A week ago today my baby turned thirty. Thirty years old. Thirty years since I gave birth to my last child. No matter how you look at it, thirty years is a long time.
Obviously I can no longer use the excuse that I’m “trying to lose the baby-weight” when in actuality I weight about fifteen pounds more than when I delivered him. He weighed seven pounds, fourteen ounces. Subtract the weight of the other associated birthing goo and the truth is revealed that I have found a bit more than I lost when he was born. You do the math. They are numbers that try to define us; weight and age.
I remember when I was a kid, thirty seemed ancient! In fact, I can remember crying myself to sleep when my Dad turned twenty-nine because I knew the next year he would turn thirty, be old and probably die. Luckily for me that didn’t happen.
As a teenager, the cry of youth was “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.” At fourteen, it was more than half my lifetime away. The irony was that my own parents were only in their mid-thirties at the time!
At thirty, my “baby” is finishing the last push on his doctoral thesis. He posted that he was on his “last push” and a friend commented, “Are you pregnant?” He replied that metaphorically he was and indeed he has been. The gestational process of this paper has been a long one; even an elephant could have dropped at least two calves in the time he’s been working on it. It has been a journey of hard work, study, research and thought on his part and a great deal of prayer on mine. When he finishes and becomes “Dr. Andrew Scott Waugh, PhD” he will be the third in his line to have embarked on the effort and the first to receive the prize.
To say that I am in awe of this event and any part I may have played in this achievement as his mother is an understatement. Through his life, I have learned at least as much if not more from him than he ever could have from me. I like to think I just guided him through the early part of his life, although some pushing was required. He could be stubborn or more kindly put, dedicated to his position.
My little boy as he began his formal education.
In a few short weeks he will defend his dissertation and then move up to Washington State to begin teaching as a visiting Assistant Professor in the Political Science Department. My little one. I don’t know how he could be thirty and almost a PhD. He will always be my “Little Sweetie”; the baby who was full of laugher and smiled and flirted with little old ladies in the grocery store from his perch in the shopping cart seat.
Although at times it seems like the years have flown by, it is mostly because they were so full and rich. I’m sure in ten years, when he turns forty, I’ll be writing the same lament, “How can my baby be so old?” but I’ll really be thinking,” How can I be so old?”
After more than thirty years of messy mountains of paper and a general atmosphere of disarray in our common home-office, Dave and I have separated – desks. In the end it wasn’t a difficult decision. It had been coming for a long time. Lord knows I tried to keep the inflow of paper in check, sorting them into piles of things to be filed, tossed or discussed. Nothing worked. Dave would come up to the office to work on lesson plans for his class or office work he brought home and he would move my piles to side, into one giant pile. It just could not go on.
I’d mentioned to him that I needed my space, room to call my own. My words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Then one afternoon we stopped by the Ruckersville Gallery to look around and I noticed Dave checking out drop front desks. “This one would be nice for you,” he’d say; oohing and ahhing over some mahogany piece. I gave a non-committal “ah-huh” and moved on. I was looking for something to put in the living room and an old-fashioned desk wasn’t what I had in mind for my special room.
My new desk. Isn’t she a beauty?
The Ruckersville Gallery is a big place and full of all kinds of things that catch my eye. Sometimes they are things from my childhood that bring back lots of memories. Last week I saw a wooden potty chair with a flip down lid. I know we had one of those in our house growing up. I see thing we used to use in daily life that are now so totally outdated and in many cases have no function in our modern world.
It was in this trance of nostalgia that I first spotted her in the corner; a curvy curly maple beauty with ball and claw feet. She showed her years but had aged very gracefully. Carefully I dropped her front which was still firmly secured with original hardware. She didn’t wobble a bit. Inside her back was full of pukas and drawers just waiting to help organize someone’s life. The question was, would that someone be me?
Dave looked at the price and said, “We should buy this for you, it’s perfect!” We can move the big desk out of the office down to the FROG (Finished Room Over the Garage) and I can make an office there. I wasn’t sure. We did find the ideal table for the living room and left without the desk.
I thought about the curly maple desk all week. The more I thought about it, I thought it would be perfect for me; just the right size for my laptop. I could put it against the wall and look out the window to the backyard. I was beginning to visualize myself sitting at her, writing my blog.
