Several weeks ago, as I lounged under a sun-blocking tarp upon my hammock, suddenly, the curtain was whipped back, my brother's hand being the culprit, as he pulled up a chair, plopped down and began to read aloud for all to enjoy. This all unfolded against my will, at first, but then I discovered what a terrific writer he is turning out to be. (See, don't tell anyone but he wants to be me. Yes, it's true. He has the unquenchable urge to copy everything I do in life so I'm letting him have his little fun for now.) Back to reality, this was so super good that I requested that he submit it for my column space. We all tend to romanticize the past and this piece shows how things really were, especially around these parts. I commend my brother for being brave enough to tell it like he really remembers it and I think you shall too. Without further ado, here is one from Blaine Houserman:

Romantic or Realistic?

- By Blaine Houserman

As natives, many of us knew growing up that there were people who would

show up around the beginning of May and, to some extent, become part of our community through the summer. They'd return after Labor day (or thereabouts) to the major cities to our south and west.

Many of us would end up forming relationships with them. Some would even become our summer ‘bff’’s, (best friend forever), to use the current lexicon of our youth.

So, as the summer approached our moods lightened. Thoughts and speculation as to what our city friends had been up to and what latest fad, or style of fashion, they would bring, (surely to confound and confuse our parents) filled the air. After all, what would be the point otherwise?

Conversely, when summer ended and every one returned to the cities with heartfelt, but rarely kept, promises of weekend visits, we would slip into a funk that would last weeks.

I’ve given some thought as to what they, our temporary summer residents, would have perceived as recreation and have pondered a little bit on what they might have endured to get there. After mulling this over in my head for the better part of 40 years, I’d have to say it might be no more than the goal of getting to the water’s edge in the quickest most direct route possible.

You see, the route from Pittsburgh north to our little hamlet was, (for those born after say, 1965), old route 19, which started in West Virginia and meandered up through western Pennsylvania, into Pittsburgh and on northward, just past C.L. and snaked onward, ending about 2 miles south of the Lake Erie shoreline.

Later, around that same year (1965) they began Interstate 79, which, by and large, ran the same course, the major difference being time spent en route, and the much anticipated sharp decrease in deaths by head on collisions, due to the newfangled dividers and other modern items.

Once arriving, the tourist types would, more often than not, stay on Rt. 322 through town or take Rt. 618 around the lake to Conneaut Lake Park, host to the well known beach boardwalk and the famous, (if not infamous), Park Beach Club - both guaranteed to be over crowded with sweating summertime fun seekers, trying their best to cram as much hedonistic pursuit as possible into the standard two week seasonal hiatus from their respective hum-drum routines in Pittsburgh, Cleveland or Youngstown.

Now it’s not that I’m passing judgment on the reputation of our fine ‘world renowned’ amusement park, its just-well, let’s just take the attraction of Roller Coaster ride for instance. CL had the distinction of housing the 3rd oldest wooden roller coaster ride in all of the U.S., still in operation till about 2007.

Think about that for a second. The largest WOODEN operating roller coaster for over a century. Many years later when I first took my 6 year old son there he was adamant not to go on. I’m wondering now if he had exercised superior judgment.

The original Merry Go Round had hand sculpted wooden pieces-horses, chariots and the like, all over 100 years old. That is until one of the more recent owners had had them duplicated, selling the original ones, on the sly, his unscrupulous deeds being discovered long after he’d called it quits and “pulled up stakes.”

The Midway, which invited tourists to take in the view from many angles while circumnavigating the park, via vehicle, ended up several yards to the north of the entrance, and was really the center of everything in our little universe.

The Midway was known for offering the best in amusement fare for its day, including, but not limited to: an array of dart throwing games; air guns; card tossing; ball tossing and the throw the ring around the bottle game. Not to mention the best chachki and cheapest, tackiest C.L. tourist souvenir gak, coveted for miles around.

