My Childhood Had Eight Wheels

When I think back on my childhood years in Hampton, Virginia, I don’t remember only the big milestones. I remember the rhythm of everyday life—the walk through the neighborhood, school mornings, the friends I made along the way, and the thrill of knowing that even an ordinary Saturday could turn into an adventure.

During my adoptive daddy’s assignment at Langley Air Force Base, I spent second through eighth grade living in a modest house at 136 Glenwood Road, just off the base. Like many military families, we understood that assignments could change and that places might not last forever. Yet those years became some of the most important chapters of my childhood.

A typical day in my life during those years was filled with school, neighborhood friends, and discovering the world around me. But Saturdays held a special kind of magic—especially once roller skating became part of my life.

My love of skating actually began before Virginia. During summer visits with cousins in rural Texas, I learned to skate on old-fashioned metal skates that clamped onto the bottoms of my shoes with a key. We skated on a cement driveway, learning balance, stopping, and recovering from the inevitable falls. Those early experiences planted a lifelong love of skating.

When I was seven, my adoptive mother enrolled me in skating lessons. Every Saturday morning became a ritual. She would drop me off at the skating rink for my lesson and the morning skate session, then return later to pick me up.

Looking back now, it amazes me that at seven years old I could spend that much time at a skating rink without an adult who personally knew me being there. But the 1970s were a different time. Children had more independence, parents trusted their communities, and small adventures felt perfectly normal.

Those Saturday mornings felt like stepping into another world. 

My adoptive mother made me a dark green skating outfit with white polka dots. I tied pom-poms onto my skates, adding my own special touch. In that outfit, I felt transformed. It was my Cinderella moment—not at a royal ball, but at the skating rink, with music playing, lights shining, and a smooth floor waiting for me to glide across it.

Skating was more than just fun—in the rink was where I developed confidence, discipline, and a love for learning new skills. As my skating improved, I began competing in skating competitions. Each competition challenged me to become a better skater, and I proudly earned several award patches for mastering new skills and reaching skating milestones. I looked forward to sewing each new patch onto my skating jacket as a reminder of the hard work and determination that had earned it.

As I grew older, skating became woven into my everyday life. Friends from the neighborhood shared my love of skating, and together we created memories that went far beyond circles around a rink.

We took part in Skate-A-Thons, where we were “locked in” all night, skating until morning. Those events felt like grand adventures. We stayed awake as long as we could, competed in skating contests, laughed with friends, and celebrated the joy of being together.

One of my favorite events was the dance contest. My friends and I would pair up and create our own version of “The Bump.” We practiced our moves and felt like we were part of the vibrant music and dance culture of the 1970s.

By fifth grade, roller skating had become a major part of my social life. A typical weekend meant heading to Plaza Roller Rink at 1924 E. Pembroke Ave., Hampton. Friday nights, Saturday nights, and sometimes Sunday afternoons were often spent there. It was where my friends and I gathered, where friendships deepened, and where childhood memories were made.

Our families took turns dropping us off and picking us up. Parents and older siblings were our transportation, our safety net, and our connection to these little adventures. It was a simpler time—one in which we knew our friends would be there, the music would be playing, and the night would be full of laughter.

One particular memory has remained as vivid today as it was then.

My adoptive daddy came to pick us up one evening in his beautiful royal blue-and-white ragtop Plymouth Road Runner. I was thrilled when he lowered the convertible top. Riding through Hampton with the wind blowing felt like the greatest thing in the world.

Then, as we approached my friend’s street, the car slowed.

I knew what that meant.

My daddy had spotted something sitting on the curb.

An old vacuum cleaner.

“Oh no,” I thought.

My daddy was a fixer-upper by nature. He saw potential where other people saw junk. While I was hoping to stay cool in that amazing convertible, he pulled over, loaded the vacuum cleaner into the trunk, and kept going.

At the time, I was mortified.

Now, that memory makes me smile because it captured exactly who he was—resourceful, practical, and always willing to give something old a second chance.

Plaza Roller Rink became the setting for many firsts in my life. It was where I met my first boyfriend, shared my first French kiss, learned to play pinball, and spent countless hours with friends. During baseball season, our Saturdays often followed a familiar pattern—watching our favorite Little League players in the afternoon, then heading to the rink afterward.

Because skating was such a big part of my life, my parents bought me a monthly skating membership for just $25. Adjusted for inflation, that would be about $100 today. It was an investment that gave me endless hours of exercise, friendship, confidence, and unforgettable memories. Looking back, it was one of the best investments they ever made in my childhood.

Then came 1981, when my adoptive daddy retired from the military and our family moved to Texas.

As life often does, one chapter ended and another began. My skating adventures became less frequent as new interests took hold. Eventually, roller skating gave way to country and western dancing, another passion that became part of my story.

But skating never truly left me.

As an adult, I returned to skating whenever the opportunity arose. I skated at Skateland West and The Rollercade in San Antonio, Texas, and during business trips I visited Holiday Skate Center in Orange County, California, where the smooth hardwood floor brought back memories of those earlier days.

Genealogy is often built from documents—birth certificates, military records, census pages, and photographs. But family history is also found in the everyday details of a life: a little girl in a green polka-dot skating dress, pom-poms tied to her skates, friends waiting at the rink, parents making sure she got home safely, and a father who couldn’t resist rescuing a discarded vacuum cleaner.

Those moments tell future generations not just where I lived or what I did, but who I was.

My days may not have seemed extraordinary by the world’s standards.

But they were mine.

They were filled with music, laughter, friendship, family, and eight wheels carrying me toward memories that would last a lifetime.

Roller skating will always be part of who I am.