Last week flew by at warp speed. Before I knew it, it was Friday; the threshold of the weekend. My friend Angela and I got together after knitting for a lunch in Ruckersville and after running an errand in Stanardsville, decided to stop by the gallery so I could show her the desk. She agreed it was indeed perfect for me. So, with excitement surging through my body and a tad bit of price negotiating, a red SOLD sign was soon hung from my desk.
That evening Dave and I began our furniture shuffle upstairs. We worked for about and hour, getting a feel for where we would put everything and then started early the next morning so we would have a space cleared for our new addition. It was real grunt work, and we discovered many things that we thought we lost forever. It turns out they were only lost in the confusion.
The view of the yard from my new desk.
By lunch time on Saturday, my new desk was happily situated against the wall by the window in my office. I gave her a good cleaning which make her curls shine so they almost seemed to bounce. Carefully, I filled her pukas with cards, envelopes and notepads and her drawers with rubber bands, paperclips and a variety of odds and ends. We’re still getting to know each other, but I can say we seem perfect for each other.
Last night I sat down and wrote my first blog at my new desk. While I wrote, Dave worked down the hall in his office. It was nice to have a place to be alone and yet together. As Bogie said at the end of Casablanca, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
Dave and I aren’t the kind of folk who are good at making plans to do stuff. We love doing things with our friends, but when it comes to planning an outing, our imagination rarely exceeds picking out a restaurant. Our time is usually centered around a meal, some wine and lots of laughing. Because of this, it is always extra special when one of our friends invites us to join them in an adventure.
Saturday afternoon our good friends Carol and Chuck asked if we’d like to join them at the Veritas Vineyard for one of its summer “Starry Nights” concerts featuring a Beatles cover band called Abbey Road. Veritas Winery opens its grounds the second Saturday of the month, June through September, and offers live music, a lovely selection of their wines, a buffet if you choose and some of the most breathtaking views of the Blue Ridge you’ll see anywhere. It sounded like the perfect combination; friends, wine, food, Beatles music and the beauty of Central Virginia so we jumped at the invitation.
Carol and I worked out the details of what we’d need to take along; food, chairs, plates, napkins, etc. and at 4:30 yesterday afternoon Dave and I were packed and ready to be picked up. Just before Chuck and Carol arrived I asked Dave if he thought we should bring umbrellas or rain jackets. Our weather has been crazy this summer, putting us three inches ahead of the average for rainfall this year. Dave, who considers himself a weather maestro, said, “No. It’s not going to rain.” Hmmmm. Like a twit I took his answer as gospel.
No. It wasn’t going to rain
No sooner had we claimed our patch of green on the lawn just by the winery’s veranda and settled into our chairs when we felt the first few drips that quickly became a bona fide downpour. Luckily, our “neighbors” had just finished setting up an awning. Without even really asking, I jumped up and ran under their shelter and asked if we could please just stand there for a few minutes until the rain stopped. “We have Oreos.” I offered to sweeten the proposal. (Who doesn’t like Oreos?)
No problem. From under the cover we watched umbrellas pop up all over the lawn. Fortunately the Chuck and Dave had grabbed the bottles of wine we’d just opened and we offered to share but they declined. We stood there for about fifteen minutes and chatted with our new friends.
When it stopped raining, we thanked our hosts and went back to our chairs. By then it was almost 6:30 and we’d almost finished our first bottle of wine so decided it was a good time to eat. Carol had prepared an amazing meal of homemade eggplant parmesan and brought, crusty bread. I brought carrots, celery sticks and grapes. We switched to the Veritas Five Star red which went superbly with the tomato sauce. We may have been wet and unprepared for the weather, but we ate very well.
The band began to play and we soon we were bopping and singing along to our favorite Beatles tunes. Naturally we knew all the lyrics. But then, all too soon, the rain came again and we again ran for the neighbors. By this time, introductions were in order. Our neighbors, Ken and Melissa, had driven up from Richmond for the event and were Starry Night veterans. The first time they came, they too had been rained upon. Now, they come equipped with a pop-up shelter, folding table and chairs. Even though we literally never game them the chance to say no to our request for shelter, they did so with great hospitality.
Dave and Carol look out at the rain from the shelter of our “neighbors” awning.
I didn’t have shelter to share, but the one thing we had that they didn’t was cell phone reception. Ken tried several times to contact his sister who was driving up to meet them but AT&T didn’t provide him with even half a bar. Verizon, on the other hand, gave me three full bars so I was happy when after a little coaxing, Ken borrowed my phone, called his sister and was relieved to know she was almost there.
