Chloe Frantzis

When climbing up a roller coaster in the evening, I advise wearing a good pair of shoes. Traction is key, and as the incline gets steeper, the drop—well, it can take your breath away.

​

The thrill of an amusement park in the off-season comes in the form of a post-apocalyptic giddiness. At dusk in November, I take a seat on a plateaued section of the track right before the first big dip. There are no lines and no fees; no trash to pick up or pouting children too short to ride. On the carousel, the regal, rose-crowned mare with a blue-tassel saddle is ready—a sentinel on standby. I am struck not so much by a lack of people, smells, or noises, but by the almost complete absence of motion. The remnants of summer—reflected in the skeletal frameworks of various rides and buildings—are chilled by an October wind, morphing into a pinkish orange skyline. I, too, remain stationary, not wanting to upset this giant body, this etherized patient, subdued by the tranquilizer of winter. Nothing stirs, save for a few swings on the Yo-Yo, clinking as the breeze ruffles their chains. Down on my left, the bumper cars are in gridlock while the tilt-a-whirl and tea cups appear cramped. To the right, the swinging pirate ship is moored, the express train is at a standstill, and the water slides have been drained of their fluids. Eeriness mixed with excitement; I am here, surrounded by apparitions of summer’s past.

​

When prompted, every generation will tell you the same thing: you know you’re in the amusement park business when the music of the merry-go-round is your alarm clock. Every morning, the first rotation runs like a rooster would on a farm, warming and waking the horses and their operators alike. "Sleeping out here. That’s my first, most vivid memory,” recalls George Jr., now aged sixty-four. His sister Lisa, at sixty-five, echoes this remark: “There’s nothing quite like waking up to the sounds of carousel music." George Jr. took over the day-to-day operations of Quassy from George Sr. in the 90s, yet John Jr. (my father) and Lisa still continue to play a crucial role in the park’s off-season development. The siblings spent every recallable summer living at Quassy above the main office, where their grandmother would make french toast in the mornings before heading downstairs to man the ticket booth. After hearing a few rotations of that carousel-clock, the kids ran outside to spend the rest of the day dashing between the clanking, spinning, twirling, whirling apparitions—doing what they could to have fun and perhaps help out.

​

On the rim of a lake otherwise circumscribed by cedars and pines, Quassy Amusement Park rests in the still-quaint and colonial town of Middlebury, Connecticut. The landscape, it seems, was thrust into the 21st century by the sounds of the park, where it otherwise would have remained placid and peaceful in its hilly Olmstedian terrain. For decades, local residents and park operators alike have shared a fascination with the unconventional development of this lakeside attraction.

​

When one thinks of family businesses, local restaurants may come to mind. Disney was once a family business, and Quassy still is. John Frantzis to George Frantzis Sr. to George Frantzis Jr. and soon to George Frantzis III: the refrain, now in its tertiary iteration, reads somewhat like a mytheme of the American dream. Since emigrating from Crete, the Frantzis family has resided in Middlebury for almost as long as Quassy itself. The park has now spanned almost nine decades of family ownership, yet the destination itself can trace its lineage back even further—to a former trolley stop at the end of a New Haven Railroad Holding Company line.

​

In 1890, the population of Middlebury was 566, according to an old newspaper clipping from The Weekly Star (the local publication of west-central Connecticut towns). At this time, trolleys were the chief connective tissue between the urban and the rural, as tracks sprawled out across New England in rhizomal profusion. One line propagating from the brass mills of Waterbury was completed in 1908, and it didn't take long for the New Haven Co. to set its sights on Middlebury as a means of increasing profits

from the line. The town and its trolley line soon became a commercial breakthrough for the Connecticut Trolley Company (taken over from New Haven Co.), and the stop was noted for many years as a kind of mecca for farmers, factory workers, and youngsters seeking a day-trip getaway.

​

Trolley companies often terminated by bodies of water to ensure prime picnic ambiance. Middlebury’s line was no different. The track was nestled onto the banks of Lake Quassapaug, a 296-acre reservoir whose name, meaning ‘big pond’ or ‘rock pond,’ was taken (like so many other things) from the Potatuck peoples of the region. With the official opening of the Lake Quassapaug Trolley Park in 1908, a day’s leisurely allure included picnicking, bathing, boating, and dancing. Nothing more was offered—or needed. The journey was 15 cents. In 1937, three Waterbury concessionaires, Mr. Frantzis, Mr. Terezakis, and Mr. Leon, purchased Lake Quassapaug Amusement Park from the Connecticut Trolley Company. Eventually, the ownership was consolidated under the Frantzis family and their offspring. 

