HoJo and his 28 flavors

       My parents came to visit today. This is always an experience, sometimes good, sometimes confusing. We always go out to eat — today was Red Lobster — and then spend some time sitting around and talking. Usually the talk involves a lot of, “Do you remember <insert name here>?” If my answer is yes, I get a story about what’s happening to that person. If my answer is no, I get a long and involved explanation of where the person lived, relatives, why I should know the person, and then a story about what’s happening to that person. Most times I just nod, whether I remember the person or not, and try to sort it all out by other verbal cues.

Today was a good visit. I decided to ask some questions, starting with how my parents knew Lynne’s parents (see the entry on Reconnecting). It turns out that Lynne’s parents lived across the street from Young’s Store, where my mother worked during high school. At one point in time, my dad decided to leave his job rather than move to Philadelphia, and Lynne’s dad arranged for my dad to work as a mechanic in a garage in Harrisburg. I never knew about this place, never knew that Dad worked as a mechanic. Our parents (Lynne’s and mine) “ran around together,” playing board games and cards at each others’ homes — and probably attending those early birthday parties for the kids.

Ok, so while I was asking questions, I decided to write down some info to add to our family tree. I heard some interesting stories, but the one on which I’ll focus tonight is the job that my dad left for the mechanic position.

It seems that my dad’s first job, starting at the age of 14, was at Howard Johnson’s, affectionately known as HoJo’s.

In the 50’s and 60’s, the orange roof of Howard Johnson’s was iconic. Restaurant and motor lodge, a place to stay when on the road and a place to eat for a special evening out. My family went to eat there regularly. For one thing, Donnie and I belonged to the birthday club.

Yep, up until age 12, we received free meals on our birthday. As the birthday girl (or boy, in Donnie’s case), I had to place my order from the children’s menu:

Which had its perks, considering that the menu turned into a cool hat.

And The Pieman himself (think the HoJo Santa Claus of desserts, as evidenced by the logo on the birthday club postcard) would bake a special cake for me!

When we went to HoJo’s for this special birthday dinner, the entire family accompanied us: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Of course, they couldn’t order from the children’s menu, so we went on Wednesday night, which — in every Howard Johnson’s restaurant, coast to coast — meant fish fry night. All-you-can-eat fried fish.

We ate there other times as well, not just on birthdays, but I think we always went on Wednesday night, driving out route 230 and then up Eisenhower Boulevard. The orange roof is still at that location, but only as a hotel with a bar and lounge. No more fish fry.

Of course, this was not the Howard Johnson’s where my father worked. He started his career in 1950 at the age of 14. It was a brand new restaurant on the newly-opened section of the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

I think that HoJo had a special contract with the turnpike commission, because all of the rest stops along that stretch of road was the same. No orange roof here — they went with a different look.

My dad worked there until he finished high school in 1954, starting as a bus boy and transitioning to cook. And upon graduation he entered into training to become an assistant manager. However, that meant a transfer to a different restaurant — still a Howard Johnson’s but now in Mechanicsburg. Yes, it was a commute, but not a bad job for a kid straight out of high school. The problem came a year later when he was told that he would be transferred yet again: to Philadelphia. This was no longer within commuting distance, even with the wonderful new turnpike. So that’s when my dad decided that he needed a new job. Neither he nor my mother wanted to move from Middletown.

It’s a great story, but not the only reason that I decided to write about HoJo’s. You see, my first job was at the same restaurant on the turnpike, the one in Middletown.

The building was very close to our high school. In fact, the only thing separating HoJo’s and the high school was the turnpike. Of course, we couldn’t cross that since the turnpike is edged with chain link fence. Instead, we had to leave the school, walk up the steps to Union Street, cross the bridge, then walk down a long lane to a gate in the chain link fence. This was our entrance to the world of Howard Johnson’s and the PA Turnpike.

My friend Kathy and I applied for jobs at the same time. She was hired as a waitress, while I was a fountain girl. My pay was more than hers, but she made tips, so she ended up with more money. I forget my wage (it was over a dollar, maybe $1.30/hour?), but hers was $.73/hour. We wore blue uniforms with white collars, length below the knee. And Kathy and I spent our first pay checks on wigs — short artificial hair — so that we wouldn’t have to wear hairnets.

