From There to Back Again

This past Friday morning I found myself driving down the AC Expressway in search of exit 7S. I wondered how many times I’d driven these roads the past five decades while heading down the Shore.

I turned to WIBG (“Wibbage”) 94.3 on the FM dial just outside of Hammonton. The early morning “oldies” soundtrack and “period” advertisements in between songs took me back nearly 40 years. My mind wandered back and forth between summers when my parents would load up the car and my two younger siblings, to those times when I was old enough to drive myself down to Margate with my high school buddies during college summers in the early 80s.

Cruising down the Garden State Parkway, I instinctively put my windows down when I crossed the inlet bridge near Beesley’s Point, taking in views of the iconic Ocean City ferris wheel off in the distance to my left and the Tuckahoe Inn just ahead on my right. I wasn't sure what was racing faster at this moment: my mind full of past summer memories or my automobile on the highway pavement.

Within another 30 miles, I found myself coming up on the Wildwoods, exits 6 and 4B GSP green exit sign. I quickly remembered if I took exit 6 I would arrive in North Wildwood, while 4B would lead me to Wildwood. Since I was meeting my friend Joe at the Point, I needed to take the first exit.

My first scent of the early morning sweet smell of low tide was delightful. I turned down the car radio just slightly so I could listen for the seagulls. Gone is the old wooden rickety bridge that stood for decades allowing you to cross Grassy Sound Inlet. I remember being a youngster asleep in the car and waking up when the old boards rumbled underneath my parent’s car. That unique one-of-a-kind sound meant we were close to beginning our summer vacation! Nearby, where Zaberer’s restaurant once proudly stood for decades, was a large neon sign installed in Anglesea welcoming you to North Wildwood, with time, temperature and ads promoting local businesses.

As if on cue, WIBG played the Drifters hit “This Magic Moment.” I smiled, as clearly the Shore Gods were sending good summertime vibrations to me. Shortly thereafter, Joe joined me and we walked to the Point near Hereford Inlet to greet the morning sun. We watched in near silence as a few people gathered with us to watch the sunrise. A number of people took photographs of this daily ritual, while some joggers and people walking along the cement promenade stopped dead in their tracks to observe this sacred summer moment.

In a matter of moments it was over, a perfectly round orange ball had begun its daily ascent into the purple summer sky. I quickly returned from my car with a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses to mark this moment in time. Joe and I gazed out over the horizon, watching the sun rise, listening to the waves crash on the beach, toasting our friendship of more than 30 years, as well as the next 48 hours together.

It’s been quite a few years since we’ve been down here together. This particular area of the Jersey Shore holds many different but very special memories from our childhood summers. Typically when old friends meet after months of not seeing each other, the conversation drifts to talk of days gone by, as well as future plans. I secretly hoped this would be the case this weekend, because I certainly wanted to discuss some of the life events that have recently impacted both our lives. I needed to rant, as well as solicit some well-intentioned advice from my best friend.

Throughout the weekend, random memories would be triggered and stories swapped of days gone by in this old beach town. We drove along Ocean Avenue where a few of the remaining Doo Wop motels still stand. From behind the steering wheel, Joe pointed out the various restaurants, bars, stores and pizza joints from his summers in Wildwood. He had me laughing at the some of the crazy teenage antics he got himself into while employed at the Sand Castle restaurant and Anchor Inn. We cruised by his uncle’s house on Lake and Poplar, which overlooks the bay between Wildwood and West Wildwood. The Bedrock miniature golf course is still standing, set amongst new condos and older Shore bungalows.

It was a lazy Friday afternoon, so we decided to stop by the George F. Boyer Historical Museum (founded in 1963) on Pacific Avenue. For a brief hour, we looked through the archived photos of the boardwalk and amusement piers from when we were teenagers inhabiting this beach town. We chatted with the museum’s curator who strongly suggested we visit next weekend when the legendary Wildwood musician, Chubby Checker, was scheduled to perform with the one and only Philly-based disco band, The Trammps. Since Joe was a huge fan of disco in the late 70s and I was a rock fan back then, this revelation led to a humorous tongue-in-cheek debate, especially since I had tickets to see Springsteen play one of his two Labor Day shows on the same weekend. We laughed out loud at the music genre comparisons and for a brief moment, time stood still. We were once again 18 years old, debating which was cooler: disco or rock.

