them in right – you know – in a straight row.  Want me to measure them for you?”

I looked up, wiping the sweat out of my eyes to see husband giving my work a critical once over.  He wasn’t kidding.

Pushing up my hat brim, I gave him the old stink eyed stare and resumed my planting.

He turned with an “I was just trying to help” posture and slumped back into the garage.

“Give me strength,” I muttered, pulling another ten flowers from the flat.

I surveyed my line and it was still looking pretty straight – to me anyway.  The next ten went in, no problem!

Twenty-nine, thirty!  Halfway.

As the summer sun relaxed my stiff flu-stricken bones, I laid out the next ten.

But somewhere around the thirty-ninth marigold, I forgot about my husband’s measuring, cold lemonade and stiff bones.

And, I recalled a summer day like this one, when I was a little girl, many years ago.

“What’re these, Mom,” I asked, looking at the colorful succulent flowers on our back-porch table.

“Portulaca’s, from Mrs. Lieber.  She brought them over this morning.  Come on, you can help me plant them.”

“Like this, Jannie,” she patiently explained as we dug holes in our small garden. “Not too deep, but they need a little room to travel.”

Travel?  How, I wondered. They’re stuck in the dirt.

I found out a few weeks later, as they ‘traveled’ and covered Mom’s flower bed in a riotous profusion of color,

My Mother always loved flowers and she taught me to love them too.  She taught me about traveling Portulacas, ever blooming perennials and lush, compact marigolds. From her, I learned when to plant and when not to plant. I learned that planting was an activity that could bring one solace, induce meditation, or increase one’s patience. And that done properly, planting could produce marvelous results.

Fifty-nine, sixty. The last marigold. I had reminisced myself to the finish line.

I looked down the long golden line and smiled.

Thanks for the help, Mom!

 

 

 

MEMORIES

MEMORIES

Backward, turn backward, oh Time in in your flight,

Make me a child again just for tonight

Elizabeth Akers Allen: Rock Me to Sleep

Both of my books, Letters to My Sister and Letters to My Sister: Chew Street and Beyond, grew out of a fanciful notion to take my sister on a literary trip down memory lane as a birthday gift.

I would write my impressions of memories that we shared growing up and present her with the stories. Piece of cake, I figured.

However, it soon became apparent when I began writing, that it would not be a piece of cake.

Fortunately, I have a darned good memory.  As the eldest child of four, I could put my own particular stamp on recollections of those halcyon days.

Oh, I had no trouble remembering, but staying on topic was an issue.  I was all over the place. You know how you start remembering certain events and then your mind begins to wander and wander and pretty soon you are in another place entirely.  Simply put, I lacked discipline.

Remembering a walk to our playground also made me recall trips on a trolley car to shop uptown which made me recall a first trip to Woolworth’s which made me recall how I lost a dolly there which … well you see how reminiscing goes.

As a new writer, I needed to figure it out PDQ.  Also, I needed to balance these nostalgic journeys with a healthy dose of humor, or the stories might become oversentimental.  It wasn’t always an easy task.  Recalling my parents, aunts and uncles, old friends, now all gone, on my daily forays into the past was often emotionally exhausting.

But I came to realize that this is what nostalgia is at its core; an intense longing for the past.  And it’s fine to reminisce occasionally.  To recall happy, golden times. To remember those we knew – and loved.

The stories I have written are nostalgic and sentimental and funny. And, some are a bit sad. Nostalgia notwithstanding, not everything in our past is golden.

If that were so, how could we ever understand the blissfulness of joy had we never tasted despair?

I’m sure many of us have often longed to be a child again, if only for a night.

Come with me then, on a walk down memory lane. Perhaps my stories will evoke your own golden rimmed memories.

Janice Monahan Rodgers

 

 

 

 

 

Janice Monahan Rodgers

 

Welcome to my website!

Last June I published my first book of short stories entitled Letters To My Sister.  It is a recollection of my family’s life and memories of growing up in Allentown, Pennsylvania during the late 1940’s and ‘50’s.

Filled with a soft and gentle humor, my stories of a boisterous Irish/Slovak Catholic family are at times funny, wistful and always sentimental.

Volume two, Letters To My Sister: Chew Street and Beyond, continues with family vacations, our adventures in our Chew Street neighborhood and our big move to the suburbs of Allentown.

By this time, Allentown was a bustling, thriving third class city of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and its population of over 106,000 was becoming quite diverse.

New technologies were driving major changes, but we still shopped ‘uptown’ and rode trolley cars.  Supermarkets were a ‘new’ concept and not everyone on our block had a television set.

I hope these books will entertain you, dear reader. And perhaps it will trigger your own fond memories.

Both books are now available on Amazon in paperback and e-book formats.