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Amusement Parks of the 1960s
Amusement Parks of the 1960s
By Leo Racicot
Canobie Lake Park in Salem, New Hampshire, was a favorite getaway for families seeking escape from city life, the daily grind, especially on weekends. Marie took us there many times over the years in her Rambler. It was a quick trip over the state line, filled with excitement as we knew it wouldn’t take long for us to get there and go on all the rides. Let’s see –there was The Swamp, a dark ride through a witch black tunnel, very scary to a kid, say, eight or nine. The park had an attractive carousel, though I liked the merry-go-round at Lakeview in Dracut more; it had a more pleasing vibe. I liked staring up at the panels above the animals, depictions of different scenes from The Bible: Daniel and the lion, Holofernes holding his own head in his hands. The House of Mirrors looked so tempting but I never found the courage to go in, afraid once I entered, I’d never come out or that park officials would find my mutilated body weeks later. I did laugh at the outside fun house mirrors that made the person in front of them taller, shorter, fatter. It didn’t take a mirror to make me look fatter; I was a stocky kid and am a stocky adult. Marie lied when she told me it was ‘baby fat’ and would ‘go away in time’. I’m still waiting…
I did like riding The Yankee Cannonball, liked the name of it; it sounded like a challenge, this wild, wooly, noisy roller coaster that seemed to make everybody scream in terror and in joy at the same time. Years later, on a school field trip with my students to Canobie, the kids dared me to ride it with them. Wanting to be a good sport, I took the bait and boy, riding The Cannonball in my thirties was a smidge different from riding it as an eleven-year old. For a moment there, I was sure I was going home to Jesus. After what seemed like three hours of up-and-down, up-and-down at breakneck speed, the beast finally stopped and I tumbled out. A kid, Jeremy McSorley, a born class clown, brought me a Dixie cup of water saying, “Drink this, Mr. R. You’re looking a little pale.”
I’ve told before how Canobie was the first time I had a celebrity sighting, the time comedian, Frankie Fontaine, came walking along, his wife and 11 kids in tow. That was a thrill as we’d see him on television every Saturday night on the Jackie Gleason Show, yet here he was coming toward me eating an ice cream cone.
Marie liked to alternate visits to Canobie with visits to Lakeview Amusement Park in Dracut. Aside from the delightful merry-go-round, Lakeview offered a charming mini-locomotive with mini-cars attached. It took riders through a leafy, forested area, so mysterious and leafy, it made you feel you were in the jungle, maybe on a safari adventure or that you were with a group of pioneers on their way to settle The Wild West. Lakeview shut down sometime in the1970s. I hear condominiums now stand where it once stood.
In summers, a regular destination was Benson’s Wild Animal Farm in nearby Hudson. Benson’s had on display what seemed like hundreds of different kinds of animals: there were lion acts, snakes you could pet, unicycling chimps, also peacocks just roaming around, free as you please. My memories of two attractions rise up as I write this: of a gorilla named Colossus who liked staring back at zoo visitors as much as they liked staring at him. At 3 in the afternoon every day, visitors or not, Colossus would retreat into his rear apartment to watch the soap opera, General Hospital. The other unforgettable attraction was Betsy the Elephant. Betsy liked to put on a show of taking a bath in a pond liked giving customers rides on her leathery, old back. Benson’s had a quirky, loose surreal appeal, almost like a fairy tale gone somehow wrong. Neither polished nor all that clean, it possessed a rustic, almost haphazard look as if it had somehow just appeared out-of-nowhere especially for you and would disappear once you were gone. A mirage or a genie in a bottle feel.
Pleasure Island in Wakefield was a popular destination for school field trips. It had a jungle, pirate theme and who among us who visited can forget the looming pirate ship anchored in the water? It fed this young boy’s imagination, reminded me of the Disney movies, Swiss Family Robinson & Blackbeard’s Ghost. I half-expected to see Blackbeard himself come bounding out onto the deck shouting “Ay, me buckos!”
