Back in February at our annual winter "Pig Out" (or Keely Family Gathering, as Mom prefers), I was chatting with one of my cousins who currently lives in America's Greatest Family Resort (that would be OCNJ). I mentioned about going to the beach and her whole face lit up. She said she goes every chance she gets. After working hard all day, her greatest pleasure is zooming down to the Gardens section, finding a spot just for her, and enjoying. She said it made her think about our grandmother.
Ever since then, I started getting a hankering for the beach. Well, not just the beach, but Ocean City. When I knew I'd be off for 4 days over Memorial Day I started planning a beach day, especially because not beach tags are needed until June 6th and, cheap-o that I am, I didn't want to pay. I asked Mom if she wanted to go Friday but she had other plans. I went fishing instead (see previous blog entry). On Saturday, I called her since it was her birthday and we got to chatting about everything and nothing. I mentioned the beach and that I was still hoping to go. "Why don't you go to Margate?" she asked. "It's probably closer". And even though a beach is a beach is a beach, I replied, "Well, it's Ocean City".
Sunday was the day. I packed up a few things and set off. On my way there I was praying out loud, as I usually do in the car, and I became overwhelmed to the point of tears and not being able to speak clearly. Not for anything terrible. I had thanked the Lord that I lived so close to someplace so special to me and that I had the time to go and enjoy it, in spite of the hassle. That got me thinking and remembering about all the times I spent in Ocean City and the multitude of things connected with it. I began to thank the Lord for the precious, wonderful memories I had, the experiences, the safety, the refuge, and the opportunities I'd had over the years, not just to be "at the beach" but moreso, to be with family...and even moreso, my grandparents.
Between birth and 6 years old, going to the shore meant going to the "house on the bay". I have a few memories from those early years...sleeping upstairs in a room that overlooked the bay and seeing the Parkway lights lit up at night...being able to see "Uncle Franklin" in the house next door (that's Mark's dad!), getting splinters on the dock, a big red row boat that I don't ever recall seeing in the water, my Dad hiding candy bars after church on Sunday in the front room's door slats. For many years after they moved to Pennsylvania they did summer rentals. One, on Pleasure Avenue, right across the street form their old house, was later the home of my sister-in-law and Mark and I lived upstairs. One was a few streets down, same layout but a larger yard. Then finally, they bought a home once again in the Riviera section of the city.
I have always counted myself overly blessed to have had all 4 grandparents in my life until I was well into my 30's. One, my dad's mom, is still living. And although I had loved and still love all 4 of my grandparents, I was closer with "Grandmommy and Grandaddy", who lived in Ocean City. They weren't better, just different. And the consistent experience of going "down the shore" helped to heighten that.
Mark and I were reminiscing about my family's drive the shore the other day. How we'd pack up the car, take the back roads, inhale that sea scent when we got to a certain point. He recalled me saying we'd stop at the Purple Penguin (an ice cream place that was The Velvet Touch in my younger years. We'd beep at Anton's, some flower place right before the curve to enter Buena. In my older years, we'd stop at McDonald's on the way before crossing the bridge. When we rerouted our drive (still back roads), Maplewood was our ice cream destination.
Arriving on Fridays there'd be a scurry of unloading, the barking of Bonnie--my grandparent's black cocker spaniel for many years, and a settling in. The different places over the years would dictate what the first evening looked like. I don't remember too much from my younger years but at least at their last house I knew my grandmother had a bunch of "rag sheets" (those tabloid newspapers) to dig into. Saturdays were consistent--mornings were mini-sugary cereals (chosen the night before with one of my parents overseeing the process and marking an "M" or "J" on the box so we'd know whose was who), hanging out, then going to the beach. Sometimes my dad and I would go on some adventure in the morning, some odd beach where he'd look at birds and I'd look for shells. Sometimes we'd go on the boardwalk and play ski ball and video games. Sometimes Grandaddy would take us out on the boat if the tide was right.
