The Sunday Memory Drawer - That Amusement Park Ten Minutes Away

Following up on last week's Memory Drawer about Rye Playland, the recesses of my mind were tapped again.  While I was lamenting that those of us in Lower Westchester and the Bronx did not have many amusement park options available to us, I had completely forgotten those three or four years where we were blessed to have in our own backyard...

I've written about it here before, but it's worth another and closer look.  Here we were living in the boondocks of New York City.  Suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, we had our own version of Disneyland.  Most of us looked at Anaheim, California, as if it was on the moon.  And it might as well have been.  Now we have something that looked and felt like Walt's creation.  Minutes away.

From my perch in the backseat of Dad's Buick, I saw it going up everytime we passed by the proposed site off the New England Thruway.  I had been no doubt bored shitless again by another visit to some relative or parental friends on Long Island.  I saw Freedomland emerging from the ground and wondered what this was all about.  Dad explained that it was going to an East Coast version of Disneyland and it would be open in the summer.

Can we go?

"It will be very crowded." 

Can we go?

"Summer.  Too hot."

Mom chimed in.

"And full of mosquitos."

And? 

My father's final piece of his patented "why can't we go someplace" trilogy was up next.  And it won't not work this time.  Don't even try it, Dad.

Freedomland was not going to be too far away.  A ten minute drive from 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon.

Kid scores one.  Parents score nothing.

I forgot all about it until one warm Sunday night and we were watching the Ed Sullivan Show.  Being broadcast directly from Freedomland on the night before the park was going to officially open.  Old Stone Face sent a personal invitation over the airwaves.

"All you kiddies. you'll want to get your parents to bring you here to Freedomland." 

From my seat on the floor in front of the boob tube, I looked longingly back at my folks.  The look of resignation on their faces was obvious.  There was no way out of this one. 

"Yeah, we'll go."

Kid scores another one.  Parents blanked. 

I swear that night I heard one of my parents mutter that Ed Sullivan should go to Hell. 

My first Freedomland visitation had to wait until my father took his annual summer vacation, which was always scheduled for the last week in July and the first week in August.  Every year, all our summer fun had to be shoehorned into a single two-week period.  And, for this season, Freedomland would join the traditional agenda items.

Unlike my earliest visits to Rye Playland where I got to enjoy an amusement park with those purveyors of non-amusement, namely my parents, Freedomland would be a place we would visit with another family.  My mom's best friend was Aunt Ronnie and she was a dead ringer for actress Susan Hayward.  Conveniently, her husband Larry owned the gas station my dad frequented.  So, the four of them were as thick as thieves.  That meant their kids and I would be thrown together for the essence of fun. 

Whether we liked it or not.  Luckily, their daughters, Susan and Nancy, were okay to serve as ride buddies.  It wouldn't be the same as riding with one of my neighborhood chums or school friends.  And they were...gasp...girls.  But, given the usual solitude of my solo forays on the Playland Caterpillar, little beggars wouldn't be big choosers.  Susan and Nancy would do, thank you very much.

I was probably more annoying than usual in the days preceding our "long" trek down Baychester Avenue to the spanking new world of fun that awaited us on the shores of Eastchester Bay which featured the dirtiest and smelliest water you could imagine.  Once we arrived at the gates that morning, Susan, Nancy, and I ran on ahead with exuberant anticipation.  This was a world that was new to us.  And one we could only visit on television every time Walt Disney showed us film clips of his Magic Kingdom in the middle of his Mickey Mouse Club.  As we ran with glee, four parents shouted in unison.

"Don't run."

Yeah?   We're children.  That's what we do.  Especially when we're near rides, live animals, and, oh yeah, gobs of ice cream.

Freedomland was designed to look like a map of the United States and had a very historical slant on the rides and attractions it offered. Allegedly, Walt Disney was the early consultant on this park until he suddenly thought to himself, “What the fuck am I doing near Boston Post Road in the Bronx?” But, whether Mickey’s dad was involved or not, this wide-eyed kid soaked it all in. This would be the closest I would get to Disneyland for decades.