Salisbury Beach and its colorful, always busy amusement park developed over the years a reputation of being Hampton Beach’s lowly sister. “Dirty” is the word you heard and still sometimes hear from those remembering it with nostalgia and longing. For although it wasn’t as pristine as Hampton — its sand was darker, grainier, the sand always containing cigarette butts and pieces of broken glass — careful where you step! — it shouted “Fun!” The moment the Rambler landed there. It was a wild, welcoming place with its not one but two wicked roller coasters: The WIldcat and The Sky Rocket. Its many arcades and shops had a Coney Island feel and one time I remember, all of us, overcome with the hungry horrors (even Marie with her trademark Shaker-like temperance), went from pizza joint to pizza joint, sampling a slice at each until our bellies were full. Embedded in my mind is the ride into Salisbury. On the left, perched among the reedy marshes was the large stucco sculpture of a pink whale. Tilly was her name. The minute I spied Tilly, the car would be filled with the salty sea air, a sure sign we were there. If I close my eyes, I can see Tilly now, smell the brine, see the beach roses sunning themselves along the road.
_________________
Bessie and friend at Benson’s Wild Animal Farm
Canobie Lake, 1960s
Collosus at Benson’s Wild Animal Farm
Frankie Fontaine as Crazy Goggenheim
Kiddie Train at Lakeview
Pirate ship at Pleasure Island
Salisbury Beach, 1960s
Tilly the Whale
Seen & Heard, vol. 31
A weekly report on things I’ve read, heard and seen since last Wednesday.
Book Review: Rasputin: The Downfall of the Romanovs by Antony Beevor (2026). Earlier this year a glowing review of this book caught my attention and, since I’m already a big Antony Beevor fan (he’s a military historian with a dozen books about World War II), I dropped some hints that this would be a nice Father’s Day gift and was rewarded for my efforts. I had heard the name Rasputin many times but knew little about him or his place in history. This book not only solved that gap but it did so in a compelling way that rivaled the best adventure novels. Born in 1869, Grigori Rasputin was a Russian peasant who gained fame as a religious mystic who became an irreplaceable confidant of the empress Alexandra and her spouse, Czar Nicholas II. Rasputin gained enormous influence over governmental affairs but his personnel recommendations were based on purging those who thought him a fraud rather than with competence. This was disastrous when World War I began and the Russian Army collapsed as did domestic support for the Czar. This book ends with Rasputin dead and the Czar and his family under arrest. Another Beevor book covers the resulting Russian Revolution. I have that on my reading list.
Article: “Trump U-Turn Kept Graham ‘In the Game’” by Peter Baker, New York Times, July 14, 2026. When US Senator Lindsey Graham died unexpectedly on July 11, 2026, at age 71, his passing tested the old saying, “Of the dead nothing but good is to be said.” The basis of that, I guess, is that since the dead aren’t able to defend or justify themselves, it’s unfair of the living to speak ill of them. I think that’s BS when it comes to a public figure since their record should speak for itself. In this “think piece,” Baker, a longtime DC reporter for the Times, conveys Graham’s own explanation for his “head-spinning transformation” from “one of President Trump’s most scathing critics to one of his closest allies.” Baker, who had known Graham since 1998, described him as cynical and opportunistic and quoted Graham himself in saying Trump had the power in the Republican Party and in government and, if someone wanted to partake in that power, as Graham did apparently beyond all else, one had to become an open and unabashed Trump enthusiast. My sense is that history will not be kind to Graham and enablers like him, but that depends on who gets to write that history which remains an open question.