We also often had to wear special pins, ones that were given to us at the beginning of the month, advertising something that was on special. These were often seasonal items and I couldn’t find a picture of any of them, but the one that I remember most vividly was a cartoon peach with a face, winking at the customer, proclaiming “Peaches Galore!” Seriously? That’s a stripper name if I’ve ever heard one.

At any rate, I worked the fountain. I was in charge of the ice cream — all 28 flavors. I’d scoop the ice cream orders for the waitresses in the dining room and at the counter, and I’d wait on customers who came in just for cones or dishes without ordering meals. Most of the time the work was moderately-paced — until a bus arrived. Then things were hectic.

Ice cream. That was really the center of the HoJo empire. 28 flavors. 28. At that point in time, this was phenomenal. No one else had that many flavors. However, we had banana, black raspberry, butter pecan, butter crunch, butterscotch, caramel fudge, chocolate, chocolate chip, coconut, coffee, cherry vanilla, frozen pudding, fudge ripple, lemon, macaroon, maple walnut, mint chip, mocha chip, orange pineapple, peach, pecan brittle, pineapple, peppermint stick. pistachio, strawberry, strawberry ripple, Swiss almond, and vanilla. At one time I could recite those flavors and knew exactly where in the case they were located, but to list them above, I had to look them up. My first week on the job, I tried them all. It didn’t take me long to get sick of them. Scoop the ice cream, dip the scoop into the water bin located in the ice cream case to clean it, dip some more. Ice cream getting too low to scoop? Use the scraper to push down the remnants of ice cream on the sides of the cardboard cylinders. Container empty? Take it into the kitchen, rinse it, throw it in the trash bin, retrieve another from the freezer. I washed my hands and arms often, but by the end of the day I was a sticky, ice cream-y mess, reeking of something that I had once loved but now despised.

Eventually I worked my way to gift shop attendant and occasionally cashier, sometimes counter waitress as well. I was certainly glad to leave the ice cream.

If Howard Johnson had ever stopped at this particular restaurant for a surprise inspection — which he was known to do, though not at our restaurant — he’d probably have shut down the establishment immediately. Our manager was apathetic at best. He stayed in the back room, in his little office off the kitchen, as much as possible. Especially in the evenings. During the day there were “older” waitresses and cooks — some in their late 20’s, others with more years. After 3:00, when the morning shift went home, there were teenagers. And the cooks, those who spent their time in the kitchen, were usually so high that it’s a wonder anyone ever got a meal. I remember one night, Dave was in the kitchen. Every time anyone ordered fried clams, we (the waitresses at the counter) would blow up one of the balloons we had available for birthday children, we’d wait until he had started to heat the clams, and then we would stretch the mouth of the balloon, releasing air with a high-pitched sound — straight into one of the microphones located at each counter bay, the microphones whose sound transmitted into the kitchen. Upon hearing it, Dave would fall apart, crying that, “The clams are dying! They’re crying for help!” Whatever he was taking that night, it played along well with our pranks.

The building is still there on the PA Turnpike, still across the road from the high school. But now there’s no HoJo located there. Instead it holds Starbucks and Sbarro, as well as restrooms, phones, and a place to buy PA lottery tickets.

I wonder if it still smells of ice cream?

Let's go to the movies

      My daughter is visiting for the summer. I occasionally find myself saying that she’s “home for the summer,” but I guess that’s not quite accurate. This is the second place I’ve lived since leaving her childhood home, so there are no real memories of growing up here. Home for her is South Korea — or maybe Pittsburgh since that’s where she spent the years leading up to southeast Asia. I do maintain a bedroom for her, but it’s also used by her brother when he visits and accumulates junk when it’s just me. Still, I guess that for a few weeks each year, it’s home.

Anjee’s visits are very laid back: I work during the day and she either hangs out at the apartment or goes off and does her own thing. After all, she is an adult and can take care of herself. She cooks for me or eat out or order in. Our evenings are spent watching tv while we’re on our laptops.

Weekends are a little more active: visiting relatives, shopping, and of course, movies. We started this last summer and have continued this summer, choosing a movie each weekend, hitting several different theaters. What have we seen so far this summer?

