column by Chelsea Schlievert Yates | photos by Steve Bolinger
For a lot of teens, having a place to call their own is an invaluable part of growing up. A place where they can gather to hang out with friends, escape from whatever’s waiting for them at home or school, and just be a kid. Some place with no adult supervision or intrusion and no responsibilities. In essence, independence. For a group of us who spent our teenage years in northeast Nebraska in the 1990s, we had such a place. We called it Fountains.
“Fountains” wasn’t the official name given to the park at 305 N. 5th St., which the City of Norfolk developed and opened in the 1980s, but it’s how we referred to it. The park always reminded me of a small plaza, the kind where folks who worked in nearby offices could eat their lunches or take coffee breaks on nice days. But there weren’t many buildings around Fountains. The handful that bordered the park — mostly office buildings that kept daytime hours — seemed quiet and distant.
To access Fountains, you parked along 5th Street, which was rather desolate on that particular city block, and entered on foot. A large horseshoe-shaped fountain and pool (the decorative kind, not the kind for swimming) stood in the center of the plaza, about 30 feet from the entrance. At first glance, it seemed pretty dull for a park. No monkey bars, basketball hoops, green spaces or picnic tables: just the pool, the fountain and some benches. That was about it.
That, and a lot of concrete.
Cement stairs, multi-tiered platforms, wide sidewalks, flat curbs, an abundance of nearby parking lots, a big vacant street. Although it was never intended to be a skate park, Fountains sure had the makings of one. And since there were no skate parks or ramps in Norfolk at the time, skateboarders began frequenting Fountains not long after it opened, claiming it as their spot to skate.
I hung out at Fountains from 1994 to 1996. By then, it had become the unofficial skate park of Norfolk. It wasn’t on the books as a sporting recreation area of any kind, and there were no established rules of use. Helmets weren’t worn, neither were pads. In retrospect, skaters who opted to skate this way were pretty gutsy. (Or stupid, depending on how you look at it. Pop culture novelist Chuck Klosterman once wrote, “Sixteen is a dangerous age; you’re just dumb enough to be really fucking cool.” Though he was referring to his years as a teenage metalhead in rural North Dakota, I’ve always felt he was also aptly describing the skateboarding experience at Fountains.) But notions of danger, risk and safety didn’t exist in teenage minds as they did in adult consciousness: No helmets symbolized no rules; no rules meant no adult authority; and to a bunch of teenagers, no adult authority signified freedom.
Located in the center of town, Fountains was close to Norfolk’s public high school (but not too close) and just a few blocks from downtown Norfolk, the movie theaters and a couple of convenience stores. It also wasn’t far from the local Pizza Hut, which was handy because a lot of the skateboarders also held part-time jobs there.
Ironically enough, one of the buildings in the park’s neighborhood was that of the Norfolk Police Department. The back of the park was situated caddy-cornered to the back of the police building by about 200 yards — so close that you could sit on a park bench and watch police vehicles come and go from the station’s rear parking lot. Cops would occasionally drive by the front of Fountains. Sometimes they’d threaten tickets to anyone skateboarding in the street and, on a few occasions, confiscated skateboards. But, at least from what I remember, they never ventured into the park. That just made it feel like our space all the more.
I didn’t skate, and to be honest, when I first started hanging out at Fountains, I didn’t understand why the kids who did cared so much about things like shove-its, grinds and kickflips. If asked to name a notable skateboarder, I’d probably have said Christian Slater from the 1989 movie Gleaming the Cube. But as soon as I let it, Fountains started to teach me how to see and hear differently. I imagine that most who passed by the park saw nothing more than sidewalks, stairs, ledges and a pool. But I learned to acknowledge these elements as horizons, opportunities, challenges and possibilities. A staircase was so much more than a staircase! It was an obstacle to overcome, a monster to conquer. When empty, the pool base was a new frontier to explore, an achievement to unlock. Concrete assumed a lifelike quality; sometimes it played nice and sometimes it sassed, sometimes it provoked and sometimes it railed. Sometimes, when I studied it closely, I’d swear I could see it breathe and move.
