This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Farewell to Seafaring” Down in the Dirt, v153 (the January 2018 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book At Midnight the Down in the Dirt Jan.-Apr. 2018 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-Apr. 2018 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Beverly Park

Pam Munter

    Beverly Park isn’t there any more, like so many of my childhood haunts – torn down in the name of progress or capitalism, which is one and the same to so many. In the late 1940s and 1950s, it was an amusement park, modest compared to anything that came later. Some have said it inspired Walt Disney to create his Disneyland. It was only about an acre, on the outskirts of Beverly Hills at the busy intersection of Beverly Boulevard and La Cienega. The park consisted of about a dozen rides scaled down for young children. It featured a train with cars a kid could sit astride while circling the park perimeter, a carousel and a ferris wheel. There was a roller coaster, too, the tamest one a kid could imagine. At the edge of the park, there were pony rides, but they didn’t interest me. If you look at my family’s ubiquitous home movies, you would have thought I lived there.
    When I was a kid, those 8mm home movies were trotted out at every opportunity. We’d all make the same comments, the same jokes, sharing a family lore. I always sat in the front of the room, watching myself on the rickety portable screen, perhaps trying to figure out who that person is up there. My younger brother, who took custody of all those reels when my parents died, converted them to video when that technology was new so the renditions aren’t very focused. But that’s not the reason I haven’t looked at any of them in probably forty years. It was another time, another person.
    I don’t know how many birthday parties I had there but in many of these films I am dressed to the nines in a frilly dress and Mary Janes, hair curled and topped with a ribbon or two. The earliest three-minute reel might have been taken when I was three or four years old. My father used up most of it following me as I went around and around on a ride where I sat inside a little boat with a steering wheel. Maybe I felt a responsibility for actually navigating that little craft through the waters around the circle. As I watch it now, I see an intent little girl leaning to the side of the boat to make sure it stays on its circular track. In the background, my mother is smiling broadly and waving, inured to the heavy sense of duty demonstrated before her. She mugs for the camera.
    As I watch the grainy film, I can almost smell the popcorn and the mustard on the hot dogs I must have consumed between rides. My parents and whatever other adults who came along kept close watch over me there, making me feel both safe and constrained. There was one of me, often four or more of them. Everything I did there – and elsewhere – was closely monitored.
    Looking back on it now, I had little sense of control or leverage anywhere in my life. My parents had rules about most everything – how to dress, how to comport oneself, what could be discussed, what emotions were appropriate to express. Maybe that’s why I loved Beverly Park. Whenever I’d get on a ride by myself, I felt momentarily independent and free from scrutiny. It was especially true on the little train ride. There are lots of shots of me riding on one of the cars, a preferred sanctuary for me. The path of the train took me out of my parents’ purview. I was on my own, my head filled with fantasies of adventure, risk and travel. But I secretly wanted to drive that train, not merely ride on it. Once, out of range of my parents, I asked the 𔃈engineer𔃉 if I could drive the train. He told me, 𔃈Sorry, honey. Girls don’t get to do things like that.𔃉 It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten that message but hearing it in that safe, fun setting was startling.
    My father, the one with the 8mm wind-up camera, would command me to stand still for a close-up and it’s there I can see my childhood self. Though all the films are without sound, I can almost hear my parents commanding me to 𔃈Smile!𔃉 My face quickly morphs from earnestness to an expression I know will please them. Sometimes, though, before the film runs out, the face returns to its natural, more serious expression.
    Sitting here, watching those movies almost seventy years later, my empathy spills over for that little self. Clearly, there was some counterpoint at work in that life that served as a deterrent to a feeling of childhood abandon. The girl in the movies is cautious, careful, one step removed from the proceedings. It would seem that, even before kindergarten, I was developing the skill of self-containment. At Beverly Park, I could venture into a world of my own making without having to interact much with powerful adults. Perhaps I could envision a time when I would be my own locomotive, that the ride would be one I would create and engineer, without outside proscriptions.
    When he was in high school, my brother worked there for a summer or two, just a few years before it was torn down and turned into a multistory megamall. I wondered why he chose to apply for a job at Beverly Park when there were many other possibilities open to him. The childhood magic there had been mine, not his. In fact, when we’d watch the home movies, he ritualistically complained that most of them were about me, going around in endless circles on rides at Beverly Park. I think he envied my childhood, just six years ahead of his. But his childhood was an easier one because he was a more compliant kid to raise – more cheerful, less rebellious. He grew up to become an engineer, like my father. I ended up opting for paths not taken by any in my family. I’d like to think the dreams and fantasies cultivated at Beverly Park might have had something to do with that.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...