Podcast: “You can’t ignore Google Zero anymore”The Vergecast, July 25, 2026. “The Verge” is an online news site that has covered the tech sector since 2011. Besides its website, it produced several podcasts including The Vergecast which features reporter David Pierce and editor-in-chief Nilay Patel. Trained as a lawyer but with a long career as a tech journalist and editor, Patel has long warned of “Google Zero,” the point at which Google stops sending web traffic to third-party websites. Patel explains that the web until now has rested on an unwritten contract whereby independent sites create content and make it available for free while Google indexes that content and sends people to it where they see ads that help pay for the independent site and its employees. However, within the past year, Google radically altered its search method. Now, when you type a query, Google first gives you an AI generated answer and only then provides links to websites in the traditional way. Google does embed links in the AI response, but few people click through to them and rely solely on the AI response. Diminished traffic also diminishes revenue going to the independent sites which makes them unsustainable. They either go out of business or block Google’s AI engines which in turn diminish the usefulness of the information put out in Google’s AI replies. This is a complex, multidimensional problem without a clear solution but it’s important that we’re all aware of it since we rely on the web for so much of the information we use in our lives.
Newsletter: “Free Ride” in GBH daily newsletter. Formerly known as WGBH and with a television, radio and internet presence, GBH has a free newsletter each weekday with stories and information from Boston and vicinity. To help promote the MBTA’s “free ride” program which allows everyone to ride commuter rail for free on Fridays in the summer, GBH has a recurring newsletter feature suggesting ways to utilize that service. Last month, “Free Ride” suggested going to Lowell to check out the arts scene. Here’s an excerpt: “But you can also head north to Lowell, home to a collection of art galleries and local artists you can enjoy absolutely free: Each one of these galleries costs $0 to visit. If you have some extra cash and see something you love, you can of course buy a print or original work of art — I spotted small pieces for as little as $6 and larger ones for a few hundred. Your Free Ride won’t be free anymore, but you can feel good knowing you supported the Merrimack Valley’s art scene.” The article highlights The Brush Art Gallery and Studios as 256 Market Street, ALL Arts Gallery at 307 Market Street, and Western Avenue Studios at 160 Western Ave. It’s great that GBH is urging people from Boston to travel to Lowell to visit these places, but I’d like to urge those already living here to check them out as well.
Forest Fires
Forest Fires – PIP #110
By Louise Peloquin
American media have largely covered the unprecedented inferno consuming southern Europe.
From January to the end of July, wildfires destroyed approximately 287,000 acres in France. In the Gironde region, over 220,000 people were forced to evacuate. Mayor Thomas Cazenave of Bordeaux, the largest city in the southwest, announced that he was “ready for anything” given that the conflagration was only 9.3 miles away from the center.
More than 370,000 acres have burned in Spain since January, six times more than the area destroyed in 2025. Although wildfires scorch Spain yearly, the summer of 2026 conflagración is exceptional, prompting Spanish Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez to declare a civil protection emergency on Tuesday July 28th.
Una conflagrazione also hit Italy’s southern Adriatic coast where fire forces evacuated more than 400 beachgoers and tourists by boat, the only viable evacuation route.
Paris was burning when it reached 107 degrees in June. Details on the summer’s second Parisian heatwave are on this link:
https://richardhowe.com/2026/07/07/a-bigger-splash-in-a-bigger-heat/
And now, parts of southern Europe are literally being swallowed up by seemingly uncontrollable flames and toxic smoke.
We express our gratitude to the valiant individuals all over the world who risk their lives daily and we pause to honor the four firefighters who have most recently sacrificed their lives in the service of their French compatriots.
Décès en service commandé – morts au feu
(Death in commanded service – died at the fire)
- On May 28, 2026, 28-year-old Dylan Pinoteau of Marseille.
- On July 8, 2026, 22-year-old Baptiste Gerfaud-Valentin of Albertville.
- On July 21, 2026, 34-year-old Anthony Berthome of Saint-Médard-en-Jalles in Gironde.
- On July 21, 2026, 34-year-old Wilfried Schmitter of Saint-Ménard-en-Jules in Gironde.
Alas, the following L’Etoile editorial remains relevant.