By the time I turned 16, music had become a critical fact of life for me, and Fountains was music at its core. Punk rock emanated from the stereos of cars parked along the curb, and the more time I spent at the park, the more fluent in music I became. Bands like Black Flag and Minor Threat, Bad Religion and NOFX started speaking to me, and I began to understand what they were saying. Many songs were aggressive yet melodic (as if those two qualities couldn’t exist simultaneously), with fast drums and energetic guitar riffs. I couldn’t always make out the lyrics, but that was OK. The speed, energy and attitude communicated volumes.
Some of the music, from bands like the Beastie Boys and NOFX, was catchy with its clever lyrics and well-tuned harmonies. Some, like Fugazi, was political and serious. And some was macho and sexist, with singers plagued by demanding girlfriends who didn’t understand a guy’s need to get out and skate. I’m not sure why such songs never bothered me. By 16, I really hadn’t been introduced to the concept of feminism, and I lacked the language and discourse to critique through its lens. Maybe such songs didn’t strike me as odd; after all, I was used to women being represented as thorns, burdens and encumbrances in music — roles they’d played in countless songs throughout rock music’s history. At the time, it was enough just to feed from the raw energy that both punk rock and skateboarding exuded, to be a part of something bigger than myself and to have a community of friends who needed music, creativity and expression as much as I did.
Fountains reverberated with another kind of music. We’d hear it in the smack of boards hitting concrete and the whir of skateboard wheels across pavement — a lo-fi, low-pitched hum of white noise interrupted by the rhythmic clicks of wheels passing over sidewalk grooves. The sounds from a chorus of skateboards synced perfectly with the punk rock we listened to, as if skateboards were instruments, deliberately left out of the recordings so that we kids could add them in later. We completed the songs. We made them our own.
Occasionally, there was drinking, there were fights, and I’m sure there had to have been drugs; after all, there were teenagers. But that never seemed to be what Fountains was about, at least to me. Instead, Fountains was punk rock and skaters and the smells of cigarettes, sweaty boys and Pizza Hut. It was popping ollies and drinking Mountain Dew out of giant-sized to-go cups from Wendy’s. It was the rough texture of grip tape; copies of Thrasher and Transworld Skateboarding magazines sticking out of backpacks thrown in a corner of the park; the cracks of skateboards landing tricks; the cheers when someone did something cool and the thuds and occasional groans when they didn’t.
But more than anything — more than music, more than skateboarding — Fountains was a community. It offered a sense of safety and refuge from whatever each of us needed to get away from. Even if you never talked about the “it” that compelled you to go, you knew you could find some other kid at Fountains who was there to escape, too. If you arrived to find no one, all you needed to do was wait a few minutes. Like magic, someone always showed up, as if that little plot of land emitted a signal alerting its kids that they were wanted, needed.
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In the late 1990s, the City of Norfolk sold the land on which Fountains stood. I was no longer living in Norfolk when the park was torn down, but I remember hearing how kids showed up to defend their park the day the bulldozers arrived, hurling rocks in the hopes the machines would leave Fountains alone. I guess feeling such a rooted connection to the land — even as small of a patch as Fountains was — is a hard bond to break. We can look to the many generations of our Midwestern ancestors for evidence of that.
The Norfolk Arts Center now stands on the land that once hosted Fountains, something that has always made me smile. Fountains could have been replaced by a bank, parking lot or strip mall, but the fact that it became a community arts space gives me great joy. In its way, the little spot that meant so much to my friends and me as teens continues to serve as a site of transformation; the energy that radiates from the earth below still encourages northeast Nebraskans to cultivate creativity, expression and community and to learn to experience the world a little differently.
As such, I offer this essay in celebration of friendships, music and art. And, of course, skateboarding — one of my most favorite art forms. To this day, no matter how far removed I may be from my teenage days in Norfolk, whenever I hear the sound of a skateboard approaching, I will turn to look. Part of me is always hoping that I’ll encounter a familiar face from Fountains.
What others remember about Fountains:
Aaron Schmitz: I started skating in 1986 when I was 6 years old. When Fountains became a skate spot in the early 1990s, I was too little to go by myself, so my mom would take me and watch me skate. There were always older kids there. Once I got a little older myself, I’d ride my bike to Fountains to skate in the summertime instead of babysitting my younger brother like I was supposed to.