Soon the rain stopped again and we moved back to our table and opened our dessert, a new package of Oreos. Carol made sure Ken got some which was a good thing because it made us feel less guilty when we ran for shelter a third time! Pretty much the remainder of the evening was spent that way; periods of time in our chairs followed by running for cover under Ken and Melissa’s awning.
Our table – what a gem! (Available at www.beachtables.com)
During one of the breaks in the rain, Carol and I made a list of what we will bring the next time we come because there will indeed be a next time! Despite the copious amounts of “no chance of rain” we had a blast. If we’d come totally prepared we wouldn’t have made new friends and that would have been a shame. Without the rain we wouldn’t have had such a great memory, we probably would have sat in our chairs swatting bugs all evening.
I also learned a very important lesson; not to ask Dave if I should bring something to an outing. If I think I might need it, I’m just going to bring it along!
Yesterday morning I had breakfast with a much younger man. His mother, my friend Nicole, called me just the day before to tell me she was planning an impromptu road trip and asked if she and the kids could stop by to see us on their way to points north. Having not seen them in three years, I was ecstatic!
I first met Nicole and her husband Ralph when they attended a Baptism preparation class I was teaching at St. Mark’s in Virginia Beach. Nathan was just an infant and a preemie at that, just a tiny little thing. We quickly became friends and I loved getting to know Nathan and his older sister Natalie over donuts after Mass on Sunday. With my own children grown, it’s always an honor when a young child lets me into their world as a friend, allowing me to revisit my own childhood as well as the days of young motherhood when my own kids were discovering the world around them.
Nathan settled right in to the flow of things here!
Three years is a long time for growing children. After such a long separation, I was a little concerned that Natalie and Nathan wouldn’t remember me. But, as it turns out with all good friends, once they were here and settled in (which didn’t take long), we all just picked up where we left off. Natalie remembered me but Nathan said he didn’t. It obviously didn’t concern him too much though as he was soon running in the backyard, hunting out the cats and checking out the house.
Natalie was delighted that she would be sleeping in her own room. At twelve and a half she has grown into a stunning beauty, graceful and poised. Equipped her cell phone and unlimited texting possibilities, she was able to remain in constant contact with a host of earthbound spirits in various locations. She is quieter than Nathan, who is prepared to provide a running dialog on a multitude of topics, but her smile speaks volumes.
Their mother, Nicole, is one of my very favorite people in the whole world. She is warm, caring, funny, smart and a good sport. In short, she is one of those women whom I felt an instant kinship with; a sister by different parents. I was so tickled that she decided to make a side trip to come for a quick visit.
The hunters and their bounty!
Our visit was a short one, but we seemed to pack a lot for memories into it. After a delicious dinner of grocery store rotisserie chicken and corn on the cob, Nathan spotted fireflies in the yard and just had to catch some. I found him a jar and sent him out on his quest, but it was obvious he needed some assistance. With very little coaxing, Dave joined him on the hunt, sharing the benefit of his boyhood experience in the wilds of the cornfields in Iowa. Soon, two lightning bugs were captured in the jar and after posing for a quick photo, Nathan ran upstairs with his booty to show his sister!
Before he went to bed, I told Nathan he was welcome to come down as soon as he heard us downstairs so I wasn’t surprised to hear his cheerful “good morning” around 7:00 as I finished my first cup of coffee. “Did you sleep well?” I asked. He said he had and plopped in a chair. In full “nana-mode”, I asked if he needed to use the bathroom. Nope. “Would you like some pancakes?” Oh yes! So off to the kitchen we went.
He climbed up on the bar stool as I began to clear off the counter to make way for the griddle. “May I help you make the pancakes?” he asked. Never wanting to pass up help when it’s offered, I said yes.
After I measured out the mix and water, I passed the bowl to him and let him do the stirring, adding the water in parts to achieve the optimal batter. “My arm sure gets tired.” he said, switching the spoon to his left hand to spell the right. When if was thoroughly mixed, he passed the bowl to me and jumping down from the stool, trotted to the bathroom calling, “I never thought I’d have to go to the bathroom while I was making pancakes!” I don’t know as I ever thought I’d ever hear anyone express that thought before! What a hoot!
After washing his hands and returning to the kitchen we began to pour batter onto the hot griddle and in short order we were enjoying delicious pancakes along with some microwave turkey sausage. I asked Nathan if he needed help cutting his food. No, he could handle it. And he did! In fact, I have rarely seen such fine motor skills on a child his age.
