Now & Then: Ah, the 1950s when Memorial Pool was the center of the world

“Mama, I need a quarter.”

“I gave it to your brother.”

“Well, we’re leaving. The bus should be on its way.” 

Toting our swimsuits rolled up inside bath towels, my two older brothers and I waited out at the end of the driveway for the Franklinville School activity bus to come chugging up the road. We lived south of the village within shouting distance of Highway 64.

The red-and-white bus appeared down the road and lurched to a stop to pick us up. We boarded, found friends among the town kids and sat for the 15-minute trip to Memorial Swimming Pool.

It was the 1950s and there was nothing else to do on summer afternoons when a Little League or PONY League baseball game wasn’t scheduled. Video games, ESPN and skateboard parks hadn’t been invented.

The bus parked in front of the pool and we joined a long line of kids waiting to get in. As we got to the counter, each of us paid our quarters and got a wire basket and a safety pin, each with a corresponding number.

Then we went into the dressing rooms to change, placing our clothes neatly into the basket in such a way as to keep the undies out of sight. We gave the basket to someone at the counter and headed for the pool, the corresponding safety pin fastened to our swim trunks.

In those days, there was electricity in the air at Memorial. The place was crowded with little kids fighting to stay afloat in the shallow end, bigger kids having water fights and diving off the big board, and teens lurking in the shadows checking out each other.

The jukebox blared out the latest rock ’n’ roll hits, entertaining several city blocks with the booming bass, yakety sax and wailing voices of instant celebs not much older than we were.

“Oo-ee, oo-ee baby. Woncha let me take ya on a sea cruise ...”

“Splish, splash, I wuzza takin’ a bath, along about a Saturday night ...”

Other teens, not much older than me and my brothers, sat high above us on shaded seats overlooking the pool. They were lifeguards working their first public jobs after completing their lifesaving courses.

“Tweeeet! Hey you, don’t be dunking that little boy!”

“But he’s my brother. I’m not hurtin’ ‘im.”

■ ■ ■

“Tweeeet! Everybody out of the pool! A storm’s coming up.”

“Why do we have to get out of the rain when we’re already wet?”

“It’s not the rain we’re worried about but the lightning. Now get in the building.”

■ ■ ■

After the storm passes, we’re free to go back into the water. Boys and girls find their little groups of two, three or four. They choose their own activities.

“I dare you to go off the high dive.” 

“I will if you will.”

“OK then, let’s get in line. You first.”

 “I’m not goin’ first. It was your idea.”

The girls went into the water but were careful not to get their hair wet. “What fun is that?” we boys wanted to know. 

They, on the other hand, couldn’t figure out what we got out of dunking each other and splashing water in our faces. 

Some of us had practical uses for the swimming pool. A boy a couple of years older than me gave me lessons in how to swim. I may not have had perfect form, but I could get across the pool without touching my feet to the bottom.

When our time was coming to an end, the bus driver ushered us back into the building to dry off and get dressed. We used our numbered safety pins to retrieve our baskets, took them into the dressing room and came out ready to ride back home.

“Boy, swimming sure makes me hungry,” I said. “Do we have money for snacks?”

“Mama just gave us enough for swimming,” my older brother said. “Come on, let’s get on the bus. Maybe supper will be waiting for us.”

“I hope so ‘cause I’m starving. Hey, do you think Daddy will bring us back for the night swim?”

 Larry Penkava is a writer for Randolph Hub. 

Contact: 336-302-2189, larrypenkava@gmail.com.