The payoff, for me personally, was the Fry Shack at the end, right by the Park Beach Club. They were a main stay of many a summertime diet, served best with malt vinegar and good ole’ ‘red dye #7 (ketchup) on the side. They were the freshest and tastiest, probably because they were fried in the classic traditional grease that made everything tastier back then—that is till things like an increase in bypass surgeries and the revelation that trans-fats would give rise to a shift in dietary standards.

Ah, those were the days…

For those who wanted more ‘interactive’ amusement, there was always Mr. Weyel's pony rides. Mr. Weyel, also doubled as our head high school coach and Phys. Ed. Teacher/sadist during school, was well versed in motivating his ponies with his famous oak ‘switch.’ Perhaps whipping the class into a cardiac frenzy was not so far out of his wheelhouse.

Otherwise one could rent a small speed boat, available at the docks directly under the Beach Club, in an array of rainbow colors, just putrid enough to make anyone feel a little silly, but memorable nonetheless.

Having observed this particular brand of touristic activity by many an urban gadabout has led to an appreciation of things like nautical safety dos and don’ts. They review things like one is to always be to the right of a boat approaching from the opposite direction. Better yet, boats don’t have brakes.

This last tip was usually the ‘Titanic moment’ to many an uninitiated “skipper” as he would come barreling into a dock area, (or dockside bar/restaurant more than likely), realizing, in the nanosecond before impact, that, in fact, it wasn’t like being behind the wheel of the trusty family Pontiac Grand Prix station wagon. No it sure was not the same as tailgating his way up Rt. 19, or I-79 and there was something to be said for ‘boating ahead,' ‘docking do’s and don’ts, ’ and, of course, the ‘boats don’t have brakes’ tip. This also explains why Crawford County had one of the best water emergency medical teams in the tri-state area.

The crown jewel, however, was, (and still is), Hotel Conneaut, which sits on the south end of the park overlooking the lake, (of course), with an expanse of front lawn outside of its northern doors that is quite spectacular when summer is in full bloom.

Originally hosting 300 rooms (at a buck a pop in 1903, can you imagine?) it has survived being struck by lightning and a fire or two and celebrated a century of hospitality in 2003.

As you headed north away from Hotel Conneaut and curved west again, you would go past the new, (in relative terms), CLP Convention Center, where in the 60’s it would host the “Dick Clark Caravan of Stars,” (Fabian, The Crystals, Gene Pitney, The Dixie Cups),

and for C&W fans, George Jones would slip in every now and then.

It would also rank being host to several annual company picnics, the bigger ones being General Electric, out of Youngstown, at approximately 800-1200, Westinghouse, at close to the same head count, as well as the famed, (believe it or not), Undertakers Convention—which saw casket shaped potato salad prepared in the Hotel kitchen.

Now for the locals, the real challenge would be staying out of harms way in negotiating one's way around our little ‘burg,' meaning not getting either behind, ahead or really in the general vicinity of a visitor while driving. It would never fail-if you were ahead-THEY were in a hurry, (or behind schedule getting to the next sought-after, over hyped and over booked local attraction), weaving back and forth, laying on the horn, as if they were on the way to the ER with ‘Auntie June’s’ aorta spurting life.

If you were behind, then it was as if they had just came out of a time capsule and were so transfixed by this strange planet called CL that they would soak up every detail- at 15MPH !!

Either way, traversing our little hamlet was always a challenge during that time of year.

Upon reflecting on all those memories of our summer friends and the wacky, outlandish things that we had done together in the pursuit of making a summer day memorable, made me realize how memory always evokes the ‘golden moments’ and rarely do we recall the mundane, frustrating or even disappointing ones that come with all the good times.

After the last taillight rounded the bend and faded into the dusk of all the ‘fun seekers,’ that’s what we were left with. Thankfully, Nature has graced us, (at least me), with the memory of, (mostly), all the ‘golden’ ones.

During a recent return to my birthplace with that same son, (now 15), I began to recall and share with him many of those moments. My ardent hope is that our summer visitors have golden recollections, like I do.