As we ate our meal, our conversation grew more pensive. Nathan asked me if I had ever moved when I was a kid. I told him I had, a couple of times. Then he asked how old I was. When I told him I was 57, he looked at me for a moment as if he were trying to imagine so high a number associated with me. Then he grew serious and said, ” I don’t know what I would do if my dad died.” Where did that come from? I felt ever so ancient! He continued, “I think I would have to stay in my room and cry.” Then, looking down at his plate, stopping his knife and fork, he said seriously, “He’s done everything for me.” Moved by the sincerity of his comments, I assured him that his dad would be around for many, many years. After all, compared to my advanced age, he’s relatively young. Then, almost just as randomly as the conversation began, the topic shifted to something much lighter and soon Nicole and Natalie joined us.
As I said before, having a child share their thoughts with me is an honor. I am constantly reminded that even though they are smaller, and lack the life experience that we older folks do, their insight can be so poignant and pure. Thanks Nicole for sharing your beautiful young ones with me. I hope we can continue to see each other from time to time and be able to pick up where we left off. It is such a tremendous gift. I miss you already.
Our second Independence Day celebration here in Greene County was similar to our first in many respects tut different in one major way; instead of merely standing on the curb watching the parade go by, both Dave and I had moved to the other side of the curb into the celebration. As a member of the Greene County Singers, Dave stood alongside the Judge’s Review Stand along the three block parade route dressed in his red shirt and white straw hat. When ever there was an awkward gap between floats, the singers would march out to the street and sing a song allowing the marchers to catch up. While Dave was working on space management, I was sitting at the Habitat for Humanity of Greene County table over on the Courthouse lawn between the Republicans and the stage. Our table was strategically set under the same cherry tree that shaded us during the Strawberry Festival celebration in June. My involvement in the parade ( except for waving) was to wave off marchers who mistakenly turned into the parking lot between the church and the courthouse instead of marching on to make the turn onto Stanard St. and back to the high school. Because of the gaps, it happened more than a few times.
The parade had its usual array of vintage tractors, fire trucks and other rescue vehicles, scouts of all types, political candidates and parties and of course, beauty queens. This year’s Grand Marshall was Ethyle Cole Giuseppe, who at 94 years young is a vital life force here in Greene County. Well known for her philanthropic gifts to the community including an endowment which was instrumental in opening a branch of PVCC (Piedmont Virginia Community College) in Stanardsville as well as much-needed restrooms at the Greene County athletic park, Mrs. Giuseppe was a good choice to lead the parade. Not long after her ride through town was completed, she walked back up to the courthouse and plopped in a lawn chair within earshot declaring, “I need to sit down!” I’m sure she did!
Greene County historian, Joanne Powell gives the crowd a little history lesson.
After the parade, the focus moved to the stage on the Courthouse lawn for the singing of the national anthem, pledge of allegiance and a selection of patriotic music performed by the Greene County Singers. For refreshment, the Republicans handed out slices of watermelon while the Democrats handed out bottled water and fans. Unlike last year, where the sun beat on us and the temperature climbed to almost 100, Mother Nature provided us with a sunny day and a nice breeze that made life in the shade down right pleasant. Following the music, there was a recitation of “The Old Ragged Flag” and a brief history lesson on the role Piedmont Virginia played in the forging of our new nation given by the county historian, Joanne Powell. Then there was a ringing of the bells to celebrate Independence Day as authorized by Congress in 1963 in the Let Freedom Ring National Bell Ringing Ceremony. Traditionally the ringing should be done at 2:00 PM, the same time the Continental Congress signed the Declaration of Independence, but better early than never.
Last year’s bell ringing was highlighted by day-time fireworks. I know it sounds a bit strange, but I liked it. No, the colors weren’t as vibrant against the daylight as they are against the night sky, but the booms were still there. The simultaneous booms and bells were a clear reminder that in any celebration of our independence, we should always keep in mind that there is a price for freedom and it has been paid time and again.
This year there were no daytime fireworks and frankly, I missed them. Instead, there was a ceremonial ground/sidewalk breaking to officially kick off the beginning of the revitalization of downtown Stanardsville that has finally come to fruition. A pile of soil and a chunk of sidewalk were placed in front of the stage and after much fanfare, a large vehicle with a jack hammer attached drove out onto the lawn. After the ceremonial shoveling was completed, the jack hammer went to work busting the concrete into small bits. That concluded the festivities for the day.
