THE LAST GLORY DAYS OF CONEY ISLAND

A Baby Boomer in America’s Playground

Not just a place but a state of mind, Coney Island has been the symbol of fun for generations of those who could afford no more than the subway as well as those arriving in limos for the thrill of riding the Cyclone or  munching down a hot dog at Nathan’s. The first to arrive on what was then an island (now, a peninsula) saw little more than sand dunes and marsh grass. Then the railroads brought the rich, with opulent hotels and race tracks, followed by the subway, bringing the masses and the “Nickel Empire” became the place for everyman to escape to a world beyond reality.

As a student of local history, I love poring through the storied past. The Elephant Hotel, Feltman’s, the great amusement parks; Luna, Dreamland and Steeplechase; and so many other people and attractions that lured the masses have long been fodder for the written page. But as for millions of others, Coney Island has a much more personal meaning. As an early baby boomer, I was fortunate enough to experience the holy land of amusement when it was still mostly intact. Early on were regular visits to Nathan’s with the family, even in winter, when wooden shelters with sliding doors surrounded the outdoor counter to protect the crowds that came when all else was cold and silent. In season, we were often treated to some of the plentiful kiddy rides.

As parental leashes loosened, my friends and I headed eagerly to the magical place just a short subway ride away. By the late ’50s Brooklyn had lost its iconic trolleys and Dodgers, leaving Coney Island the last of what made the borough unique. But it was virtually all there! The rubble strewn field behind the elevated structure that had been the legendary Luna Park was a mythical place from the far distant past, meaningless to those who had never known it. From Brighton Beach to the Half Moon Hotel, thrilling rides, exciting attractions, scrumptious food and huge swimming pools beckoned the minions. For an early teen it was an awesome wonderland.

Our allowance of a few meager dollars was enough for a full day of rides, games and enough prime junk food to fill our day and our stomachs. Exiting the subway at Stillwell Terminal an instant aura of excitement overwhelmed as we were first met with the aromas of salt water taffy and cotton candy and, crossing Surf Avenue, the fragrance of Nathan’s with its bouquet of hot dogs wafting off the grill. And the sounds; before amplified music, we were bombarded wherever we wandered; the roars of the coasters, screams of the riders, crackling electricity and thumping from the scooters, dulcet tones of the calliopes emanating from the carousels, splashing in the pools and overall squeals of joy emitting from young and old absorbing the marvels of human creation. And, of course, strolling up the Bowery or Jones Walk, the screaming barkers, “Put the ball in the basket! “, “Toss the coin in the plate!”, “Pick a number!”, “Win a prize!”…that elusive prize.

Every visit to Coney was a new adventure. Both sides of Surf were lined with attractions, as was the Bowery, the narrow alleys and the Boardwalk. So much to do, see and eat! No better rides anywhere! Three world-class coasters: the incomparable Cyclone, the slightly smaller and older but still great Thunderbolt and the Tornado, billed as the world’s fastest and surely felt it, whipping around its sharply banked curves. As the class of the bunch, the Cyclone was 30 cents; the other top rides, a quarter. Nothing beat the first car, with only open track ahead as you plummeted almost straight down!

The Bobsled was a coaster without tracks, racing through an open wooden tube. Like any coaster, the train of bullet shaped cars was lifted mechanically and set loose at the top. Racing down and around, with the clicking of the steel wheels speeding over the wooden slats, it leaped up along the walls, seeming as if it would fly right over the edge…phenomenal!

The Wonder Wheel provided a breathtaking view with all of Coney stretched out below and cars that thrust you out into space before swinging back to the rim. The Wonder Wheel, Cyclone and Parachute Jump are what remain of the great rides from Coney’s golden age. Although only the skeleton is there, the Parachute Jump was in a class of its own. Part of Steeplechase, it was a separate admission whether entering from the park or the boardwalk and, at 50 cents, could break the bank. But what a sensation! Strapped into a flimsy seat, the ground rapidly fell back until the jolt overhead signaled an abrupt change of direction, freefalling back to earth, swishing against the metal guidelines with the chute flapping above until hitting bottom with another jolt that scrambled your internal organs…great stuff!

The scooters were always terrific fun, the best being those across the alley from Nathan’s. At 15 cents for the first ride, there were cheaper and newer but these were the fastest in Coney and had the longest track. Knowing the speediest cars, at only a nickel to reride, we’d settled in for a while, battering whatever poor soul appeared most vulnerable or going to war against each other.

Some days we’d opt for Steeplechase. You got to ride one of the great ones, the Steeplechase horses, and, at 16 rides for a buck, you couldn’t beat it. “The Fun Place” lived up to its slogan; inside the cavernous pavilion and out, rides and attractions kept you busy most of the afternoon. And the horses were truly astounding, speeding around the track as you tried to nudge your horse ahead while holding on for dear life.

A day of play also included games. Shunning the barkers, we’d go for the arcades where the plentiful distractions cost no more than a nickel. Zeroing in on skeeball, we learned the trick to plunking the hard wooden balls into the high score holes, accumulating points by the fistful. It took so many for a decent prize, though, so we held on, years passed and Playland closed its doors forever…but it was really all for the fun of it anyway!

A day in Coney Island wouldn’t be complete without stuffing our faces, and the best place to do most of it was Nathan’s. Still lovingly owned and cared for by the Handwerker family, it was, for us, truly a palace of succulent delights. Served by men who appeared to have begun with Nathan Handwerker in 1916, they dished out franks and other delectables at lightning speed to the mobs crowding out onto Surf Avenue. Usually start with a dog, slathering on the mustard with wooden sticks from open tubs on the counter, we’d flit from counter to counter, shoving one delicacy after another down our throats; hamburger smothered with sautéed onions, barbecue, chow mein, those incomparable fries (never needed anything but a bit of salt) and a slice of pizza (newly introduced at Nathan’s and the real thing). You couldn’t get a Coke or Pepsi. Everything was made by Nathan’s or specifically for them, and, like everything else, was unsurpassed, especially the root beer. If you preferred however, there were also orange and grape drinks and those over 18 [yes, 18] could get a small glass [yes, a glass] of beer for 15 cents. Each basic item was 15 cents while the fries and drinks were 5 and 10.

Across the narrow alley, against the wall of the building that housed the scooter, was a small booth with huge ears of corn immersed in hot, milky water. Melted butter and a little salt, sweet and tender beyond belief! On the next block Shatzkin’s served the tastiest knishes fresh from the oven. In full view, white-haired ladies sitting at long tables in the center of a vast square space filled the dough, preparing the next batch.

The Sodamat on the boardwalk, with its numerous dispensers pouring any flavor you could conceive, and several you couldn’t, for a nickel a cup, was a frequent stop. Topping it off was frozen custard across the alley from Nathan’s; pistachio and banana were particular favorites. We learned early on not to overdo the rides that involved a lot of rapid spinning!

After what was always a very full and satisfying day we’d drag ourselves back to the subway; tired, full, sometimes a little bit sick to the stomach; for the short ride home and wait to receive our allowance for next week’s return!

Bay Currents 8/2007