​

I grew up hearing stories of the old, pre-electrified Quassy. But it wasn’t until my father unearthed a radio broadcast from 1969 that I got to hear my grandfather, George Frantzis Sr., share a personalized account of the park’s evolution. Listening to the radio snippet is the first time I hear his voice. He seems eloquent and calculated—a businessman’s disposition rounded by an enthusiasm for craftsmanship and history. In the broadcast, he tended to stress the importance of market demands over familial legacy in the development of the park, but in his speech I could sense an inflection of pride. It was a feat, even back then, to make it to the summer season each year.

​

At the start of the 1900s, the number of trolley parks in America was close to a thousand. Today, Quassy is one of eleven recognized trolley parks across the US still in operation. Some parks were put out of business as leisure spending plummeted during the Great Depression; others faded as the popularity of trolleys did, while others still were unable to accommodate the evolving appetites of the American psyche. Fads must be accounted for, and today’s rides must produce a sensational out-of-body experience to keep faces out of phones. The promise of a carousel at Quassy in 1925 set in motion what is now considered a standard across parks in America: “We try to either replace or add a new attraction every single year,” George III remarked. He is currently finalizing the deal for an updated Music Fest ride for the 2023 season. “You need to keep innovating in this industry. You need to be different every year.”

 

Looking through the park’s ledgers, it’s clear the cyclical buying and selling of various facets of fun never stops. In 1938, a then-novel hot dog stand made its way into the food pavilion. In 1939 the dance hall was converted into a roller skating rink. In 1969, the park replaced miniature golf with electric indoor bumper cars, and for its centennial in 2008, the park installed a magnificent Galleon Pirate Ship.

​

Growing up, George Jr. and the park kids certainly had their fun exploiting the free-range summer months at the park. They were affectionately deemed the “park rats” by the staff and management, as the kids tended to terrorize more than toil during the work season. Their favorite pastime? Mad Mouse Roller Coaster spit-buggy: “The boys and I would each take a car of the old roller coaster and have the guys just run the ride endlessly,” my uncle told me. “Then the spitting contests began. The three cars were spaced out, not connected like they are today, and there would be times when you’d be on a higher track than the other two. I’d lean over the side”—there were no seat belts back in the day— “and try and spit on the kid below. We probably spent half a day trying to do that.” George Jr. remembers they built forts under the dance hall (“that’s where we played spin-the-bottle and smoked our first cigarette”), and that early in the morning before the park opened, he and his gang would walk under the rides in search of loose change which had fallen out of the pockets of ride-goers the day before.

​

​​​​​​Crucial to any family business is coming to the age when you are able to work. For my father and his siblings, it was the year they turned seven. At that age, you were trusted to operate the old-time Skee Ball machine. This late 60s mechanism could be described as rudimentary at best. At seven, having supposedly mastered simple addition, they were able to add up tickets earned for winning shots. My father recalled that he had to look at the score and add up the points—say they got 100—he gave the customer one ticket. Then he ran up and down the aisles adding up the scores for each Skee Ball machine, continuously handing out slips of paper as guests played. Thinking back, my uncle recalls how he always sought creative means to generate some kind of income, even if it was just to make a few coins to play arcade games. Today, George Jr. no longer camps out by Skee Ball machines, and instead does the twenty minute drive into work from his home on the other side of town. Once at the main office, he meets his thirty year-old son, George III, for the morning brief. Like his father, George III will tell you of a similar summer cycle: "Pretty much every year of my life I was at the park, and I probably started working when I was about eight years old... It’s a family affair."

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

The merry-go-round—an essential item at any amusement park—began its first revolutions at Quassy in 1925 next to the twirls and dips on the ballroom dance floor. This dazzling apparatus housed a menagerie of animals accompanied by a twinkling tune which played on repeat until one or two in the morning. Over the years, the aesthetic and financial value of these bridled beasts would prove pivotal in the trajectory of Quassy. Wired to jump or painted to impress, the animals would undergo a variety of alterations. Their costume changes reflected the zeitgeist of the park’s eras. 

 

When John Frantzis and his two business partners bought the park in 1937, there ensued an argument as to whether the carousel was included in the deal. My uncle recalls that the former owners stacked the animals up in a pile out back of the building and poured gasoline over them, ready to set them aflame. Thankfully, the dispute was resolved before anyone struck a match. The animals were rescued and the ride reassembled under the roundhouse. But this was not the last of their perils. When the park was strapped for cash in the 60s, neighborhood schools would pay to have their kids come and paint the animals. The result was psychedelic swirls and bright colors covering these majestic beasts for nearly a decade. When the animals were finally refurbished in the 80s, there were eight to ten coats of paint which had to be scraped away before the base layer could be restored. We have one of these rehabilitated ponies in our family living room—he’s a piece of art but also an emblem of devotion, passed down through the years.