In the early part of the ‘90s, the park’s fountain ran, the pool was filled, and the landscaping was regularly maintained. It looked really nice and was challenging for skaters: Failing to land a trick and accidentally sending your board into the water meant that you had to wade in to retrieve it. You either had to take off your pants or spend the rest of the day in wet shorts. There was one concrete ledge in particular — if you could ollie it, that was a big deal. I still remember the first time I did it. I felt so cool.
At some point in the mid- to late-‘90s, the city drained the pool. Maybe this was an attempt to deter us kids from hanging out there, but it actually created new area to skate: The inside of the pool was smooth concrete, and you’d have to skate around the raised water pipes and plumbing lines.
It’s too hard to name my favorite memory of Fountains. There are just too many good ones. A lot of my closest friends to this day were kids I met at Fountains. If I had to say, I’d probably say the people.
Zach Johnson: I had lost interest in skating by junior high, but I started back up again in 1991 when I was about 15, and by that time, skaters had claimed Fountains. I’m not sure if it was a great skate spot technically speaking, but I wasn’t technically very good so it didn’t really matter. By 1991-92, no one was skating ramps, and everyone I knew had starting skating street. Fountains had lots of flat space, lots of raised concrete around the water that was perfect for board, tail and nose slides, and there were lots of steps. The worst part centered on the mulch and wood used by the park’s landscapers — that stuff always stopped those ridiculous quarter-style wheels we all skated back then.
In reality, it’s wasn’t so much that Fountains was a great skate spot, but it was a place where anyone who was interested in skating, music and whatever else we as teens in rural Nebraska considered “countercultural” at the time could go. The best thing about Fountains: No matter how bored you were or when you needed to escape your parents, home, whatever, there was always someone waiting there to share in your teen angst.
Adam Miller (aka “Perm”): One of the many things I loved about Fountains Park was how it served as our hub of activity! In the days before cell phones, a stop by Fountains became a regular thing. It was the place to congregate, to check in with friends, to see who was skating, and what the plan was for the evening. You knew that you could just head to Fountains and find someone there. And if not, you just had to wait 10-15 minutes and someone would always show up.
Even after I moved to Omaha, I would make a point to stop by Fountains whenever I went back to Norfolk for a visit. Stopping by was the best way to find my friends. It was such a great place and it attracted so many interesting people — some good, some bad. But above all, Fountains has given me friendships that have lasted 20+ years. I am very thankful for that!
Fountains Playlist
I asked a bunch of folks who spent time at Fountains the following question: What one song or band do you most associate with your time at Fountains? Here’s what they said:
1. “Story of My Life” by Social Distortion
2. “Cool Kids” by Screeching Weasel
3. “Bob” by NOFX
4. “Baby’s Got Sauce” by G. Love & Special Sauce
5. “Old Friend” by Rancid
6. “New Girl” by Suicide Machines
7. “Six Pack” by Black Flag
8. “Skateboard Anarchy” by Jodie Foster’s Army
9. “I’m Not a Loser” by Descendents
10. “Violins” by Lagwagon
11. “Waiting Room” by Fugazi
12. “Strong Reaction” by Pegboy
13. “Bro Hymn” by Pennywise
14. “I Have a Date” by Vandals
15. “Insubordination” by Voodoo Glow Skulls
16. “Pass the Mic” by Beastie Boys
17. “End on 9” by Guttermouth
18. “Knowledge” by Operation Ivy
19. “The Guest” by The Bouncing Souls
Special Thanks
Special thanks to Steve Bolinger, Mike Janovec, Zach Johnson, Shawn McGrath, Adam Miller, Matt Nockels, Angie Norman, Aaron Schmitz, Angel Settell, Kara Weander-Gaster and Phil Zierke for their contributions. All photos courtesy of Steve Bolinger.
Chelsea Schlievert Yates is a Hear Nebraska contributor. She grew up in northeast Nebraska and now lives in Seattle, Washington. Reach her at cdschlievert@gmail.com.