It didn’t take long to drop the tent and pack up our Habitat stuff. Soon, except for the stage and the pile of dirt and busted concrete, the lawn was pretty much empty by the time we were done. Many folks, Dave and I included, headed across the parking lot to the Stanardsville Methodist Church for a tasty lunch of pulled pork barbecue and trimmings held annually to benefit Habitat for Humanity of Greene County. Others moved on to family picnics or neighborhood celebrations. After many hours in the fresh air and our bellies full of good Southern cooking, Dave and I opted for naps.
Celebrating the Fourth of July has been greatly varied for us through the years. Dave and I have seen fireworks in small towns with modest shows, on Army posts with elaborate products including paratroopers descending at night with flares on their feet and even once in Washington, DC where we sat on the steps of the Museum of American History. Each event was special in its own way. What makes our small town celebrations here in Greene County so special to me is that after all the years of moving around, I am finally beginning to feel connected to this community and its people. The festivities here are uncomplicated, warm and open, just as the people who live here are. And that works for me.
After thirteen years and more than one hundred thousand miles together up and down the Eastern Seaboard, it is time to say goodbye to my little cherry red Honda CRV.
We bought her in June, 2000, knowing we were going to have to begin toting massive quantities of stuff with our daughter, Maggie, when she headed off for her first year of college at the end of the summer. During the college years she made many, many trips back and forth from our home base in Virginia Beach to Longwood College in Farmville, Virginia and then to Duke University in Durham, North Carolina, all crammed to the gills with clothes, books, televisions, computers, stereos and all the assorted items a college student needs to make life bearable in a dormitory.
Summers we drove her up to New York, Massachusetts, and Georgia, and for the past few years, down to the Outer Banks (OBX) again chock full of stuff for vacation fun.
Most recently, my sister Barb, and I took her on a girls’ road trip down to Georgia to visit our parents and brother Scott and his wife Debbie. We had a great trip and as you will recall, that is where Barb tested the quality of the brakes, stopping inches before a “road closed” sign.
When it came to shopping, our CRV was perfect for big loads of gardening stuff from multiple bags of soil, or mulch, or both to large groups of shrubs and plants. We have been continually amazed on just what will fit in the back of that car. One time, we were in a Sam’s parking lot and saw a woman and a man attempting to load a television into the trunk of a Ford Taurus (in the days before flat screens). No way it was going to fit or even balance safely. I nudged Dave and told him we had to help them. So, he got out and asked them if they lived far away and offered to deliver the television for them. As it turned out, they only lived a few blocks away so, we popped open the hatch, loaded the TV and followed them to their home. The woman offered to pay a delivery fee, but we were just happy to help.
Yes, our 2000 Honda CRV has been a great car. We were holding onto it because we wanted to give Andy first dibs at it before we bought a new one. This past weekend, he bought his first car in preparation for his move to Washington State. Having no real need to wait, we decided it was time for a change. Monday evening we went off to look at and actually purchased a new car.
What did we buy? A 2013 Honda CRV of course! This morning as I drove my little car to the gym for the last time, I feel more sad than excited. My cherry red CRV has been my baby, my transportation, my reliable companion. I will miss her and hope whoever buys her will treat her as well as we have and continue the adventure.
My friend Lynda, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, has a marvelous gift for embracing life at its fullest and grabbing the hands of those around her to come along for the ride. As I am generally inclined to err on the side of caution, it is good for me to have a friend like Lynda to pull me out of the observation booth and out into the arena of life with all the wonderful adventures it has to offer.
This past Saturday, Dave and I finally headed north on 29 to spend the day with Lynda and her husband, Larry, at the home on Lake Thoreau in Fairfax County. It was an absolute glorious summer day, the kind you wish could be the norm rather than the exception. It was warm and sunny, all blue skies with a comfortable breeze and low humidity. We arrived just before noon bearing Hoffman’s hotdogs my sister, Barb, brought down in April. Larry and Lynda are from Chicago and can truly appreciate the epicurean delight of a real hotdog in a natural casing.
After a quick tour of their home, we began assembling our lunch. First on the list was beverages. Lynda decided she would make a batch of her newly discovered summer drink, the “Beer-garita”, a frozen mixture of limeade, tequila, crushed ice and a bottle of beer. I know you’re probably cringing. I know I did. Especially given my episodes of “aversion therapy” with beer in college, I am still unable to tolerate the taste of beer. Lynda assured me it would be delicious and refreshing and surprisingly it was! It was less biting than a regular margarita and a bit sweeter. I highly recommend this at your next backyard party.
Dave and Larry grilled the hotdogs and we enjoyed them el fresco with slaw and potato chips; barbecue for Larry and I and kettle cooked for Dave and Lynda. Their property backs right up to the lake so the view was one of sun-kissed water lined by shady banks. On the water were a handful of party barges and floating docks ferrying folks out to relax on the water. Since the lake is relatively small, only electric motors are allowed on the watercraft, so there were no loud sounds of revving motors or waves slapping the shore after a boat went by. In fact, it was so quiet, that we could easily hear the song of a sparrow who perched atop the maple tree near our table.
It wasn’t long after lunch that we decided to change into our swim suits and hit the water ourselves. Once we were out a ways, Lynda and I jumped into large tubes and let the boys tow us around the lake. It was more like controlled drifting, but it was heavenly. We lay in the tubes, totally relaxed to the point of limpness, chatting and catching up while Larry and Dave took turns steering and napping. It was total self-indulgence for all of us and it felt ever so good and necessary.
All too soon it was time to head back to the dock so we didn’t run the motor battery completely down and strand ourselves in the lake. Without missing a beat, right after docking, Lynda walked up the house and grabbed her son-in-law’s paddle board and announced we would all be giving it a try.
After a shaky start, Lynda was soon paddling around on the board. I guess to ease me into my turn, she suggested I kneel in front of her on the board as she paddled me around. It was fun. I felt sort of like I was riding a gondola in Venice, or heading down the Amazon in a dugout canoe with Lynda standing behind me, carefully moving the paddle from side to side as we made circles around the lake. Then she headed back and it was my turn.
Keep in mind this is not an activity I would have ever attempted without a nudge. When I see someone doing this kind of activity, I secretly wish I could give it a try, but never voice my desire to anyone lest they actually take me up on it. Instead, it takes a sister-friend, who knows my fears as well as my secret desires to take me by the hand and give me that gentle nudge or in this case hand me the paddle and tell me to climb aboard – literally!
Happily outside my comfort zone paddling on Lake Thoreau!
With much coaching and a less than steady launch, I was off! I can’t say I was totally relaxed on my paddle board adventure. If I had been able, I think my toes would have burrowed into the fiber glass and gripped over the ledge. My arches ached from my attempts to grip with my feet, but I was doing it; I was standing on a board and paddling in small circles atop the water.
The photo Lynda took of me hide my volleying between moments of relaxation and tension but for the most part it felt so good to stretch my wings and try something new. As I look at myself, I see myself standing straight and tall, well-balanced and relaxed. I wish she’d sent me the last picture she took of my paddle board experience. My landing and “de-boarding” was a bit more abrupt and I was tossed over-board as I collided with the dock. Nonetheless, I came up laughing both relieved that my trip was over and proud of myself for giving it a try.
So, today I’m walking a little taller knowing that I tried something new this weekend and reminded what a good friend I have who will lead me into fun adventures despite my moments of doubt.
As I said before, the Jersey Shore isn’t how I remembered it; or as anyone else remembers it either. They may have rebuilt the boardwalk at Seaside Heights but there are still many signs of the devastation wrought by Hurricane Sandy last fall.
It was surprising how little damage appeared on Sandy Hook. In fact, Fort Hancock and the Lighthouse seemed to have held up very well. The ranger commented that many of the basements of the quarters were flooded, but the water never even reached the lighthouse proper.
When we drove across the bridge to the mainland to grab some lunch in Sea Bright, it was quite a different story.
All morning long Arwed and Teresa spoke so much about the Sea Bright Pizzeria that our mouths were watering. Teresa was even putting dibs on which toppings she wanted. Having spent a good part of our youths eating good, Jersey pizza, were more than ready to “have a slice”!
As we drove along the beach road into town, I saw that many new walk-overs were being built over the wall. Then I turned my attention to the other side of the street and got a look at what Sandy had done to many of the homes. It was difficult to tell which ones were merely lucky from those who had better insurance, but it wasn’t difficult to tell which ones were truly unfortunate. Some home were gone, with just a sandy lot and remnants of pavement showing where a driveway was.
