Going to "the park" was a daily summer treat for us kids living on Salt Lake’s west side. Part of the "on the edge stuff" was hitching the slow freight train that ran on Third West from Seventh South to Pioneer Park.
Pioneer Park was my wonderland. It was all any kid would want. We had a swimming pool, a bandstand, a craft house and a big slab of cement with a stage where families came to watch black-and-white outdoor movies. That was a big attraction because no one had air conditioning, and it was a way for families to get out of the summer heat and let the kids run around. Pioneer Park was the "international entry point to the east side." Second West (now misnamed Third West) was the border. It was the international playground where Mexicans, Greeks, Italians, blacks, Anglos, etc., showed up to play, learn how to get along and to become socialized — as much as possible.
We had our summer routine down pat. Boys' swim plunge at 9 a.m., girls at 10; and, in between, we would have crafts and an occasional stray up the street to the farmers market to see if we could con someone out of a watermelon or two. Other times, we would go to the craft house, which looked like an army barracks and where everything was painted green. There I learned the art of water color painting, boondoggle and paste eating.
We had a volleyball court and tennis courts, but swimming was the big thing. The pool was not heated and especially cold on Mondays when the water was changed, but it didn’t matter because “we were tough.” We’d have swim meets, and toward the end of summer we had swim competitions with other city parks at “muni,” Municipal Hot Springs, near Beck Street. I still have a scrapbook with all the blue ribbons I won then. That, along with the certificate for showing up on the volleyball court.
Pioneer Park was also an employment center. It was the place where the Centerville growers picked us kids up in trucks with wooden slats on the sides that we could barely see over, standing the whole ride, to go pick cherries in the summer. The truck was packed with kids and somehow we all made it without seat belts or child labor laws. Our pay was about 50 cents a day, depending on how many buckets we filled. Half the time, we would come home with stomach cramps since we ate more cherries than we picked.
It was in the park where I met Andy, one of my heroes, and a role model for me. Andy was the recreation guy who was white, Nordic, “10 feet” tall, skinny, wore a bright white shirt and pants and always had a happy face. He taught us how to play volleyball, softball and even helped in the arts and crafts.
Andy gave us the most important thing one can give to a kid, or anyone for that matter. He made us believe in ourselves. He had expectations that we could accomplish things. And he did it with a smile and encouragement. When we messed up, he just kept on telling us to move on. He was a peacemaker-referee, taught us how to box, and cleaned us up when we got bloody noses. Most important, he taught us how to play together, regardless of our color.
Today, when I drive by Pioneer Park, it brings back memories that are still so much a part of me.