We started with something truly ridiculous: Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter. I read a review of this film before we went and the critic slammed it for not going far enough to give an anti-slavery message. Really? If you go to a movie like this, I doubt that you’re looking for a message. You read the title and know what you’re getting. I’m sure there will be a follow-up with some other historic figure as a Zombie Killer, right? And I’ll see that one as well.

Next was Moonrise Kingdom. This was a sort of “filler movie.” There was nothing big starting that week, at least nothing that was in our plans for the summer, so we chose this. Nice surprise here, since it was quirky and fun and possibly will win itself some awards.

The Amazing Spider-Man. This one was definitely on the list. Again, you go into it knowing what to expect. I enjoyed it and hated it all at the same time. It’s that height-thing again, even when watching a movie. Considering that this guy spends his timing leaping off buildings and catching himself from falling at the last minute? Yeah, uncomfortable.

Last week we decided to go with one that looked at least entertaining and was opening that weekend: Savages. We saw it in an almost-empty theater and it was easy to see why. It was a diversion. This one would go directly to USA-network but by the time the mandatory cuts were made to clean it up for television, it’ll only be 20-30 minutes long.

This week is the BIG ONE, the one we’ve been planning for: The Dark Knight Rises. Anjee went to see it with a friend yesterday but will go again today, since we have IMAX tickets for 3:15. She assures me that she’s fine with going again — and that this may not be the last time. Of course, it’s possible that she’s biased since this one was filmed in Pittsburgh (one of her favorite places) and that she was invited to be a part of the football scene but passed on the opportunity.

Yeah, the experience is a little marred already, due to the shootings in the Colorado premier. I wish that someone had read the signs, had realized that the guy responsible wasn’t quite living in reality. Sure, I live in a fantasy world at times — anyone who reads or writes books does that. But to go off the deep end like that? It doesn’t make sense to me that no one suspected anything. I guess there are better actors off-screen than on, because the neighbors always say, “He was such a normal nice guy.”

Rant over.

On to the purpose of this entry. . .

Nowadays we have plenty of choices of where to go for movies — at least, we do where I live. Back in Juniata County we had less choices, but around here, we do an internet search of what we want to see and choose the theater by the time that’s convenient to us.

When I was growing up, we had two choices: go to a drive-in or to Elks. Yes, we could have gone to Harrisburg, but that meant driving and if someone was going to drive, that meant a drive-in (or at least it did in my family).

I don’t remember exactly where we went to the drive-in: there were several options at that time and if you had a car, a little further didn’t really matter. We’d pile into the car, taking snacks and blankets with us, pay the admission at the entrance, and then choose our parking spot. The screen was huge, of course, with all of the action bigger than life. The sound was provided by in-car speakers.

Yep, “in-car” meaning that you pulled up next to one of these posts, hooked the speaker on your car window, and waited for the movies to start. Movies. Plural. I don’t remember ever going to just one movie at the drive-in. The first one was always kid-friendly; the second was geared more to adults. No, not porn — just adult-type that didn’t interest kids. We’d sit in the car, usually crowded into the front seat, my dad, my mom, Donnie, and me, eating the snacks we had brought and watching a kid flick, usually Disney.

After the first movie, Donnie and I had pretty much had our fill. The films didn’t start until dusk, so we’d already put in a full day of play, so we were tired. We’d migrate to the back seat, where our blankets and pillows awaited us, and promise ourselves that this time we’d stay awake and see what the grown-ups were watching. We might make it five minutes or so, but then it was off to dreamland while the parents watched a western or a historic action-drama or maybe even a slasher film like Psycho. Who knows? I slept through it and usually stirred a little when the car started, realizing that once again I’d seen only the kiddie film.

Our other option was The Elks. This was the local theater, located on Emaus Street, across from what is now the Brownstone Cafe. It’s still there and still looks basically the same.

While looking for photos I discovered that it’s now run by a high school classmate. For a while, when I was in high school, it was operated by my junior high math teacher who was also our drama coach through high school, Asher Halbleib. Before that, I don’t know who owned it, but I do know who took the tickets at the entrance: Pap-pap.

