Summertime, Summertime

It was the time of beach parties and sock hops, the time for summer romances and spin-the-bottle, a time that would make for a lifetime of childhood memories.

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 “Don’t make me turn this car around!”

Ah, those immortal words uttered by fathers everywhere. Commonly followed-up with mom saying, “Don’t give me that look!” and the rarely used, but highly effective, “I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Fortunately, none of these ‘parental approved’ proclamations were necessary on Nickel Night, that wondrous summer event when the entire collective of youth from Sparta Lake would be caravanned to Bertrand Island Park at Lake Hopatcong, New Jersey.

‘Nickel Night’ wasn’t exactly a true depiction as the two most popular rides, the Lost River and the Wildcat roller-coaster, were only reduced to ten cents. Still, an amazing bargain for a thirteen year old who made his living mowing lawns at a buck-fifty each.

Only after listening to the same boring lecture given on prior excursions to the park—that we conduct ourselves as model citizens—were we allowed to roam freely. Patrolling the premises would be six or seven brave moms and dads from our lake community to keep a watchful eye out for any signs of trouble.

“We’ll meet up back here at eleven!” one parent yelled out as a final reminder. In an instant, the entire group split up and went helter-skelter in every conceivable direction. Diane and I headed straight for the Wildcat. I was on a mission!

Diane was the second person I met the day my family moved from Paterson, New Jersey, to our new home at Sparta Lake in the summer of 1958. The first person I met was her older brother, Jack, who had come by earlier to scope out the new kids. Even though Diane and I were only seven, it was ‘love at first sight’ the moment we were introduced.

Every summer, from that first until I left for the Army at the age of seventeen, Diane and I shared a summer romance. Why only a summer romance? Diane and her family were members of that unique band of marauders who sprang up in the mid-fifties known as ‘summer folks’. City dwellers who would invade lake communities on Memorial Day and depart religiously on Labor Day.

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The Wildcat’s thunderous repetition of klunk, klank was deafening as it flew by; a blur of peeling paint in various shades of ghostly white. An old, wooden structure built decades before I was born, the Bertrand Island coaster had a stellar reputation for height, as well as speed, second only to the Cyclone at Palisades Park.

  A single, loosely fastened, steel bar was all that kept one from being hurled out into space as the Wildcat fell from the skies and banked one hundred and eighty-degree curves, again and again. This ride was only for the strong of heart, literally.

On my last visit I set a new park record, twenty-two consecutive rides—front seat—as if any other seat counted. For this trip, the goal was thirty. At ten-cents a ride times two, I’d have to lay out six dollars, the equivalent of four lawns. It was a lot of money, but worth every penny to keep my name up on the blackboard as ‘Top Dog’.

Diane had long since become accustomed to my annual rollercoaster quests. I don’t think Diane ever looked prettier than those moments when her raven-black hair was flung back by the wind and her sparkling, crystal blue eyes grew wider and wider from sheer terror as we plummeted off the first drop into the abyss. Could there be any wonder why I loved this girl?

As was typical, the end of the line to gain access to the Wildcat reached all the way to the opposite side of the park. Based on years of experience, I estimated a one-hour wait. Calculating the duration of one full loop on the coaster at three minutes and multiplying that over thirty rides, it would add an additional hour-and-a-half on to the wait time.

It was now eight o’clock. Meet up time back at the park’s entrance was eleven p.m. Subtracting the two-and-a-half-hours the Wildcat would consume, left only thirty minutes for the Lost River, or what the girls at the lake referred to as the ‘Tunnel of Love’.

It was cutting it close. Of course, I was relying on a hope and a prayer that the coaster’s front seat would be available for immediate occupancy. Since this was the last trip to Bertrand Island this summer, should I somehow screw up making it to the Lost River before closing, I’d be spending the remainder of the summer in the doghouse. An expression I heard my father say on occasion.

Slowly, Diane and I inched our way towards the boarding platform.

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The weather was perfect. It was one of those ‘ten best days of summer’. Twelve of us were playing Swamp Fox—a popular Walt Disney television series from the early sixties—on the afternoon the gang discovered the shrine. The discovery was made a half-mile into the woods northwest of the swamp.

There, in the middle of nowhere, stood a twelve-foot-high stone shrine. What was once a small clearing was now completely overgrown with small trees, bushes and various types of ground cover.

    Prominently displayed in the recessed upper section of the shrine was a Nativity. Oddly, unlike all the other miniature statutes that made up the Nativity, the baby Jesus was portrayed by a large, deteriorating, rubber doll. Any remnants of straw initially nestled into the cradle had long since been replaced by a blanket of green moss.

The instant the doll was touched, it crumbled into several pieces. The girls carefully reassembled the baby Jesus the best they could and repositioned him back into his cradle. Immediately, a ‘no touch’ policy was established. The gang could always be trusted to keep their word. Therefore, no attempt to handle Jesus or any of the remaining statues would be made by anyone.

Frank noticed that a rectangular section was missing near the base of the shrine; as if a slab had either fallen off or been purposely removed. But nothing was on the ground directly below the spot. Where could it have gone? Several of the gang began a thorough investigation. It was Ralph who dis-covered a hidden compartment concealed behind a loose stone at the back of the shrine.

Slowly, we opened the rusted, creaking door. The inside of the secret hiding chamber was pitch black. One brave soul was going to have to stick their hand into the unknown, but who? The gang’s time-tested method of ‘rock, paper, scissors’ would settle the dispute; or, in this case, select the unfortunate candidate. After several bouts of ‘please don’t let me win’, a reluctant champion emerged. Me!

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 Sparta Lake was established in 1929.

Construction required only a few simple tasks—dam the stream at one end of a valley, flood the valley to a determined height controlled by the dam’s overflow, bulldoze a dirt road around the lake and lastly, sell waterfront lots on the opposite side of the road—walla!

It wasn’t long before the only direction left to build additional homes was up. So, up the mountain the bulldozer went. I am so happy they did. Our house was built on the top of the mountain and had the most spectacular view overlooking the lake.

The lake was approximately one-half mile wide by one mile long reaching a depth of ten-feet at its center. Small compared to many bodies of water, but more than adequate for finding relief on a hot summer’s afternoon.

The lake had two swim-up rafts—one in the middle of the lake for folks who could swim well and one closer to shore for those who could not. A diving platform with a high board and a low board were located on the right side along the beach. On the left side was a T-dock for mooring rowboats and canoes.

Fifty-feet up from the beach was the pavilion. It was a large, concrete platform with a twenty-foot high slanted roof held up by a dozen iron beams and open on all four sides. Along the back, a row of ten benches provided ample seating for beachgoers who wished to stay out of the sun.

Behind the pavilion was a large brick and metal cooking grill which could easily feed the masses who would attend the Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day events spon-sored by the Sparta Lake Association.

In addition, the women’s auxiliary held pot luck dinners and bake sales, while the teen club organized house parties, sock hops and the occasional beach party. All-in-all, it was a very active summer for everyone, regardless of age.

It was as if I had died and gone to heaven. My father could not have found a better spot on earth to relocate the family. Earlier in July, my older brother Joe had been playing stick ball in the street and almost got run over by a car. That weekend, my father went out on his own and found the newly constructed home at the lake and purchased it. A few weeks later we moved in.

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   A thirteen-year-old boy isn’t generally known to be a great conversationalist, which is precisely why I had arranged for several of Diane’s girlfriends to stop by now and then while we waited in line. Doing so would allow Diane to remain in-the-loop on whatever gossip was spreading throughout the park.

It was a known fact that a Bertrand Island trip was always good for at least two ‘break-ups’, three new ‘going steadies’ and at least one ‘fist-fight’. Tonight would be no exception. I believe my big brother, Joe, still holds the record for accomplishing all three in that exact configuration in a single night, an amazing feat!

After thirty minutes in line, Diane and I were now only fifteen-minutes from the boarding platform. The line was moving a little faster than expected. This was good news. If things held, there was a good chance I wouldn’t be spending any time in the doghouse.

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I seriously considered running home and getting a pair of my heavy, winter gloves. But there wasn’t time. There was no way the gang was going to stand around doing nothing while I climbed up the mountain and back. I crouched down and peered into the unknown. What could possibly be hiding in the darkness?

 “Com’on, what’d ya wait’in for?” Frank yelled.

“Yeah, we ain’t got all day. We want ‘a go swimming, already!” Bobby added.

  Slowly, I raised my left hand. I figured, being right-handed, if something in that chamber ate my hand off, at least I’d still have my good hand completely intact.

The gang now formed a half-circle—edging closer and closer as they chanted, “Do it, do it, do it, do it!”

Every single one of them practically jumped out of their skin as I let out with a blood-curdling scream timed perfectly with my hand entering the chamber. I couldn’t help but laugh,  “Gotcha!”

 “You idiot!” yelled Sharon.

  “You scared the bejesus out of us,” Karen, her twin sister, added.

As my arm emerged from the hiding place, the gang stared wide-eyed and gasped at what I now held in my hand.

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It shone like a beacon on a hill; a tall, gleaming, white expanse with black, slotted shutters. The Sparta Lake Club-house was owned and operated by the Sparta Lake Men’s Association and the Women’s Auxiliary.

The single-story building was located directly across the road from our home, slightly uphill. The double-door front entrance had an extended roofline supported by four Grecian columns. From the road, it was quite an impressive structure. The clubhouse also had an entrance on the left side going directly into the bar and a single back door off the large kitchen with access to the part-gravel, mostly-grass parking lot.

The front doors entered directly into the ballroom, a huge space practically the entire length and width of the clubhouse. On the far back wall and slightly to the left, was the kitchen doorway and a combination serving counter-window. Similar to what one would find in a diner where the waitresses would pick up their orders.

To the right, centered in between the restroom doors, was a jukebox packed with every hit song spanning several decades. Party lights of red, yellow, green and blue were concealed in a two-sided box, three feet down from the fifteen foot high ceiling. The lights would bathe the ballroom in a rainbow of colors when lit.

Inside, on the far left, was a wide entrance into the bar where a dozen barstools and ‘tables-for-two’ cozied adult patrons. Closed shutters, recess lighting and the hum of flickering neon lights lent an atmosphere straight out of a Hollywood noir film.

I swear, every time I walked into the bar, I could hear a voice coming from the old, upright piano in the back corner whispering, “Play it again, Sam.”

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The steel bar dropped over our heads and clicked into place. Immediately, I positioned my arm around Diane and held her closer. It was my job to see to it that neither of us left the coaster unintended. Several girls from the lake were standing near the platform shouting at Diane how brave she was for riding the coaster. Diane smiled at them and respond-ed under her breath, “They have no idea!”

The attendant pulled back on the release handle. We were now in the grip of the Wildcat’s lift chain as it pulled the coaster and its occupants higher and higher. I could hear the voices of Frank and my brother Joe somewhere further back on the coaster yelling and laughing, “Hang on, people, its gonna be one hell of a ride. Some of you won’t be coming back!  Hahaha.”

There was no going back. We had reached the pinnacle. It was time to soar like an eagle.

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The bronzed plank was somewhat tarnished. Not bad considering it was thirty-five years old. Carefully, we cleaned off the raised lettering on the metal surface. The inscription read:

Built in the Year of our Lord, 1929

This Shrine beseeches our Lord and Savior to now

and forever protect Sparta Lake and its residences.

God Bless * Angelo Sciacca * Sparta Lake Founder

I knew this name! How could it be possible? This was my uncle, my Uncle Angelo on my mother’s side of the family. I stood there completely bewildered.

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I’ll never forget my first visit to the clubhouse. It occurred on the same day we moved into our new home. It was a Saturday.  Earlier during the day I watched as a cavalcade of super waxed cars drove up to the clubhouse delivering boxes. The sunshine was glinting off their chrome bumpers—a ‘57 Chevy Bel Air, a ‘52 Plymouth Belvedere and a ‘55 Ford Thunderbird. Even though I had the curiosity of a cat, I kept my distance and only watched from my yard.

Sitting on my front lawn, I could hear the sounds of fast, high-pitched chatter and continuous laughter coming through the open windows. What could possibly be going on inside to create so much excitement? A moment later, I was being called by my mother to continue with my chores of unpacking and settling into my bedroom. “Darn!”

Standard bedtime for a seven year old in 1958 was eight o’clock—on the dot as my father liked to put it. I had no sooner laid my head on my pillow when I heard the wondrous sounds of fifty’s rock ‘n roll music drifting through my window. I immediately sprang from my bed and looked out.

The inside of the clubhouse glowed in various hues of yellows and reds, blues and greens. I could see couples swaying back-and-forth. It was a sock hop! I had heard about such a phenomenon, but never witnessed one. I had to get a closer look, regardless of the consequences.

I quickly dressed and snuck out through the back door—far from the watchful eyes of my parents sitting comfortably in the living room under the hypnotic spell of our fifteen-inch, black-and-white television set.

I raced up the front lawn, crossed the road and climbed up the hill. I crouched down as I approached the windows so that only my head floated above the windowsill. I was greeted by an amazing sight! Hundreds of colorful streamers hung from the ballroom ceiling.

   Dozens of different colored, paper lanterns replaced the glass cover on each of the ceiling’s light fixtures. The lanterns, in combination with the party lights, made the entire clubhouse radiate in a spectrum of prism colors. It was magical!

A heavy covering of sawdust lay on the ballroom floor from one end to the other. At first, I was surprised why anyone would do this; but then I realized why this had been done. I was completely mesmerized as I watched the fantastic dance moves made by a dozen kids gyrating to the up-tempo melody blasting from the jukebox.

Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted off the ground by my shirt collar.

“Well, lookie who we got here…a peeping Tom,” said an older kid while turning me around in midair to face him. Standing alongside him were two other teenage boys.

  “Ut oh,” was my first thought.

 “You know what we do to peeping Toms, kid?” one of the other boys said in a sinister tone.

  “No,” was all I could manage to squeak out.

