Years fall away as senior skaters meet weekly

It all started some 14 years ago with a mysterious phone call from Kelvin Walker.

"œWho's Kelvin Walker?" Mary Jane Hamer recounts the surprise call from an old acquaintance, a call that revived the good old days for her and her husband, George.

"œHe said he wants to go skating and he'll meet us down at Dow's," she tells her husband.

For a couple who first met on the smooth hard surface of a roller rink, and fell in love whirling synchronously to popular organ music, the invitation felt like a beckoning to reclaim an arena that had been temporarily forgotten.

JUST OFF U.S. RT. 33 IN Nelsonville, Ohio, a vintage roller-skating rink dubbed Dow's Rollarena is situated on a sparsely populated stretch of road scattered with old houses and trailer homes. Dreary afternoon rain has chased most travelers from the road outside the large white building, but promptly at 5 o'clock the skaters begin to arrive. An unfamiliar elderly woman waves to me as she gets out of her car and heads through the bright blue door at the front of Dow's.

Inside, wood-paneled walls and multi-shaded blue streamers drape from one side of the rink to the other. Paper cutouts and old records hang on the walls, along with flashy red neon heart signs, an obvious tribute to the legendary St. Valentine. The arena probably did not look much different in 1964 when Helen Smith, who runs Dow's with her husband, Roger, first took over the business her previous husband's uncle had built.

George Hamer, a handsome man in his early 70s, is already testing out the floor. He glides smoothly around the pale-blue flooring, not one of his wavy gray hairs out of place.

Donning my rented roller skates, I head out for a few practice spins around the rink. Helpful signs warn me about "NO FAST SKATING," and in case I was planning on getting too out of control "DO NOT RUN INTO THIS WALL." I haven't made it cautiously around the oblong skate floor three times before I feel someone clutching at my arm.

"Was that you I was waving at in the parking lot?" A blondish woman wearing a red sweater embroidered with snowmen takes hold of my arm confidentially. "I thought I knew you, but I guess I don't."

Whether or not she knows me seems unimportant; what matters is that I get to know her. In particular, Velma Woody wants me to know that she is 80 years old and has been skating for the past 63 years. Back then, young people enjoyed skate dancing and placing phone calls to the operator. Velma would know; she first heard her husband's voice while putting through a call for him during her days as a telephone operator.

Velma decides it's time to get to know me. I tell her about my documentary journalism studies and my plans for after graduation.

She seems surprised to hear I'm a senior in college. "You only look about 15 or 16!"

I demur, but acknowledge that this is a common misconception.

She insists I should be grateful. "You don't want to get old. O-L-D is a bad word."

I take a break to jot down some notes and watch the pairs of skaters glide around the arena. Apart from one young couple, all of the skaters are senior citizens "“ all but one. Thirteen-year-old James skates up to me.

"So you're like a reporter or something?" He wants to be sure I'm official before he starts sharing useful information. I nod.

James is an avid skater, and is considering purchasing a new pair of skate boots. He flips through a catalog to show me the army style he prefers. Full of information about deer hunting, coon dogs and NASCAR, James is interrupted when George Hamer skids over to us.

George appears to be the leader of the pack, probably because of his impressive muscle definition. Recalling the 1950s, when drive-in movies, drive-in restaurants and roller-skating were the prime ways to socialize with the ladies, he attempts to convince me that roller-skating is the one thing my life is missing. He points to Velma, now skating arm-in-arm with a gal pal, recalling how good she and her sister were at skating back then "“ and how good they were at being beautiful blondes.

"They were the darlings of this skating rink," he recollects. Reflections on his own youth are less flattering. "I was the fattest kid in two high schools," George laughs.

Gesturing to another couple, waltzing more gracefully on skates than I've seen most people waltz on a dance floor, he advises, "Watch Kinzy; he's smooth."

Smooth Man Kinzy Stalnaker, a year older than George at 72, guides his partner around the arena with total ease. He's been a regular at the adult skate since George and Mary Jane Hamer initiated the event 10 years ago.

"Roger (Smith, the co-owner) told me it would never work!" George revels in the achievement. "It took him two weeks to OK the adult skate idea."

Initially begun as a way of keeping small children from being underfoot, the adult skate now suffers the opposite problem.

"We need fresh blood." Mary Jane Hamer shares the contents of her two large photo albums, documentation of the past 10 years of skating. Images of skates from an old dot-matrix printer are cut out and pasted next to the photos. A notice printed on red paper in one of the pages catches my attention.

"Please help us, as we are in our 60s and skating is our love. We have only 6-8 people. We don't care if the skaters are 13 years old; we just want them to want to know how to skate."