Yep, my grandfather, my mother’s father, had a second job here. Each evening he’d head off to the theater where he’d stand just inside the door — the only door of the four in the front that was unlocked to the outside — and take the tickets that people had purchased at the booth in the front. Ok, he’d take the tickets from everyone except those special people who could get in free: his family. I remember a few visits on my own, but most of my memories of Elks while my grandfather was working there were with one of my aunts, a few times with Aunt Goldie (I think) but more often with Aunt Kaye.

No Disney for us — at least not most of time. I imagine that every now and then my aunts were prevailed upon to take me to a kid’s movie, but that wasn’t the norm.

We went to a lot of beach movies.

Those had to be ok, right? After all, they all starred Frankie Avalon, who was from Philadelphia, right in our own state, and Annette Funicello who was a Mouseketeer, and undoubtedly dedicated to clean living.

Musicals were fun.

And we ended up singing all of the songs afterward. They became staples in junior high and high school chorus.

We also went to every Elvis Presley movie that ever hit the screen.

Thin Elvis, that is. We also eagerly devoured any information about him in magazines. As an avid reader, I picked up everything that anyone around me was reading, which included fan magazines and True Confessions.

I don’t remember the first movie I saw without my aunts accompanying me, but I do remember the experience. I went with two friends — no idea who they were, though I remember leaving my house and instead of going straight down Spring Street, I went along Water to Catherine and then down. Apparently my friends lived in that general direction. As we were walking down Catherine Street, very near the then Liberty Firehouse (when it was still a fire company, not the Middletown library), we compared notes. One friend had a quarter and a nickel, the other a quarter and a dime. Me? My mom had given me a whole quarter! My friends were sympathetic, saying that they’d share their snacks with me. I didn’t quite understand that, since I knew I had plenty of money. Of course, after they purchased their tickets and I breezed past with a “Hi, Pap-pap!” guess who had more to spend?

I did have a moment of regret, regret that I didn’t have a ticket stub like everyone else. While today we arrive to watch advertisements and twenty minutes worth of previews, in those days it was different. Going to the movies meant more than just a film. We were always treated to cartoons and “shorts,” as well as “Coming Attractions!” Between these shorter offerings and main attraction, the manager of the theater (not my grandfather) mounted the stairs to the stage (which I am told was once used for vaudeville acts) and stood in front of the large screen with a hat full of ticket halves. He chose one or two of those for special prizes — free admission the next weekend, free candy or popcorn. Everyone else sat on the edges of their red velvet-covered seats, hoping that their number would be called, while I wished that I could be part of that anticipation.

I continued attending movies there when I was older. I can remember a few “dates” there — times when a group of girls went to meet a group of boys — but mostly went with just groups of girls. The movie that stands out the most in my mind?

No matter how risque films eventually became or how much older I grew, I guess I was still a hopeless romantic.

Pie!

Ok, I figure that it’s time for a recipe. No, I’m not going to cook or bake. I’m just going to write about it. Maybe some day I’ll cook and photograph what I do, step by step, but that will have to wait for a weekend and lately my weekends have been far too busy.

But about those weekends — those weekends in the past. . .

For several years, elementary school years? For several years, I spent my weekends with grandparents. Friday nights I went to stay with Gammy and Pappy while Donnie was with Granny and Pap-pap. Saturday nights were the other way around. Today I’ll talk about staying with Gammy and Pappy.

Friday nights. Sometimes we paid visits to family. For at least a year that meant visiting my Aunt Sis, married to my Dad’s brother Larry, who was stationed in Germany in the Army. We were close at the time. Now they haven’t spoken to my dad or his other brother for years. The reason? Not important: it’s petty and is pulling a family apart.

Enough of that. Friday nights. Visiting family members. Or maybe having another couple over to play pinochle. That meant that I got to watch or sit on the floor practicing my card-shuffling.

Or we just stayed in and watched Mitch Miller — and of course, sang along. After all, that’s what it was called: Sing Along with Mitch. Gammy and Pappy also had Mitch Miller albums so we could sing along on our own time.

We also ran errands (cocoa bean mulch from the chocolate factory, remember?), sat on the porch and talked to neighbors, read, or walked in the garden. And then we went to bed.