Thirsty, we decided to stop by The Shamrock, a mainstay of the legendary 70s club and bar scene, now sadly one of the few remaining bars on Pacific Avenue. The waitress was a young fresh-faced college student named Rachel. For almost two hours, in between draft beers, she was kind enough to engage our conversation about Wildwood “back-in-the-day” stories while she told us of her college plans, a marketing major at Rutgers-Camden. She sadly informed us she only has about 10 days left at the Shore before classes started. During this time she is desperately trying to juggle two jobs, while making sure she and her friends can surf the North End before they go their separate ways. It appeared the young college kid and her two middle-aged bar patrons were both chasing some dreams before the summer of 2012 ended.

Young, cute and well-mannered, I drew comparisons to my own daughter, months away from turning 21, who returns to Rider University for her junior year in about a week. Rachel informed us the Shamrock would be filled with college kids and tourists that evening watching a local favorite band play cover songs from the late great 90s. Joe and I looked at each other, laughed, and then politely declined the half-hearted invitation, knowing we could easily be these kids’ parents. We made the right decision.

Driving back to the beach condo, I was treated to more stories of Joe hanging with his South Philly “summer” friends: Ricky, Vinnie and Chippy, and the crazy summer antics they conspired. One of Joe’s most endearing qualities is his storytelling ability. He recounted the times his crew water-skied in the bay and countless nights spent on the boards and in the clubs.

The summer day quickly turned into a summer evening. A cool breeze was a welcome change from the hot humid sun of only a few hours before. That time transformation often seems to happen when you find yourself with no immediate adult responsibilities to tend to. Joe’s friends, Monica and Frankie, and their four kids, had decided to walk the boards and check out the Friday night fireworks. Joe and I decided to hang at the condo and quickly scheduled another appointment with Mr. Patron.

After a couple rounds, we got down to brass tacks. I wanted Joe to know I supported him with his current course of action tackling some serious health issues. I also reinforced his recent decision to move in with his older sister. In turn, I talked about my recent job concerns as my current employer continues to outsource accounting jobs to India. Years ago, both of our career decisions seemed like prudent “can’t-miss” opportunities. However, now almost 25 years later, we find ourselves reevaluating our separate career paths.

I talked about the mixed feelings I’ve had about my only daughter quickly growing up and becoming more independent, as well as some health concerns I’ve had about Marie’s lack of physical activity and recent sedentary lifestyle. I don't have too much control over these issues, but it was reassuring to hear my friend’s thoughts of encouragement and advice.

I also took this rare opportunity to share some thoughts I’ve had recently about future goals, which include writing a novel, starting a photography business with Joe, and eventually downsizing my home and moving toward the Shore. In the past few years, I’ve started to give these “pipe dreams” more consideration, especially given the constant stress and frustration I seem to encounter with my current employer and corporate America on an almost daily basis.

However, before long we found ourselves laughing at some crazy Wildwood memory and the mood of the night switched. We pulled our chairs closer to the railing to watch the fireworks show off in the distance. Plain and simple, the night was good for the soul. Two old friends on a warm summer night with nowhere to go, simply enjoying the moment.

Saturday morning arrived and we decided to check out the Sports Collectibles Show, as well as the Doo Wop Preservation Society Museum located directly across the street. Both choices served to rekindle even more childhood memories. We rode the tram car from the Wildwood Convention Center all the way to the north end of the Boardwalk at 15^th Avenue. The ride was just another occasion to engage in a spirited conversation between friends trying to settle two of the most debated topics in Wildwood lore: Which was the best amusement pier from our childhood, and which pizza joint was best—Mack’s or Sam’s?