The plea is echoed by George Hamer, who charges me with carrying on the legacy of Dow's. "Get the word out, because I'm not very good with words."

Kinzy's partner, Nina Hawk, objects to George's comment. "Do you feel neglected? There aren't enough of us to talk to?"

"That's my problem!" George acts like he's had an epiphany. "Gross neglect!"

This does seem to be an unforgivable sin in George's world, and it forms the basis for the only skating experience he recounts with disgust.

"We went to this rink in North Canton, and it was the worst one I've ever been to," he says, explaining the reason for the look of repugnance on his face. "No one talked to me."

Let that never be said of Dow's, where George and friends are dedicated to greeting every potential skater who walks through the door for the first time. I've already watched George enthusiastically introduce himself to the only young couple there tonight, insisting that they must come back next week.

A shift in the organ music tempo signals George.

"Ah, we're doing the swing over here." He hops up and skates off to dance with Brenda, a retired middle school teacher from Athens.

His wife, recovering from multiple surgeries, watches calmly from a bench. She must be reminded of the first time she saw George flaunting his impressive moves on the rink.

"That little fat boy's gonna teach me to skate!" Mary Jane remembers deciding. "One year and two weeks later we were married."

Velma also recalls that day. She is less apt at remembering my name. "I've already forgotten. You know what they call that? 'Extreme maturity.'"

"Oh, not O-L-D?" I ask slyly, sending Velma into a laughing fit.

She recovers when George comes over to taunt her. "This woman will corrupt you," he warns me.

"You always say that!" Velma accuses.

I flip through a few more albums of skating events. One is dedicated entirely to George and Mary Jane's 45th wedding anniversary, which they naturally celebrated on skates. There is also an old photo of the two of them in their early 20s. Young Mary Jane, sporting a stylish short haircut, sits on a couch next to the more youthful, heavyset version of George. They wear matching sweaters.

An old ballad begins to play over the sound system, and George skates up to his bride. She stands and steadies herself before taking George's hand. Clasping both her hands in his, George skates backward supporting Mary Jane as they slowly circle the rink. They attempt no fancy footwork or elaborate dance moves, but George leans in and they talk quietly to each other, floating around the arena.

After the song ends, George guides Mary Jane back to the bench where she leans down to take off her skates.

"My pant is caught on the..." she fumbles to untangle her laces.

George kneels and carefully fixes the snag, helping her remove the difficult skate.

The evening winds down at 7 as the last organ notes of The Turtles' "Happy Together" fade away and the Black Eyed Peas assure a good night to the younger crowd of arriving families.

Velma stands up. "I'm stiff already," she proclaims.

George invites me to join them for a drink afterward "“ at McDonald's. The peer pressure is too much for me, and I acquiesce.

Sitting in the booth at McDonald's, the skaters catch up on the most recent surgeries and funerals.

Velma wonders why more of their old friends don't join them at Dow's.

"Velma, not everyone is as crazy as we are," Kinzy reminds her.

That includes Oscar, who is more than happy to sit on a bench and watch his friends skate without ever joining them.

"Oscar would be a dream out there," Velma insists.

"It would be a dream all right," Oscar fires back.

Those who have ventured to put wheels on their feet have often taken extra precautions. One such reluctant skater was Tom, who was so worried about falling that he secretly wrapped his body in bubble wrap. He got along pretty well until the telltale popping sound gave him away.

There is good reason for caution, as any of the skaters will tell you. Mary Jane earned the nickname 'Blackie' after a fall left one of her eyes black and blue.

Some accidents have been more serious. Kelvin Walker, the man who called the Hamers that fateful night 10 years ago inviting them to skate, is still recovering from a fall.

"He was acting the fool, galloping on his toe stops," George explains.

"No, that's not what happened," Velma sets the record straight. "Belle called to him to come join her, and when he got up he tripped."

"He fell for Belle in a big way!" Mary Jane laughs.

But despite the risks, this lifelong hobby is the thing that makes them come alive.

"I love skating," George says simply. "It's me."

I find myself buying into the dream of another generation picking up their skates to socialize at Dow's Rollarena. In 50 years I hope there's still a group this full of warmth and friendship, united in memories of past adventures and corny jokes.

Velma leans over to me.

"You feeling OK?" She asks.

"Oh yeah, I feel fine."

"Then help me with this," insists Velma, placing the sleeve of her jacket in my hand while she wriggles free.

Assisting her, I pretend to gasp for breath. "That was a little too much for me!"

Mary Jane laughs, pointing her finger at me, "She's going to fit right in!"