by Dawn Mahlstedt, Long Island, N.Y. ( ny_dawn@yahoo.com )
(a.k.a. Dawn Veselitza, DAHS class of 1981)
August, 2000
There is a place that achieved landmark status in my heart, but now it is home to a Staples store and a closed Rockbottom store. It is a place where memories were made. It represents to me a "Forrest Gump," or a "Mr. Holland's Opus"-like panorama of years going by. I am referring to a building with a curved roof that was once the home of the Levittown Roller Rink.
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I am quite certain that I am not the only one who felt profound sadness when this special place closed after being a part of many peoples' lives for a very long time. Most likely, its death could be attributed to suffocation by lawsuits and related untouchable insurance costs.
I am in my mid thirties now, and yet my earliest "link-to-the-rink" took place a few years before I was born. My parents met there for the first time in the late '50s. Dad was home on a break from his Marine base in Quantico, Virginia; his home was in East Meadow. Mom was there from Islip with her brother and sister, as word had spread to Suffolk County about this large roller-rink.
Dad noticed Mom, but he thought that the other guy was her boyfriend. Nevertheless, as a large sign above the organ lit up "Couples Only," he courageously asked her to skate. They skated hand-in-hand as the organ music played; and he was relieved to find out that it wasn't her boyfriend who was there with her. They eventually married and moved to Levittown in the early '60s. They bought a house that stared into the face of Division Avenue High School. (The house had many original '40s "Levitt" features, including metal kitchen cabinets, black asbestos tiles on a heated slab floor, and a trap-door leading to an unfinished upstairs.) I am the second of the three children that they had between 1962 and 1965.
I was about four years old when I went to the rink for the first time. I learned to skate by trial and error -- errors that sometimes landed me on my backside. I'm sure that many people can relate to a kind of skate-walking, holding onto the railing with one hand. Suddenly, an intimidating gap in the railing would appear. I breathed a sigh of relief as I finally touched down on the next length of railing. Other times I would find myself hanging sideways on the railing with both hands, knees almost on the floor, as I saved myself from a close-call.
I remember peeking into a back room that hosted birthday parties, jealous that my brother was invited to the party that was going on at that time. There was a pro-shop that sold skating paraphernalia. Folding chairs that were fixed in place surrounded the entire railing perimeter, making it easy and fun to "see and be seen." The rink was so large that there were always a few rink-guards (a.k.a. "Clippers") on patrol, skating around in their maroon suits and hats -- yes hats! -- like policemen's hats.
Guys and gals went to separate booths to pick up their skates, using purchased rental coupons that resembled raffle tickets. Little did I know just how often I would visit that skate booth over the oncoming years. I was not a happy camper when I approached to exchange my skates, after fighting with a broken lace, or realizing that the skates I had already laced up just didn't fit right... sometimes they didn't fit right because I had suddenly grown another shoe size without realizing it. When I finally found a pair that fit right and had good laces, of course I would discover that they were laced unevenly and spend more time relacing them. But all the effort was worth it to acquire the freedom that finally came as I made my way through one of the openings in the railing and arrived on the welcoming landscape of the wooden skating floor.
I loved the breeze on my face, and the "whir" sounds and "clickety" sensations that were made as I made my way around the oval rink in those relatively extinct old-fashioned skates, the ones with the wheels arranged two-by-two, not in-line. To my young eyes, the skating floor had the illusion of being coated with glass, especially if it had been recently buffed. I stared in awe at the dance-skating that took place after the sessions, with the couples wearing outfits like the ice-skaters wore on television. They would swirl around to that organ music with its church-like, regal and soothing sound, causing the cares of the world to disappear for the moment. In the center of the rink there were black circular patterns for those who wanted to practice figure-eights and other fancy moves.
The '60s turned into the '70s, and eventually I graduated from quiet daytime matineé sessions and, afterward, gigantic sundaes at Jahn's Ice Cream Parlor next-door (now home to a nightclub) ... to wild and crazy Friday and Saturday night sessions throughout my teenage years. A few of us would frequently walk the mile or so, like mailmen, nothing stopping us from getting there, "neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow," lighting our cigarettes when we were sure we were out of any grown-up's view. I think that I spent more time by the mirror in the bathroom than I did skating. I am embarrassed to say that I remember bringing a curling iron for my hair. I had a crush on one of the guys who gave out the skates, one of many crushes that I'm sure have arisen at "America on Wheels... Levittown Arena" over its long history, including my parents "crush" of nearly twenty years earlier.
There would be an occasional scuffle outside on line, as well as inside the rink. The ever-present "boss-man," (Mr. Petrone) would come and break it up. I remember his neatly combed black hair, and that he wore a suit. Looking back with 20/20 hindsight, I believe that he truly cared about all of us, and that he tried to maintain order for everyone's sake. He would walk out to the center of the rink and direct the "Hokey Pokey," using a microphone that descended from above. Next, he would ask anyone whose birthday it was that day to make their way into the center of the rink. Then, those fortunate ones would proudly skate around, as the rest of us sang "Happy Birthday" -- it was always somebody's birthday, although I must confess that a few people received an unmerited moment of glory, parading around to that song when I knew that it wasn't even close to being their birthday. (I never had the chutzpah to do it.)