On Saturday night, we suffered through a torrential summer thunderstorm. We politely declined Monica and Frankie’s invitation to join them on the boards. Instead, Joe and I pulled up two white plastic chairs on the porch and scheduled another therapy session with Mr. Patron. We talked about certain people who’ve come and gone in our lives since we graduated high school. Joe told me a few stories about some girls he developed relationships with over the past 20 years. I spoke about two female high school friends I recently reconnected with on Facebook. It’s funny how the combination of booze and guys seems to always produce stories and admiration for the female gender. Tonight was no different.

I awoke early on Sunday morning and decided to take one last solo walk along the beach in search of that magical feeling that comes with witnessing the daily sunrise at the ocean’s edge. Many thoughts crossed my mind that morning, including how I even came to know Joe in the first place. It turns out our parents met at a Brush Hollow “Newcomer’s Club” function when my folks first moved to Marlton in 1971. Unfortunately, shortly after that meeting, Joe broke his hip and our parents encouraged us to get together since we were close in age at the time. Looking back, his break was my lucky break.

It was on that Sunday morning, I captured this photo of two young boys jumping waves and playing in the Wildwood surf. The image reminded me of Joe and me at roughly the same age. I watched their carefree play for a few minutes. A proud mom was watching from the shoreline next to me. We did not speak. They were no doubt waiting for the perfect wave. They had no concerns for the future, and why should they. They were enjoying the innocence of childhood—a sacred and fleeting time in their lives. The Beach Boys once sang, “Catch a wave and you're sitting on top of the world.” Today, these two kids were experiencing that song lyric in front of my camera’s lens.

For Joe: Our future and dreams are still out there. Let’s go achieve them! There are still many more summers in our life’s journey for us to enjoy them together.

You've been thinking 'bout some things we used to do
Thinking 'bout when life was still in front of you
Back where you belong, our favorite song
Won't you listen

My Life Has Been Measured in Summers Past

How many of us remember when our parents would measure our height when we were kids?

“Hurry Tom, get the pencil. Today is Scott’s birthday and we have to mark how much he grew from last year.”

Somewhere in each of our childhood homes was a particular hallway closet, kitchen door or bedroom door jamb that kept the official box score in feet and inches of how tall we grew year after year. Etched by a Ticonderoga yellow number 2 pencil were the official black marks that proved to the world we were indeed growing up. We eagerly waited to cross the age bridge from toddler to pre-teen, from pre-teen to teenager, and finally from teenager to attaining the sacred age of “21,” the ultimate goal of every young adult everywhere in the United States.

Would this be the summer we would be able to ride the big girl or big boy amusement rides when the St. Joan’s summer carnival came to town, when we took our annual trip to Great Adventure, or spent our summer vacation week in Wildwood enjoying the rides on Hunt’s Pier? Would this be the summer we would finally be tall enough to ride the Scrambler, Free Fall or the Hell Hole? Could we walk the boards this summer (late at night) with only our friends? Would we finally be able to see the big summer blockbuster movie with no parental supervision? Could we finally see the summer rock concert on our own? We could only hope and scheme that this was indeed the summer all those dreams would be realized.

Summer was also the time of year—specifically the end of summer—when our parents would buy our new wardrobe for the upcoming school year. This activity became another reminder we were 12 months closer to becoming a teenager. We looked in disgust at those “baby-ish” clothes hanging in our closets from last year and would definitely not be caught dead wearing those same old duds.

Summer was the most magical season of our lives back then. I would argue it still is, even now as we creep into our sixth decade as working adults.

Summers past included many freedoms we thought would last forever. First, there was no school, classes or studying to interrupt our natural childlike inclination towards fun and lack of rules. Second, for most of us, our normal school-year routines changed. Maybe we went to summer camp, spent a week or more with relatives or grandparents, joined a summer pool or vacationed down the Shore. We played sandlot baseball with the kids in the neighborhood and competed with our schoolmates on swim, dive and Little League teams in township competitions.

Summers meant we wore far less clothes than during the other nine months of the year. Also, because many of our childhood activities included being near or in the water or ocean, we started to notice members of the opposite sex wearing much less clothing as well, and that was a big deal—trust me!

