Remnants of a baseball game

My family traveled extensively.  Most Friday afternoons, even in the winter, my dad would pack the VW wagon and our family would head to a weekend of roughing it in the woods in New Hampshire. We used to melt snow for water and use a coffee can for a toilet.  He greatly enjoyed sitting around the campfire, eating bologna sandwiches, and drinking an endless cup of coffee.  (The smell of coffee permeated my childhood so heavily that to this day I abhor the aroma.)  We would occasionally take a ride to a drive-in movie to see one of my father’s favorite James Bond movies, (where my brother and I would hide under a blanket in the back seat so my father would not have to pay for us.) We sometimes took a drive to one of the mountains, a favorite being Gunstock, where my brother and I would laboriously hike up the mountain only to be able to take in the view from the top.  Truth be told, we would often jump on the ski lift to ride down, free of charge because they only checked the tickets on the way up.  The scene below us was quite the spectacle, sun and clouds in the sky, majestic mountains in the distance, lakes and rivers below, and tiny houses with tiny cars and imagined tiny people. My brother, being blind, could not appreciate the sight, but my heart was filled with awe.

Every now and then, my dad would drive us to my favorite spot in New Hampshire, the penny arcades at Weir’s Beach, where he would place five nickels in my anxious hand. I would take my time deliberating exactly which machines to play. It was with renewed excitement that Hubby took me to this very spot last week.  The penny arcades had many of the original games, to my surprise.  My favorite baseball game still cost a nickel.  A small metal ball would come rolling down a ramp, and the bat still swung at it, and it would go roaring into the sky, landing in one of the pockets for a single run, double, triple, or out of bounds.  Little metal baseball players were placed around the field near the bases, and we laughed because they were all headless, (obviously decapitated by an errant ball.)  There was the same basketball game with just two players, one Caucasian and one African American, fighting over the ball. The original mechanical pony, battered and well worn, sat in the corner, still costing a nickel, but I chose not to reminisce by riding on it. Hubby and I played the modern version of Ski-ball with lights and bells and whistles, winning enough tickets to get a miniscule, toy dinosaur or a Chinese finger trap for a prize.  I giggled through the whole ordeal, remembering how much fun it was when I was a child.

Not much has changed at Weir’s Beach with the exception that the parking meters were replaced by a state-of-the-art parking ap.  Using my phone, I had to type in the number of our parking spot and choose the number of minutes we would be staying, then proceed to charge it on my bank card. This was a clever improvement and judging by the crowds and constant flow of traffic, this must be an awesome money-maker for the town. 

Of course, we had to purchase t-shirts at the t-shirt outlet, along with a pair of deeply discounted sunglasses.  They still have a small, indoor bumper car rink where one can ride for a mere $5.  Pizza, pretzel and Slushee vendors created a crowd waiting in line for their treats, but a new Acai Smoothee Bar managed to attract some visitors as well.  Before leaving, Hubby purchased a tub of popcorn with extra butter for me to eat. 

All in all, our nostalgic day trip was comforting.  While there may be many newer arcade games and blended ice drinks, enough remnants of the past were still in full swing, which made me smile.