​

Twenty-four horses, three camels, three giraffes, three deer, three goats, two zebras, and one lion, tiger, burro, and hippocampus (i.e, seahorse, not to be confused with the eponymous part of the brain). No other carousel could boast such an eclectic array of creatures. The creator of Quassy’s ride, craftsman E. Joy Morris of The Philadelphia Toboggan Co., was known for his attention to detail. From his horses dripped decorative saddles over ornate layering blankets; the chest straps and reins were made from real leather, the bridals from bronze. Quassy’s dance hall regulars back in the 1920s might have noticed that nestled in the rear of these horse’s saddles were little figures, which (in quite the measure of memorialization) happened to be etchings of Morris’s friends and pets. Today, the Toboggan Co. is known for its construction of roller coaster trains. Quassy’s carousel would be the last complete machine Morris built before his early death.

 

While some say that the difference between a merry-go-round and carousel is that the former has horses and the latter a spectrum of animals, others would argue that the difference comes from the direction the ride spins. Ultimately the terms are interchangeable, and no specialist would feel the need to correct you. What my uncle may tell you though is that almost as valuable as the animals themselves is the musical mechanism which keeps them prancing.

​

Enter the Band Organ. This highly specialized, polyphonic instrument—fewer than 10,000 were ever constructed in the United States—was designed for commercial use across fairgrounds. These twinkling arpeggio-filled melodies are inseparable from the ambiance of amusement parks, and Quassy was lucky enough to house one for many years. The band organ was a favorite of my grandfather, and on his radio broadcast, he waxed lyrical on the intricacies of the machine: “You start by pumping air in and then it goes through the holes in a roll, which holds one complete song. The pressurized air then plays different keys, all which have an instrumental association: some sound like pipes, drums, symbols, or bells.” Even back in 1969, the apparatus was clearly an elusive piece of antiquity: “We have about thirty different rolls that date back to Year One,” George Sr. chuckled through a crackling radio wave. 

 

When one roll completes its cycle, the instrument goes into rewind and another kicks in. But how does one repair and maintain such a vessel? The answer comes in the form of a man named Maxime Nowicki. Described by my grandfather as the “only qualified guy to repair this type of band organ on the East Coast,” Nowicki reportedly traveled from Atlantic City up to Maine honing his craft. In a clearly dated report on the 1964-65 New York World’s Fair, a certain “Nowicki” is cited as the repairman for the “Gebrueder Bruder 80-key Elite Apollo Orchestra Band Organ.” The present condition of the Bruder Band Organ could “best be described as poor,” according to the article, which concludes by asking: “What is the future of this historic and rare organ? Who knows?” Who knows indeed, given neither the author nor Nowicki could be reached. 

 

On air, George Sr. reported that other mechanics, thinking they knew a thing or two about instrument upkeep, dove into the belly of the Organ. But like contestants drawn to the sword of King Arther, none emerged victorious. “This guy Maxime learned the trade from his father and hopefully he’s passing it on to his son,” said my grandfather. Of course, substituting the inner part of the machine with a record machine would have been cheaper, but my grandfather was determined to abide by park tradition: “As long as Nowicki exists and as long as I can get him up here, I’ll stick with that!”

 

As a side-gig, my grandfather taught Ancient Greek and Roman history at the University of Connecticut. Ever the admirer of antiquity, he did his best to keep the collection of animals and their musical conductor together despite financial difficulties facing the park. “I have been offered fantastic sums of money just for an individual horse,” my grandfather casually remarked on air. “I could dismantle the wheel and make more money selling off one individual unit.” He spoke as if the hypothetical would never become reality.

​

George Jr. was also on duty when the priciest beast of the carousel was stolen. “I’ll never forget it because I had to be the one to call my dad and tell him.” The most ornate creature, our lone hippocampus, was gone. Anyone who knows a thing or two about merry-go-rounds understands it’s pretty easy to remove an animal—just pull the upper pin and the piece will slide right out. But these not-so-artful thieves chose to saw through the metal pole, meaning they only managed to hack off their prime target, leaving the giraffe (but not half the pole) unscathed. 

 

The majestic hippocampus was re-made but never recovered. George Jr. remembers how the theft was “an eye-opener,” and “really was the catalyst for us to eventually sell the merry-go-round.” By the 1980s, the park was getting into some serious debt. “It got to the point where it was scary whether or not we'd get into the next season. The express train was being pulled around by a lawn mower modified to be on the track, and we were getting second mortgages on our house to make sure we got through the winter.” Because of the break-in, insurance went through the roof. 

 

In October of 1989, Quassy announced its carousel would be retired. That month, huge lines formed as long-time guests wanted one more ride on this iconic menagerie. On October 21st, various animals and parts (such as our Band Organ) were sold at auction, with the single lion capturing the highest bid at $60,000. It was no easy thing for my grandfather to see this piece of art, as he viewed it, dismantled and redistributed. As Lisa reflects, “To this day, I remember how devastated my dad was after the carousel auction… I had never seen him question himself before and he seemed so low after it was over.”