During the summertime, some of us only played with our everyday “neighbor friends”, while others developed “summer friends” who only joined us at the swim club, at camp, or down the Shore, since they didn’t live nearby and went to different school districts. By developing these new relationships we were able to make friends with new kids and enjoy new exciting experiences as a result. More importantly, because these kids were relatively unknown to our parents, we seemed to live more dangerously with this group of kids versus the neighbor kids our parents knew all too well. What our parents did not know, would not hurt them—or so we thought. Can anyone recall getting into some minor “trouble” with out-of-state cousins, those “kids” from Pennsylvania or visiting college roommates during those youthful summers? I thought so.

Summers flew by quickly and we suddenly found ourselves going from Slurpee cups and baseball cards, to discovering girls, going steady and making out. Back then, we lived outside during the summer months. Fields, pools, woods and beaches were our favorite haunts.

Years ago, the world was a very different place and there were very few places that were “off-limits” to young adults. It would serve to reason many “firsts” happened during those summer months when we were not confined to school schedules and classroom supervision. Our parents only knew we were with Monica and Sherry or Brian and Jim. They often didn't know what our activities were. In their busy minds, within their strictly defined suburban boundaries, we were fine. Out of sight and out of mind. There were no organized “playgroups” that existed back-in-the-day or any social media devices available for us to “check in” with. The absence of that last one was probably a good thing, eh? OMG! Could u imagine?! What would the "rents" think?

Is anyone of a certain age (say over 40 years old) laughing out loud or perhaps smiling inside to themselves now? Who remembers these coming-of-age moments? Did anyone suddenly think of someone (maybe from the opposite sex) that hadn't come to mind in 20 years or more? Remember that summer I was with so-and-so and that thing happened that I never told my parents (then or now) and we thought we were going to be (fill in the blank here)?

I do, because I watched my daughter travel down these exact same roads on her very own teenage journey into young adulthood these past few years. Technology may have increased the speed in which a kid's life unfolds each day, but summer experiences and coming-of-age moments have not changed much, expect for the fact that now after a specific event occurs, maybe a couple hundred of your closest and not-so-closest friends know—thanks to YouTube and Facebook.

Back then, we wanted to race through our summers. We couldn’t go fast enough. The minute we were indoctrinated as high school freshman, we wanted to be high school seniors. By the time we were first-semester seniors, college and life after college could not come soon enough! That race from start to finish has probably been going on since the dawn of the very first summer.

However now, uncharacteristically, I want to slow down my summers. I find myself temporarily hitting the brakes on my go-cart screaming down Kenton Avenue.

I no longer want to race up to the boards after a long day on the beach in search of what night will bring. Instead, I now wish to sit on the deck and converse with friends and family, stopping just long enough to enjoy a cold summer beverage, a cool summer breeze, and picturesque summer sunset.

As my mentor, Jimmy Buffett, sings, “Reflections not just replays, taking time to escape the maze, just hoping for some better days.”

Nowadays, I want to take a photo of my summertime moment or journal my thoughts of a particular summertime event before that moment is taken from me. Maybe after all these summers past, I realize there are only a finite number of summers still outstanding. I’ve now decided I want to make my summers count. Maybe enjoy some simple or cool summer experience while I still can. Maybe I want to take that old bedroom door jamb with its faded black pencil marks and replace it with a summer night at the drive-in movie theater with Marie or one summer morning surfing at Huntington Beach with Lauren.

I would like to think I have as many summer dreams left now as I once did when I was that little kid sitting on the Wildwood sand staring out at the big blue Atlantic Ocean, holding my yellow plastic bucket and shovel in my hands.

So I put on my short pants, T-shirt and flip-flops “uniform” worn only during the summer and get ready to face the next sunny day. With 50-odd summers under my belt, it really is the only way I know how to pass go and collect $200. Come to think of it, there may be a new “app” for that; but I’ll take my chances with my old-fashioned approach. It has yet to fail me in summers past.

Lauren, thanks for providing me with the inspiration for the title of this blog. May you, me and mom continue to have our health, time and enough economic resources to enjoy many more summers together. May we all continue to “Grow Older But Not Up,” starting with our upcoming Jimmy Buffett and Bruce Springsteen summer concerts.

Now if I can just find where your mom and I put that old Precious Moments height chart we hung in your room when you were small.