Saturday mornings I was often awake before Gammy. I’d cut pictures out of magazines (hopefully not ones that she’d yet to read) or watch television. Yes, there was television then, black and white picture and only a few channels, but we weren’t primitive.

Of course, once everyone was up and about (and though Gammy may have slept in, we’re talking by 7:00 a.m.) it was breakfast time. For Pappy, it was always the same: shredded wheat. Not the mini-things and not frosted. We’re talking the bland hay bales.

Gammy was different. She was very much aware that her own mother was British and she followed the traditions: she and I had a tea and toast. Or maybe tea and cookies. Or tea and pie. Yep, I grew up on caffeine. To me breakfast tea was served hot with sugar and milk, usually Lipton brand. Tea at other times of day was iced tea (or as we called it, “ice tea”) with lemon or homegrown spearmint. It was sweetened but not the same as southern “sweet tea” (which I now really like but try to avoid).

After breakfast was baking time. Cookies and pies were the usuals. Gammy’s usual pies were fruit type, and she especially liked raspberry pie. But she also baked other types, and imparted bits of wisdom as we worked.

First came the crust: Gammy kept a large tin (we’re talking several gallons worth) in her pantry, a little closet under the stairs. She’d go to the tin and scoop out the flour that we’d need for the day. Then she’d mix, cutting the shortening (or lard) into the flour, expertly making a crumbly mixture before adding water, a tablespoon at a time. She warned me to add it slowly: humidity can affect the crust and you don’t want it too dry or too moist. She’d roll it out, measure it against an empty pie tin, and then fold the think dough into quarters to move it to the tin. Some pies needed one crust, some two. I’d get to help crimp the edges, the first skill I learned in the kitchen.

After Gammy was finished with the pastry dough, I had my chance with it. I had my own kid-sized wooden rolling pin and it was my job to roll out that leftover dough to make a roly-poly. Basically this was pie dough brushed with butter and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar (white or brown). The dough was then rolled up and cut into one-inch segments, much like cinnamon rolls but flatter. These were placed into a pie pan, cut side up, and baked. Yum.

Anyhow, Gammy loved her pies and we baked them each week. Along the way she imparted some important information: to make a proper shoo-fly pie (a staple of our PA Dutch culture), NEVER use Brer Rabbit molasses.

Why not? Because Brer Rabbit molasses contains sulphur and sulphur ruins the pie. I know, that’s the British spelling but remember — this is the grandmother who dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night while we were on vacation so that I would watch and remember the wedding of Prince Charles and Princess Diana. (mostly I remember being tired) Anyhow, no sulphur in the molasses. Use barrel molasses instead. Fine piece of advice at that time, because we could go to the neighborhood grocery store and purchase a mason jar of molasses actually dipped from a barrel. Now, however, that’s a wee bit more difficult. The best alternative I’ve found is Grandma’s Old-Fashioned Molasses.

But I’ve also discovered that both Grandma’s and Brer Rabbit have both sulphured and un-sulphured molasses.

And even though Gammy told me this often, I don’t remember her ever baking a shoo-fly pie.

However, I have a great recipe for shoo-fly pie, courtesy of my aunt Sue, who is married to my dad’s brother Ron (the one who is still talking to him). This is a true wet-bottom shoo-fly pie (the best kind).

Prepare two pie shells (either use your favorite recipe to make two single crusts or purchase these), unbaked.

Mix into crumbs:

1 1/2 cups brown sugar

2 cups flour

2 tablespoons shortening

Set aside 1 1/2 cups of crumbs for later.

Of the remaining crumbs, sprinkle 1 tablespoon into each pie shell.

Mix together:

1 1/2 cups hot water

2 cups molasses

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 eggs (beaten slightly)

Pour this wet mixture into the remaining crumbs and mix. Pour this into the two pie shells.

Top the pies with the 1 1/2 cups of reserved crumbs. Sprinkle with cinnamon.

Bake at 400º for 15 minutes.

Reduce heat to 350º for 30 minutes.

Trust me on this: the wet bottom (the molasses stays gooey on the bottom) is what makes this truly awesome!