L’ETOILE – July 20, 1944 editorial
FOREST FIRES
Every year, our region is greatly affected by forest fires. However, this year’s situation is more disastrous than ever because fire is not only attacking trees but also villages and cities.
The principal factor for these fires is certainly the high temperature. No one can be blamed or held responsible.
These tragedies should make us reflect upon the terrible consequences of forest fires. They should be an opportunity for us to fully grasp the necessity of being even more alert when spending time in the forest.
The competent authorities should also search for even more effective means than those presently at their disposal in order to fight what, for several days, has proven to be a real threat causing losses mounting to many millions of dollars. (1)
****
1) Translation by Louise Peloquin.
Young Dave’s Lament—The True Untold Story of the Rusty Panamint Can
Here’s another tribute to the late David Daniel (1945-2026) from longtime friend Bill Crawford. He and Dave met long ago as fellow US Army soldiers and remained in close contact until Dave’s recent passing.
Bill, a writer and photojournalist, composed this poem while on a road trip from Death Valley to Mt. Whitney. He, “Young Dave,” and Jim Provencher, paused in the desert to relieve themselves and noticed a rusty fuel can in the brush. To poke fun at Dave’s affection for the writing of Lowell-native Jack Kerouac, Bill composed this Mexico City Blues-style poem, his first and only effort at verse.
Young Dave’s Lament—The True Untold Story of the Rusty Panamint Can
By William C. Crawford
Jimmy Pro held the Jetta at steady 80,
speeding hard West.
Golden Hour Light beckoned as we hoped to
avoid arrest.
We raced to photograph a majestic mountain
Lady, but our full lizzards prompted an early stop.
The High Sierras went on hold as we happily
squeezed out every last drop.
Jimmy saw it cocked sideways, half covered
by scrub mesquite.
We set it dead upright; the morning
sun lit it just neat.
I called out to Young Dave that this rust
Bucket might hold a million colorful stories…but
He blew me off in an instant, saying
“Hell yeah!”—his words were just noise.
But that pinged, rusty can was really a big treasure,
not just junk as Young Dave imagined.
For the grizzled old miner who once
toted it was bonafide desert legend!
Death Valley Sam started hauling borax
in ’99 with 20 leather tough mules who conquered the heat.
But when he found his first yellow eyeball
sized nugget, he realized gold was neat.
Rhyolite was home, a burgeoning ville
which featured a stock exchange and indoor tennis court.
Sam prospered big time by prospecting
hard on the desert floor as he pushed due North.
Kerosene was a staple, it provided light
and heat.
His five gallon can was a fixture strapped
tightly to his truck, nothing more than a heap.
The gold ran slim by ‘09 and after.
Hauling borax now failed to satiate Sam
who could no longer find what he was really
after.
His truck was found deserted outside
a seedy Rhyolite saloon.
The body was another mile out, dead stiff
under the pale desert moon.
How Sam’s rusty can came to be out in
the Panamint, we can never really know.
But it was crammed full of stories
from that exciting gold rush so very long ago.
I unscrew the rusty cap and listen
against the desert wind.
Sam’s strong, gravelly voice is
heard at last again.
Young Dave coughed up a hearty laugh
as I cupped my ear to the can.
He shouted out an inane obscenity and off
To the car he ran.
Sam’s voice held steady as gold
rush tales poured out.
Enough to fill my writer’s notebook,
and I didn’t even need a spout!
I turned in Sam’s gripping words to
fancy lit magazines scattered ‘round.
Dave’s cynical smirk later changed
a bit when my fat author’s check rolled in bound.
Now every time I drain my lizard in my
old shaking hand,
I picture Young Dave foolishly mocking Sam’s battered
can, amid the desert sand.
****
Bill Crawford lives in Winston Salem, NC. He is a social worker, writer, and photographer. He was an army photo-journalist in Vietnam. His previous contributions to this site include: