Merryland Magic—A Love Story

Merryland Magic—A Love Story

The Merryland Roller Rink as viewed from Route 40, near Glascow, DE - circa 1960

Merryland main skating floor, with skaters preparing for the “Couples Dance.” - 1952

  

Roller skating at the Merryland Roller Rink was a joy for me as a teenager in the early fifties. The Merryland was extremely popular at that time, and my pal, Junior Digirolamo, and I would get access to a car somehow and motor up just past the Delaware line to the big, glass-fronted building. When we started we went there sometimes on Saturday afternoons, when the program was mostly “All Skate,” which meant everybody—adults alone and in pairs, senior citizens, and kids of all sizes and shapes. For the first few months Junior and I were rough, really rough. We would tear around at full speed, fall down, hit the sides of the rink, and sometimes bump into people. Soon, after many bruises and stares of derision, we started going into the two small side rooms to practice, where the noise of clashing skates and kids yelling with excitement was deafening. But there, in what we called the bull pens, we could practice turning corners and maneuvering backwards without taking out the accomplished skaters on the main floor.

 After a while we got good enough to zip around that main floor with confidence. We began attending every Saturday, bought our own skates, and worked on backward skating with only occasional spills. I even skated some in the middle of the floor where the good skaters practiced their dance routines of graceful spins and gestures. It was soon after this that roller skating at Merryland would never be the same. We were to be transformed from awkward, unkempt ruffians to civilized, well-dressed, debonair gliders whom, we hoped, girls would find irresistible. That’s right, observant reader, we prepared well for our skating event, because we now went on Saturday nights when skating became much more than skating. The event became a night of magic.

I even took a shower before the big night, brushed my teeth with vigor, and massaged gobs of a terrific substance called “wave set” into my hair. The stuff would render my wave rigid, with a petrified crust that lasted until the next day. I’d examine the mirror—lamenting the proliferating pimples staring back at me—comb my hair straight back, and use my forefinger to sculpt a classy wave into what was then an abundance of full-bodied hair. I’d dress with popular sport shirts and trousers of that era, borrow the car and a couple of dollars from Pop, and I’d be ready for a great Saturday night at the rink.

One reason why those Saturday nights were magical was that the organ music was live. Gary Tatman played the organ, and he played those ballads, waltzes, polkas, and tangos brilliantly. The most enchanting part was when Gary announced the last dance of the evening: “Couples.” That was when you would hustle to find a girl to ask to skate with you. And then, if successful, you would roll smoothly onto the floor with her on your arm. Gradually, almost subliminally, the lights were lowered and changed to a soft, romantic blue, an almost religious experience. You were immersed in glorious organ music combined with the mesmerism of soft, blue colors. Then you would glide around the oval rink with a beautiful girl at your side and think that you’d found Heaven. Readers who may have skated at Merryland will remember the richness of that evening’s delightful last dance. Then, of course, the night’s reverie would end—back to earth again with the drudgery of school and work.

I recall one particular Saturday evening before the couples finale. I was in the middle of the rink trying my backward spin when I bumped into a sweet-looking gal in a skating skirt. She was an elegant skater, who, I found out later, had taken lessons at an early age, one who could skate rings around me, literally. She wore custom, calf-high, white skates and a frivolous outfit that, try as it might, failed to disguise the natural beauty of its contents. I had collided with her fairly hard but she barely took notice as she continued to practice her dance routine. I stopped dead still and watched her determined, intent face. And I thought, of all the girls who come here, this would be the one beauty who would never consent to skate with me.

And yet, I couldn’t forget her, especially in those moments before sleep when I’d be thinking good thoughts to help me doze off. Finally, with feelings of certain failure, I convinced myself to be brave enough to ask her to skate couples with me. And, sure enough, that next Saturday when I asked her, she shook her head and said, “No, I don’t think so. I need to practice tonight.” Well, that answer gave me confidence, because she didn’t say “No way, beat it” as I expected. Yet why, I thought, would she even consider skating the most important dance of the evening with me, whose skating was sometimes an awkward misadventure? But, playing tricks with me, my mind interpreted her equivocal “I don’t think so” as an encouraging sign.

But the next Saturday night she refused again and, depressed, I cooled my heels and went home early to lick my wounds. The following Saturday night I found out that she was from my hometown, Chesapeake City. Yes! I had an in. So, keeping my eye on her, and summoning up my courage once more, I asked her yet again. “Well, sure . . . OK,” she said. Ahh, so there I was, floating around the floor with her, with my right arm around her waist and my left hand actually holding the left hand of this beauty as we skated the magnificent last dance of the evening. The lights were lowered to a subdued bluish hue as the organ played a velvety waltz. For me the aura enhanced our sense of intimacy, causing within me such a feeling of delight that shouldn’t have been permissible for a goofy teenaged boy recently evolved from Chesapeake City’s canal.

For many subsequent Saturday nights the Merryland magic belonged to us, and after a while I finally asked her to go out with me on a date. She agreed, so we set it up for the following Friday night. For sure, the date wasn’t to the Merryland but to another fine establishment, the Elkton Drive-in Theater; our entertainment would be in the seclusion of our own car. We certainly enjoyed those movies but, as time went on, we gradually became more interested in other, more pleasant, diversions, until eventually the features playing on those nights held our interest about as much as if we were watching the wind blow. There our skating disparity didn’t matter; what mattered was that we most certainly enjoyed that drive-in theater  . . . because we attended the Merryland less and less and, although together for many years now, we still prefer the more pleasing entertainment that movies can never provide.

          Just the other day I talked to her about it. “How come you agreed to skate with me that first time? And why did you go on that first date, anyway? I’ll bet it was because I was so handsome with that big, stylish wave in my hair.” “No way,” she said.” I was just tired of you pestering me.” “Well,” I asked, “what was it you liked about me then that made you keep dating me, and then, by golly, continue to stay with me for all these 60 years?” At that she looked at me, smiled, and said, “I liked the way you watched those movies at the drive-in.”