Forget Disney World.
This summer, I’m going to Electric Park.
Last time I was there, on the shores of Rock Creek where it’s crossed by highway 54, I stood in awe of the lights and music.
You could feel joy radiating from the park entrance, blending with the heat of summer, as thousands of voices became one in an ebullient din.
Time to escape the oppressive smell of the factories and live it up, 1907-style.
What should we do first?
Just inside the gate with its elaborately landscaped gardens, I found myself distracted by the hot air balloon that was giving rides and almost bumped into some smelter workers with their lady-friends in tow.
I had seen them on the trolley, getting wild on the ride in, and one of the gents was already so tipsy that he could barely stand.
Factory life must have been getting to him.
When I saw his compatriots pulling him toward the figure-eight roller coaster, I knew he was in deep trouble.
Time to get some distance.
The midway, however, was completely jammed with people, and many were lining up to play games like bowling and Japanese Roller Ball.
Some had been there throughout the evening, having first gone swimming or held a picnic on the huge grounds that doubled as a public park.
Sidling up to the mirrors at the laughing gallery, I watched my shape warp as two young girls squealed with laughter at their own distortions.
They still wore their roller skates, and were practically having to hold one another up while trying not to drop their bright pink cotton candy.
Breathless with giggling, one then turned to her mother and asked if they could please, PLEASE ride the water toboggans.
It was then I noticed A.E. Robinson and Lee Massengale, the park managers, who waved me over, likely wanting to get in a good word with the Register.
Massengale had believed in the park from the beginning, though he really hadn’t been able to get things started until 1906; he was therefore fortunate to have Robinson’s experience, having run electric parks from Minnesota to Texas.
They both immediately began spouting park numbers at me, such as how many hundreds of thousands were slated to visit this season, or how much money they were making for the gas-field cities of LaHarpe, Gas and Iola.
I simply nodded to enthusiastic ghosts in agreement.
Having quickly been exhausted by the company, I decided to escape the throng by sneaking over to the creek.