 “Tommy, what do you think you’re doing?” came a calm voice from out of the darkness. “Put the boy down this instant. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

I turned my head slightly to the left. There, in the moonlight, stood the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was standing with her arms folded and her foot tapping. In less time than it takes for a heart to beat, Tommy was letting me down gently, very gently.

“That’s much better,” Maryellen said. She then walked up to me, tilted my face upwards using one hand and added, “Say, you’re cute! Don’t let these hoodlums bother you. They’re always looking for trouble.”

“Thanks,” was all I could manage, my voice squeaking for a second time.

After a brief pause, she smiled and asked, “You new around here?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I live there,” pointing to my house across the road. “We moved in today.” I looked up at her. Until this moment, I never knew such a wonderful smile existed in ‘all the world’.

“Well, I should take you home. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to let you come inside for just a minute and then you’ve got to skedaddle. Okay?”

My heart was racing. “Okay!”

Once inside, all eyes were on me. But I didn’t care. No one dare challenge the queen of the ball. I was later to learn that my savior was Miss Maryellen Meyers, the reigning Miss Teen of Sparta Lake for five years running and a soon-to-be contestant in the Miss New Jersey pageant.

Besides her obvious beauty, she was a smart, thoughtful, and caring person. The other teenage girls idolized her and there wasn’t a single teenage boy who wasn’t wrapped around her finger. But as for me, on this night of nights, she was just the girl who stole my heart. Sorry, Diane.

A slow song came on the jukebox. Maryellen held me close and we danced. I prayed it would never end. But it did. She held my face in both hands, looked down at me smiling and said, “Time to go home, young man. I’ll see you around.” And then gave me a kiss on my forehead followed by a gentle nudge towards the front doors. I don’t think I slept a wink that night.

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 Kerplunck!

Most parents were very grateful that swimming lessons at the lake were free.

The older kids would take you out in a rowboat into the middle of the lake, throw you overboard and then point to-wards shore. The ritual was known as, ‘survival of the fittest’. Most of the time it worked. On the few occasions where it didn’t, the older kids would pluck you out of the water, plop you back into the boat and return you to shore so you could give it a try on another day.

Diving was the real challenge. One-and-a-half forward flips, swan dives, gainers, corkscrews and other assorted aerial feats took practice and a lot of contorted, painful landings to master. We quickly learned that water from a considerable height can be quite unforgiving.

But as the years passed, most of us mastered a few dives and had an enormous amount of fun spending our time down at the beach day after day.

Many years later, after passing my Water Safety Instructor courses, I was hired as the lake’s lifeguard during my junior and senior summers before joining the Army.

 Wonderful times.

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One final go and a new record would be set. A moment before we climbed the steep embankment for the thirtieth time, Diane looked at me with her hair disheveled, her face windburned, and a faint smile pasted on her lips and said, “We are never doing this again.”

Although I would never admit it, I had to agree with her. Thirty consecutive loops on the Wildcat pushed the limits of anyone’s endurance. The only thing which could even re-motely relate would be the grueling training our Mercury Seven astronauts would eventually undergo.

On that night our names were immortalized on the blackboard until that sad day when Bertrand Island closed nineteen years later on Labor Day, 1983. Over the years, no one would ever match or surpass the record Diane and I set that night.

You might be wondering? Yes, we made it to the ‘Tunnel of Love’ with plenty of time to spare. Ahh, to be young again on a hot, summer’s night. What can I say?

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I had no idea my Uncle Angelo also had an uncle named Angelo. And that it was his uncle who had built and founded Sparta Lake in 1929. The shrine had long been forgotten by his relatives as the years passed—its whereabouts being lost in the woods.

I spent some of my savings that summer and had the bronze plank restored to its former glory. The metal shown with the brilliance it did on the day it was first sculptured. I gave it to my Uncle Angelo as a gift that Christmas. The following spring, I would take the name Angelo as my Confirmation name; my uncle standing behind me as I knelt at the altar, his hands resting on my shoulders. God Bless!

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My parents eventually sold the home in the early nineties and retired to geography with a more suitable climate for the elderly.

Many years later, I took a ride back to the lake just for old time's sake. The friends I grew up with were now long gone. Wooded lots we played on as kids now had homes. The pavilion looked smaller than I remembered. The beach looked smaller, too. Even the lake looked smaller. The clubhouse property had long been sold, in its place stood a colonial, two-story home. I was heartbroken.

The heyday of Sparta Lake and Bertrand Island was an era gone by. The days of building forts in the woods, dressing up to attend a sock hop and playing spin-the-bottle at a house party had passed. It was an end to innocence.

   And yet, there was one thing that still remained. Memories of wonderful friendships and the happy times we spent together as kids, never to be forgotten.

The End

Copyright Douglas E. Glaeser 2022

Contact - Douglas E. Glaeser, Cell: 201-738-3627, Email: dglaeser123@gmail.com