Hershey Park Happy

Yesterday I mentioned Hershey Park, or at least the pool located at the park. Today I think I’ll elaborate on Hershey.

The town of Hershey. . .

Ok, there is no town of Hershey, no city of Hershey, no municipality of Hershey. It is actually Derry Township. Hershey is basically the empire created by Milton S. Hershey. Chocolate Factory, Milton S. Hershey School, various hotels and sports complexes. But no town.

Still, Hershey is all about chocolate. This is evidenced in the street names.

And the street lights.

Yes, these are real. A side note: last summer Anjee, Al, and I went to the Baltimore Aquarium. As we were approaching the aquarium from the parking garage, I told them that I thought I saw a Hershey kiss lamp post. Both kids thought I was crazy. Until we neared the museum and saw that there was a display set up outside advertising Hershey Park — complete with Hershey-style street lights.

Anyhow, Hershey is located 8.4 miles from Middletown. That’s the current driving mileage. When I was young, the travel was a little more involved and round-about. But it was still close. And we went to Hershey often.

First of all, there was the Chocolate Factory.

When I was little, this was where we went to get mulch for Pap’s roses and tulips. We’d drive over to Hershey to buy burlap bags of the stuff, smelling of chocolate, and take them to his house and spread it on the flower beds surrounding his patio. I just read that dog owners shouldn’t use this and I guess that makes sense, but in that day and time, it was effective and aromatic and my memory of it is a fond one. Besides, Gammy and Pap didn’t have a dog so it didn’t matter.

The smell of chocolate. That seemed to permeate all of Hershey, and off course it came from the factory. Of course, if it was strong outside the factory, it was even more pronounced inside. Yes, inside. At that time the chocolate factory was a regular field trip. I remember going with my Brownie troop — more than once. But not just the Hershey Chocolate Factory: at that time we also visited the Reese’s Factory, maker of fine peanut butter cups. Reese’s wasn’t a part of the Hershey empire at the time.

Back to the field trips: we were able to tour the factories, tromping through, seeing the conveyor belts of Hershey kisses, the bathtubs full of wrapped chocolate Easter eggs — in October. We walked through, sniffing and ogling, and left with samples. Not little samples, not a paltry kiss or bite-sized morsel, but full-sized candy bars. But due to health and safety issues and insurance stipulations, eventually that opportunity was lost. Instead, visitors could find out about how the confections were made by visiting Chocolate World.

The original had a turntable entrance to the carts that transported visitors through the display. Now there are dancing cows. I liked the old tours better.

And of course, there was . . . and is . . . the park. I visited there often as a child. We went there at least once a year for my dad’s company picnic. Harrisburg Dairies sponsored this and gave each of the employees a book or so of ride tickets. At that time the admission to the park was free, with picnic grounds available. Each ride had an individual price, one ticket or maybe more. It was a great place to go for a few hours of family time. When I was in high school the park underwent its first change: admission was still free or cheap (I don’t remember exactly) and a wristband entitled the wearer to ride. Later it became as it is today: pay to enter and then ride or not. Picnics? Better find a place outside the park because within, you’ll have to purchase at the concession stands. You’ll also pay for parking and deal with plenty more crowds than earlier.

There were other reasons to go there as well. Hershey Stadium for football games, drum & bugle corps shows, and later band competitions. Hershey Arena to watch Dad play hockey or in high school for basketball play-offs. There were things going on there, and while today it’s a resort, a vacation destination, when we were growing up, it was just where we went.

Swimmin'

Yesterday I wrote about Lynne and our memories. One of those memories we shared was another photo — not one that is in my possession or hers but on the Facebook page of one of our other high school friends.

The photo showed Lynne and three other friends: Pam, Sharon, and Jenny. I wasn’t in the photo but I certainly remember the day, or at least that particular moment in time on that day. I was the one who snapped the picture. It’s a black & white photo. In it, Pam and Lynne are wearing bathing suits while Sharon and Jenny are wearing swim cover-ups. Behind them, a ways behind them, is a chain link fence. Ok, that might make it sound prison-like but not in the least: the fence is to keep people out, not to keep these bathing beauties in. The location? Middletown Swim Club.

