Summer in Salem

Biking around Salem on a recent evening, I rode past some of my old summer haunts, scaring up memories of a younger me riding this same route over 40 years earlier.

My youthful summers centered around swimming, and my standard uniform was a ruffled bikini accompanied by old white sneakers that would make unflattering farting type noises as they squished out the water they were never intended to be used in. My Nana’s back yard opened to Collins Cove beach, where a huge pipe ran from one side of the harbor to the other, submerged at high tide; trapping shallow water to one side of it at low tide. I’d watch the rising water until waves lapped the edge of the pipe then try to run to the other side before it was engulfed, spending the rest of the day disrupting the periwinkles that were stuck to it.

Another popular hangout was the Forest River Pool, which was filled with salt water back then. Murky and cold, we’d swim until our teeth chattered, then jump out to stuff a peanut butter and jelly sandwich down our throats. We would then be warned to wait at least 15 minutes before we went back in or we’d get a side stitch and drown, as we’d impatiently dangle our feet on the edge of the pool screaming “IS IT TIME YET?” every 30 seconds.

Then there was the Salem Willows Casino, aptly named as we’d blow our weekly allowance on skee ball trying to win a bigger and better prize, but instead come home broke with only a green plastic soldier and a Hobb’s popcorn stomach ache to show for it.  

But it was the rides perched on the grassy knoll near the entrance that fueled my emerging adrenaline addiction. There was an airplane ride, a roller coaster and a tilt a whirl. I was such a regular the conductor would sometimes let me ride longer on the slow days, no doubt amused by the puny girl trying to leverage her weight to spin the cart as fast as possible.

Before the Peabody Essex Museum consumed downtown Salem, it was a humble building where I’d spend afternoons mesmerized by the stuffed animals indigenous to the area, and in awe of the ship figureheads that lined the walls of the great halls. I saw the wax witch story at the Salem Witch Museum so many times I knew the script better than most men know The Godfather, and there were no more secrets the House of Seven Gables could keep from me, as I knew them all.

There were also special events, like the carnival that took place at Riley Plaza. Watching them arrive and set up was an event in itself, and although I never had much money to spend on rides, it was a treat to experience the flashing lights, arcade game sounds and cotton candy scent in the middle of the city.

The Heritage Days fireworks display took place at “the overpass” where the Salem Train Station is now located. Being 3 foot nothing, the only way I could see them was if my father sat me on his shoulders where I would hold on tight to his forehead, nearly poking out his eyes in the process, reveling not only in the sparkly show, but also in the fact that I was out way past my bedtime.

Caught up in my ride down memory lane, I realize it is once again past my bedtime as I turn my bike towards home, the end of another summer day in Salem.