The animals were dispersed to private homes and other carousels around the world. Ultimately, the money earned was enough not only to level the park’s debt, but also to purchase a new merry-go-round and express train. While all the animals on this updated carousel are made of fiberglass instead of wood, the craftsmen spent more than 100 hours on each figure to make sure no two animals were exactly alike.

***

​Soon it was my turn to spend Julys and Augusts donning the employee badge, accumulating my own list of anecdotes and odd encounters. First it was trash collector. Then giant slide supervisor. Then finally the crown jewel of jobs—Wooden Warrior Roller Coaster operator.

​​

Opening day at Quassy always attracts a host of American Coaster Enthusiasts who plan their summers around making it to the first ride of a season. ACE members are some of our most time-honored customers, and they tend to flock to the Warrior given its stature among the top 50 wooden roller coasters in the world. After one of these opening rides, guests arrived back into the loading dock with a slightly perplexed look on their faces. As the ride-goers shuffled out of the car, still happy and smiling, they were brushing a white powder from their shirts and faces. Worrying it was an illicit substance, George Jr. discreetly cleaned the seats before the next ride. We didn’t think much of it until my uncle noticed that a long-time ACE member had exited without her husband—the two were known wooden coaster fans, and liked to relate to us their adventures on rides around the globe. It turned out this woman’s husband had died a week before. Instead of a funeral, his last wish was to have his ashes scattered over the Warrior—the coaster he and his wife had loved so dearly. 

 

On another occasion, a local newspaper wanted to cover the story of a hundred year old woman who, as her dying wish, wanted to eat a hotdog at an amusement park. Quassy said they would be happy to oblige, and a few days later the woman’s daughter picked her up from the nursing home and brought her to Quassy. After sitting on a bench for a few hours, she ate her hot dog, and in the process, died. Nothing to do with the park or the hot dog, the hospital later informed us—her heart just gave away. That afternoon, the daughter called my uncle to say thank you. Her elderly mother had been alone in that nursing home for many years. Those hours she had spent sitting on the bench watching laughing children and families go about their day were, as she told her daughter, some of the happiest she had had in a very long time.

​

Amusement parks in winter, like snow-covered beaches and tented tennis courts, find themselves for half the year in forlorn hibernation and abandonment. Yet I know that when the ‘closed’ sign goes up, then begins the fun of unearthing these estival treasures. Through a depression, a recession, the tumult of the 60s and a pandemic, Quassy has sustained itself on a model of innovation veiled in tradition. The rides get more complex, but an old-school aesthetic and dinner table strategy sessions persist. The roller coaster can’t exist without the merry-go-round, just as the business won’t work without the family. I have found that an amusement park is like nature and nostalgia mixed with automation and awe. A glorious, manufactured oasis of American leisure. In its off-season, Quassy may appear dormant, but the gears and cogs of its underbelly are patiently—though perhaps slightly anxiously—awaiting the next great escapade or thrilling exploit.

​

Operating the Wooden Warrior, my responsibilities included letting guests on the ride and making sure the big mechanical seatbelt arm was securely fastened. You might think that the worst part of my job was telling a kid they were too short to ride. Yet more common was having to tell folks they were too big—never a fun conversation. Working outside all day in the summer heat could get to me at times. The monotony of motion left me dazed, as it could be exhausting loading and unloading people for hours on end. But thinking back to those October evenings, when the park was empty, and all mine, I recall a sweetness of being which I can’t quite place in much else.

***

Once several summers ago, my cousin George III and I scrambled up the Warrior, which replaced the Mad Mouse in 2011 (no more spitting contests). Climbing the tracks might not be the smartest scheme for a teen and tween, but I had made sure to wear a good pair of shoes. We carried with us two diet cokes which proved a fruitful reward for making it to the top. Looking down at the not-quite-antique carousel, I can just make out the plaque honoring the late George Senior (1927-1997), who had passed away before I was born.

​

Atop this structure, I asked my cousin why we chose to install a wooden roller coaster. He thought for a moment, and replied that a steel coaster is like a Ferrari—it’s dynamic, it’s fast, it’s powerful, it can go upside-down. But our wooden coaster is more enduring, like an old muscle car. I interpreted this to mean that the Warrior has some vintage allure, aligning with our aesthetic better than any big flashy thing could.

​

Summer guests may come with preconceived notions about what amusement parks are like—dangerous, trashy, thrilling, or full of surface level fun. To me, the park holds a deeper, more enduring appeal. It derives from the stories of my family, but also from the stories of families I serve. I see the smiling faces of guests as they shuffle onto the Warrior, but what I love even more is seeing these expressions transformed into sheer elation when, 45 seconds later, the car pulls back into the loading dock. Joy and joy and joy; hour after hour, day after day. I have witnessed it all.

​​

​

​

​

​

​