Indeed, if any Disney lawyers wanted to litigate, they might have had a good case when it came to Freedomland.  I didn't know it at the time, but there were attractions and elements that were completely lifted (stolen really) from Disneyland.

Little Olde New York.    Umm,  Main Street USA?

Chicago and the Great Plains.  Er, Frontierland?

The Great Southwest.  Hello, Adventureland?

Satellite City.  Tomorrowland, anybody?

We didn't give a shit.  Or know any better.  This place was wonderful and belonged to us exclusively.  Smack in the middle of...would you believe...the Bronx.  Essentially built on a toxic landfill and swamp.  Sort of like a Six Flags Over Sewer Water.

My mom and dad must have enjoyed themselves because, almost inexplicably, we went back to Freedomland several times a summer during its very short life.  And we went again not only with Aunt Ronnie's bunch, but other families as well.   Suddenly, this was the hot thing to do amongst the circle of my parents' friends.  So, as had been the case with Susan and Nancy, I was thrown into the ride mix with a myriad of other kids who really weren't my friends, but would serve in that capacity at least for the next eight or so hours.

While my dad still tended to keep his feet firmly implanted on the ground at Freedomland, my mom actually did sample the rides there.  And this would be the place where she and I actually went on a ride together.  

It was one of those across-the-park bucket ride, which scared the shit out of me every time the bucket went over one of those connecting posts. You’d get this sudden jolt as if you’d be tumbling down onto a hot dog wagon within seconds. But, that never happened. I do remember my mom sitting high aloft and admiring the view of the nearby New England Thruway, all the while flicking the ashes off her cigarette from an arm extended in mid-air. Ashes that probably did land on somebody’s hot dog. 

Like any amusement park, Freedomland would not be without mishap for me. I puked up lunch on one of those spinning toy rides. And there was another attraction where they set “the Chicago Fire” every twenty minutes and all the customers had to pump the water out of the antique fire truck. I was a little too young and short to be doing this, and that resulted in me getting conked in the cocoanut by the iron pump lever. The fire went out and so did I. You can see the pump in this video.
Elsie the Cow from Borden’s was on regular display at Freedomland and there were plenty of Borden’s ice cream products available for purchase while you waited on line. Of course, by the time you got to Elsie, she was usually taking her hourly bathroom break, which made the chocolate popsicle in your mouth a lot less appetizing.

One part of Freedomland was designed like the Jetsons’ space age house and that’s where they held concerts and shows with some big name talent. That’s actually what propelled my parents there on multiple occasions. I can remember hearing “Moonlight Serenade” from the Glenn Miller Orchestra, “Diana” as sung by Paul Anka, and the Four Seasons.  Frank Fontaine, “Crazy Cuggenheim” from the old Jackie Gleason Show, performed there and he shook my hand.  The first TV star I would ever meet.

When Lawrence Welk and the lovely Lennon Sisters were due to perform there, we were joined at Freedomland by some very special guests.

Grandma and Grandpa, who generally didn't leave the backyard unless they were going to church, the supermarket, or the doctor down on Bathgate Avenue in the Bronx.  But their Saturday night TV hero was enough of a lure for them.  Their reaction to seeing the bubblemaker in person: “He looks better on TV.”

Our glory would be shortlived.  There were some ride accidents at the park.  Allegations of money laundering.   And you just know that the mob probably had their fingers in the pie.  But, in reality, Freedomland was pretty much killed by the opening of the NY World’s Fair. And the real culprit for us was what annoyed my parents every time we went there. 

Because the park was literally built on a swamp, nobody had bothered to tell the mosquitoes to vacate. Once you were there past 6PM, you were a virtual buffet table for any insect with wings. I remember getting sprayed with Off every time I got off a ride at night. Ultimately, I smelled like an industrial plant on fire. So, as a result, all my Freedomland visits ended the same way. With either my mother or my father uttering those fateful words.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

Dinner last night:  Bratwurst and fries at The Stand in Westwood.