By Daniel Himes
When I was nine years old, my aunt and uncle invited me – FYI: I’m an only child – to join my two cousins on a family vacation to the Maryland seashore. In Ocean City, Maryland, there is a boardwalk that is officially Atlantic Avenue, but is better known as the Boardwalk. The wooden walkway along the beach was built in 1902 as a tourist attraction. As you walk “down” the boardwalk (in all my years, I have never heard anyone say that they walked “up” the boardwalk) you’ll find dozens of eateries and attractions, one of which is Trimper’s Carousel, the oldest continuously running carousel in the country!
Carousels or merry-go-rounds are often main attractions in amusement parks and on playgrounds. Children (and adults) love them because they offer an experience that imitates the sense of speed and movement that brings the same kind of joy as when the wind is blowing in-your-face.
When children spin round-and-round, they feel a rush of adrenaline that heightens their playful mode. Kids often ride together; the shared experience promotes friendship that is usually recalled by the phrase, “remember the day we …?” Kids also enjoy the whimsy of merry-go-rounds. Where else in life could they enjoy sitting on the out-stretched paws of a lion or sitting on a unicorn’s back?
Riding a carousel creates a timeless memory. I have met people in their 40s, 50s, and even 70s who tell me they drove hundreds of miles just to ride a famous carousel. They do so because a ride on a carousel creates a unique joy. This is why I collect carousel postcards.
During that August week in 1953, my uncle rented a large private home. My aunt loved the kitchen; it was the largest room in the house. And she loved to cook. The house was on the highest spot in Ocean City. The street in front was paved but was often covered by sand blown off the beach. I was easily amused as a child and fascinated by a drainage ditch that ran parallel to the street but between the house and the pavement. There was a small footbridge that spanned the ditch and if you stood in the middle and looked straight down, you could see tiny little fish and an occasionally a critter that looked like a sand crab. Over the years, I have crossed, maybe a thousand foot bridges, from California to Scotland and France. The charm of walking across a footbridge is why I collect footbridge postcards.
is in Claude Monet’s garden, Giverny, France
I was literally mesmerized by the boardwalk. There was music from the steam calliope behind the carousel during the day, there were the lights at night, and the smells of greasy french fries and the ocean air all day long. The noise was deafening at times – literally a cacophony that was difficult for a nine-year old to understand. There were often “waves” of people; all moving in different ways. My uncle called them “Chinese firemen.” (I’m not sure if that was derogatory in the 1950s, but I thought it was funny.)
If there is a soul alive who does not know about Chinese fire drills, each one is a playful event typically conducted in and around a vehicle on or near college campuses. Usually at a traffic light the passengers quickly exit, run around the car, and switch seats. The term often evokes a spirit of fun and chaos, requiring some degree of quick thinking. It’s often associated with youthful antics, but in a broader context, the phrase is often used as a metaphor to describe a disorganized or chaotic situation.
It was at least a decade later – during college – when I learned the real meaning of a Chinese Fire Drill. I was caught-up in one as a sophomore at Frostburg State College and never forgot how silly we (my fraternity brothers and I) must have looked running around a 1962 Chevrolet Impala on a cold February night wearing Bermuda shorts, sweatshirts and our fraternity beanies. It was wholly synonymous with stupidity.
Jenny’s message reads, “I walked this path yesterday – about a half mile. Thought of you. Will visit soon, but I will have to wait until the clouds roll by. With my best regards. Jenny.”
I too, walked this path in 1989. The bridge is much newer, but sixty-three years later, it looked much like the postcard.
I have no clue how many boardwalks I’ve seen and walked on but, after seventy-one years since that summer of 1953, I still like boardwalks, but it needs saying that not all boardwalks are across the beach from an ocean. They are reason #3.
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My favorite boardwalk postcard and the scariest footbridge I ever crossed are below.