I really had to search to find a photo of the swim club. Really search. And of course, all of the photos were recent ones, pictures that include a massive slide structure:

When we — my friends and I — swam there, there were three diving boards (low, medium, and high) and a straight slide (which was installed when we were teenagers). There was a simple concession stand at the entrance, a small bathroom structure at the other side of the main pool, a baby pool, an L-shaped pool, two lifeguard stands, some benches, a swing set, and grass. There were also tennis courts, but really? We went there to swim.

This was not the first place that I remember swimming. I don’t remember exactly when the Swim Club opened, but I think we (our family) joined right away. My parents went there, my grandparents, great-aunts, etc. We spent most of our summers there. But I think that was only from the time that I was five or six years old. I could be wrong, but that seems right to me. I do remember doggy-paddling around that pool with my dad, which was how I first learned to swim.

The first place I remember swimming? I remember my aunts, Goldie and Kaye, taking me swimming with them at Hershey Pool. At this time Hershey Park’s rides were paid by tickets, admission was free, and there was no Chocolate World because if you wanted to find out how chocolate was made, you visited the factory. But more on that later. Today’s subject is swimming, and in Hershey that meant the pool directly across the street from Hershey Park:

This place seemed huge and from the photo, I guess it was. We had to go through a locker room, then duck through a shower and wading pool to enter the actual pool area. No avoiding that shower because there was no other way to get in. And the diving boards — tall, tall, tall! I couldn’t find a photo of them but I remember trying to climb up the ladder once — stupid idea considering my fear of heights. We didn’t go there often, but I remember swimming there. Until they tore it down, or dug it up, or whatever they needed to do to expand the park. They left the lighthouse, but that’s it.

Back to the Swim Club. I learned to swim there, to doggy-paddle first and then to swim under water, using hands and feet to make my way like a fish. Although the club offered swim lessons, I didn’t take advantage of them. We had one car and I had two younger siblings: driving me there for lessons wasn’t on the schedule. In fact, I didn’t have formal lessons until I was eleven or twelve years old. For those I went to Olmsted Air Force Base. My grandmother was an official chaperon. We (all of the kids taking lessons) met each morning across the street from the entrance to the base. A blue air force bus would arrive and we would board for the trip onto base and to the pool, my grandmother accompanying us. When we arrived at the pool, our instructors were already there. We’d have our hour or so of lessons while Gammy knitted while sitting in a chair in the shade. Then back onto the bus and off base again.

I also swam during the summers that I went away to church camp. I’ll tell more about Camp Yolijwa some other time, but this time, just the pool.

I swam there and enjoyed swimming there. But my biggest memory of this pool is that it was a frog magnet. Always frogs. After all, it was in the middle of the woods and the largest body of water on that side of the road (Colonel Denning Park was on the other side — again, more about that later). I didn’t like the idea of swimming with frogs, and maybe it was only once or twice that frogs found their way there, but I do remember them.

Back to the Swim Club. I remember “Midnight Swims.” They didn’t actually last until midnight, at least I don’t think so. What the term meant was that the pool stayed open later than usual — always on a weekend night — and there was either a dj or a live band. Live bands were especially exciting: each time I heard one, I was sure that this one would some day achieve national fame and I’d have been there in the beginning. Ah yes, the American dream.

But even though I enjoyed the evening events, there were things that were more important to me. The smell of chlorine. Getting dropped off at the pool as a teenager, spending the entire afternoon there, and then walking home, friends together but peeling off at different streets as each headed for her own home. The routines we did in the pool, sometimes jumping or diving from the boards into the deep end, racing each other in laps across near the corner of the “L,” or our “water ballet synchronized swimming” routines that we made up and thought were wonderful. The little things besides swimming: One of my friends (and I won’t mention which since this could be embarrassing) had a designated spot in the pool, next to the ladder by the corner, where she would go to pee so that she didn’t have to leave the pool, figuring that if she always went at the same spot and we all avoided it, we’d not be swimming in urine (and we all bought that idea). Or the spot on the far side of the pool, next to and slightly behind the bench, where we could often find four-leaved clovers.

Is it any wonder that this was where we spent our summer afternoons?