The beach was always an ordeal. We always had lunch ahead of time (at least that's what I recall), and then we'd pack up and either walk (when my grandmother was younger) or drive, find a place, set up, and sit. My grandfather never came with us--ever. We'd have our own particular streets over the years--Park Place, 13th street, 23rd street, etc. We always brought Boggle--a great Word game at which I could never--EVER--beat my mom or grandmother. I loved being on the beach--looking for shells, riding the waves, getting sandy, my hair getting crunchy, Dad taking me out in to "the deep" when I was little...not having a care in the world about how I looked in a bathing suit. And always, the anticipation of Saturday night dinner of hamburgers, chips, baked beans, and cake. Then the boardwalk (also an ordeal). When Mark (brother) and I were younger we'd ride the same 3 rides at Wonderland Pier...rarely we could coax Mom into a ride on the Scrambler and I loved to hear her laugh get faster and faster as the ride progressed. I pulled the gold ring off the Merry-go-round more times than I can count. There was usually a stop at Morrow's Nut Shop for peanut butter logs, sometimes ice cream at Preps, or Dairy Queen, and then in later years when we cared about how we looked in bathing suits, TCBY.
Sundays was church in the morning, beach or secret shopping sprees (Don't tell Grandaddy! Can't shop on Sundays!), and then take out from Hickmans or Mulfords. On the rare occasion when it was "Shift for yourself" I prayed there was still some bologna left for a sandwich since we never had cold cuts at our house. Then we'd load up, say our good-byes, and head for home. Just about every weekend between Memorial Day and Labor Day.
When I think about going to the shore, to Ocean City, what sticks out most in my mind is the consistency, although there were some changes over the years. The smell of the houses--a hint of my grandmother's Windsong perfume, a bit of dog, stale cigarettes, my grandfather's VO5 hair gel and wintergreen Lifesavers. The little gingerbread man figure, a red corduroy pillow stuffed with pine needles, the bed spreads, the doll houses, and the little schoolhouse desk that now sits in my livingroom.
Ocean City wasn't just a place--it was a haven, a refuge, and where I hold some of my dearest memories. I met my husband there (granted, we were toddlers!)...had my first kiss (with my husband), and lived by myself for the first time. My grandparents, conservative as they were, were great and safe sounding boards for me. I could talk to them about anything and did. I always knew I'd get an honest answer. They were believers and lived out their faith the best they could. How wonderful the memories I have of being in my bedroom at the house on Walnut Road and hearing my grandfather on the porch through an open window reciting for the umpteenth time Psalm 91. I know sometimes I would have a serious talk with them about some issue and then go up to the beach and just sit, praying and crying, knowing I would soon return to the safe, stable, consistent haven of whatever house they had at the time.
I remember a s a kid having to list the places I'd most want to live. I remember that Ireland made the list (???) and Ocean City. We spent the first 6 1/2 years of our married life on the island. How great it was to walk to the beach, to Wawa, and bike all around. To smell that low tide smell on some mornings, to fight for a parking place on Night in Venice, and to count the days between Memorial Day and Labor Day when all the shoobees would finally go home.
So, you see, going to the beach wasn't just "going to the beach". It was going to Ocean City. Aiming to recapture all the wonderfulness I'd experienced as a youngster up into my early 30's. I decided to go over the Longport Bridge and pay the $1.50 toll to avoid traffic (cheap-o me!?) I entered the Gardens section and fought to find parking...After a while, I chose a quiet spot on some side street and went to a beach I'd never been to on the North end. I found a spot and settled in. It was chilly. It was almost cold. After 10 minutes I decided I had to go to the bathroom. It was very VERY windy. There were kids screaming. I toughed it out for 2 hours and then came home...a little tanner, a little crustier, but with a bit of contentment.
Today I went again. I hadn't planned on it. In fact, I looked at my list of what I'd set out to do over the 4 day weekend (mostly chores) and decided that--Darn it!--I was going to go to the beach again! Packed up, took me 18 minutes from driveway to perch (about the same amount of time it would take me to walk from where we'd lived in OC to the beach), and settled in. Warmer, still windy, a bunch of teen girls looking fabulous next to me, someone smoking nearby, families with crying kids...but I got into my book...and I brushed the sand from my feet...and I relished the sound of the waves crashing...and I walked the 4 blocks to the bathroom...and I wished with all my might that I could have one more porch dinner with Grandmommy and Grandaddy and my dad and mom again...tears...
Things change...yes...but I am often overwhelmed at the memories I have, not only for such a place like OCNJ but for all it represents. Some people don't have that. Some people will never have that. And for that I are both grateful and humbled. As nostalgic as I am right now for what was, I am also entertaining the idea of what can be. No one is forcing me to stay on my deck on the weekends. I CAN go and enjoy the beach and Ocean City whenever I want if time and schedule allow. Why deny myself that bit of pleasure? Of reminiscing? Of returning to that safe place?
And to prove that point, I asked Mark for a beach tag for my birthday in 2 weeks : )
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