Sometime in the '70s, DJ music had been added to the repertoire of skating music. The large sign above the organ would light up "All Skate," "Ladies Only," "Trio," "Clear the Floor," or whatever else was going on at that particular time. We skated "Couples Only" to songs called "Colour My World" by Chicago, "Swayin' to the Music (Slow Dancin')" by Johnny Rivers, and "Time Passages" by Al Stewart, holding hands under a disco-type ball that sparkled when the bright white lights were turned off and the dim pink lights were turned on, romantically lost in my own "Bogey and Bacall" movie. (Do you remember the early '80s song "Key Largo," by Bertie Higgins?) I was brought back to reality when I started to worry that the palm of my hand would become sweaty, nervously letting go of my grip for a moment to wipe my hand on my pants.
By this time I could skate quite fast as I sped around on my blistered feet during "All Skate" to the tune of "Born to Be Alive" by Patrick Hernandez. I could skate backwards, jump-turn, and do a couple of other tricks, but that was the extent of it. I never did learn to dance-skate. Often, though, I felt a maroon-sleeved arm tap me on the shoulder, with the voice attached to it saying, "Slow down!" or "Turn around!" and rarely those dreaded words, "Get out!" reminiscent of a parent correcting a child who tried to get away with something once too often. One of those rink-guards sometimes shared with me his memories of the '50s -- we would chat as we skated, linked arm in arm. They knew us like family in ways that I can only appreciate now. He said he remembered that my Dad used to skate real fast. (Dad had told me that there used to be "official" races when he skated there as a teen.)
The last time I remember being at the rink was in the late '80s. I was a chaperone with the youth-group of my church. As we skated around to DJ-played Contemporary Christian Music, my mind was going through some of the same memories that I just shared with you. But I was also thinking, that if anyone had told me during my cigarette-smoking, fist-shaking rebellious years, that I would be there in my twenties, on a weeknight with a church-group, I probably never would have believed them.
I didn't know that the rink was closing for good until it had already happened. If I could have been there on the final day, I would have brought a camera with me to capture the last moments on film. I can't imagine a dry eye in the house, as the sign that had reigned on high spanning four decades lit up "Clear the Floor" for the last time.
I regret that I can't remember the name of the man who played the organ for many years, or the names of those devoted rink-guards, or the name of a certain woman at the snack-bar who was there so often for so long that I wondered if she lived there. (She may have wondered the same thing about me, as she handed me, for the thousandth time, a pink slushy "Ice Flo," with the straw that had a spoon-shaped end.)
I stood there one day, on an afternoon in December, 1999, peering through glass doors into an empty store. I took my sons with me on my trip down memory lane, as we gazed up at a high ceiling. I can't help but think that my sons will never designate landmark status in their hearts upon a smaller roller-blade/video place that I take them to occasionally. My desire for my sons and all the other young people of today is that there will be special places left where they can go to make their own memories to look back on.
I've been married for more than thirteen years, busy with home and family, as well as working a day or two a week as a Registered Nurse. Nevertheless, whenever I pass a certain spot on Hempstead Turnpike, I almost always think of the Levittown Roller Rink. I never thought that I would consider myself a partaker of "the good-old-days." Now I understand that "the good-old-days" are something that only passing years can bring to realization.
Follow-ups:
Bay Shore Roller Rink closed in 2002(?)
"George Joseph Petrone, of Copiague, formerly of Levittown, died on Aug. 18, 2003. He was the former owner of the Levittown and Bay Shore Roller Rinks. Father of Ellen and Joanne (William). Life partner of Myrna Fitch and her children: Hope (Stephen), Melissa (Michael) and Douglas. Grampy of Katie. The family was cared for by the Thomas F. Dalton Funeral Home, Levittown Chapel. Mass at St. Bernard RC Church. Interment Pinelawn Memorial Park." - www.antonnews.com/levittowntribune/2003/08/22/obituaries
Roller Rinks live on, around the nation.
The survivors on Long Island are Hot Skates in Lynbrook, NY www.hotskates.com and United Skates of America / USA Skate in Seaford, NY www.usa-skating.com
Finding rinks elsewhere (note, surf carefully. There are many e-mail links, broken links and closed rinks listed.):
www.rollerskating.com/locater.html
www.seskate.com/rinks
http://roswellrollerrink.com/links/Roller_Skating_Rinks
General information: Roller Skating Association International www.rollerskating.com
Most rinks post some nice photos of their facilities. A chain of four rinks in NC, Skateland USA www.skatelandusa.com, posts some very nice photos of their well-kept floors and modern facilities.
An earlier version of this story ran in Newsday (in the "Long Island Life" section) on Sunday, May 3, 1998. "The Lure and Lore of the Skating Rink," by Dawn Mahlstedt. (Newsday's title and edits.)
Photo info: (1 and 2) some seemingly very rare photos taken inside the rink. (1) a daytime matinee session. (2) two skaters on the floor -- it was rarely this quiet. (3) Dad in his official Marine photograph, late 1950s. (4) Mom at home in Suffolk County wearing her pom-pommed four-wheeled skates, c. mid/late 1950s (5) Me, brother Dan (DAHS class of '79) sister Debra (class of '83). Note DAHS in background. Fall, 1966. (6) I was heartbroken when I opened my yearbook and found that my photo was not there. It was something so permanent and unchangeable. This photo taken at the end of the summer of 1980 would have been my 1981 yearbook photo.
(posted 1999.12.31 ; last edited 2005.04.22)
hits: since 2000.08.03