Downtown was the same, except that the more heavily damaged buildings had been demolished and were just gaps in the storefronts. Soon it became clear that our pizzeria, although standing, was not open for business. Arwed was crushed. We tried to find somewhere else to eat in town, to show our support, but there wasn’t really anything open but a small tiki bar offering drinks and grilled food from a make-shift outdoor kitchen. The patrons sat at small tables surrounded by giant walls of sand and the festive sound of steel drums filled the air. Clearly this was a local hangout and although it would have been okay for us to stay, it had all the ambiance of a neighborhood party, but the celebration was much muted.
Like small shoots of green on a hillside after a fire, life at the Jersey Shore seems to be beginning to recover. There are scenes of devastation and hopeful camaraderie standing side by side. On the positive side, I’ve never seen such light traffic on a sunny Saturday in June, either on the Parkway, or in the town.
The beaches are still there, so go and enjoy. But maybe just for this year, pack a lunch.
Things are definitely not as I remember them at the Jersey shore.
This past weekend Dave and I drove to Boonton, NJ to spend the weekend with Maggie’s soon-to-be-in-laws, Arwed and Teresa. After a leisurely European style breakfast of hearty breads, cheese, meats, fruit and scrambled eggs, we decided to take a drive out to Sandy Hook to visit the beach and then have a late lunch at an authentic New Jersey pizzeria. Our mouths were watering just thinking about it!
Despite the torrential rain Dave and I drove through the day before, Saturday was the typical day-after-a-storm; all blue skies with a few puffy white clouds. Surprisingly traffic on the Parkway wasn’t even bad and soon we were entering the Sandy Hook National Park. Arwed drove us to the far end of the spit to the remains of Fort Hancock.
Fort Hancock was built a little more than a hundred years ago to defend New York Harbor from attack. Today it is maintained by the National Park Service and is pretty much a ghost town. But, despite its lack of care, the grandeur can still be seen in the identical officer quarters precisely spaced equidistant from each other as they look over the bay with the New York skyline in the background. On the ocean side, batteries and gun placements silently remain on watch, unmanned.
Built in 1764, the lighthouse at Sandy Hook is the oldest lighthouse in the US in continuous operation.
A little further south of Fort Hancock stands the Sandy Hook Lighthouse which actually predates the fort by almost one hundred and fifty years. Today it seems an odd location for a lighthouse since it sits so far away from the water’s edge but when built, the light sat only five hundred feet from the tip of the spit.
Tours to the top of the light were offered every half hour. Dave and Arwed couldn’t resist the climb so they signed up for the earliest available tour which allowed us an hour to explore more of the park. It seemed like the perfect time to check out the beach.
We got back in the car and drove to the first beach parking area we came to and began our hike to the shore.
It was a long walk; at least half a mile from the edge of the dunes to the shoreline. Part of the way we walked on a blue fiber walkway which protected the dunes and made the walk easier on our legs. As we stepped off the walkway we met an older gentleman who stopped and remarked rather dryly, that “the trouble with a nude beach is having to put on your trunks to go to the restrooms!” Oh you Jersey guys, I thought, always joking around…..
As were reached the lifeguard station, it became apparent that he wasn’t joking. There was a large sign that read; “Clothing Optional Beach on Right”.
All righty then.
Without seeming too obvious, I scanned to my right. It was definitely a clothing optional beach. I suppose I wasn’t as surprised that there were nude beaches, just that they were part of the National Park system. When they say there is something for everyone, they mean it!
My American prudishness caught me off guard. Even though I was fully dressed, I felt as though I were the naked person walking amid those in clothing. The naturists around me were not the least bit concerned about who would see them which put me a little more at ease but to say I was completely comfortable with the idea would be far from correct. Any preconceived notions I had about these places were blown away. This was not the playground of supermodels. In fact, most of the people I saw would have been unremarkable on any beach had they been dressed. They were totally ordinary, with ordinary bodies, much the same as my own. If I’d chosen to join them, what would have made me different would have been the paleness of my skin, not my unwanted lumps and bumps.
The distraction of the nude beach made us lose track of time and soon we were hustling our way back to the car so Dave and Arwed could take their lighthouse tour and then we could head off to the Jersey pizza we’d been so anxiously anticipating.
This peony in my garden is very similar to those used in my wedding flowers
In the beginning – of my memory – there is a word, or better described as a sound; “peenees”.
It was a word I would hear my Grandma Farner use when speaking to my parents about her garden. I knew the “peenee” was a part of it, but I didn’t know what. Grandma’s garden was enormous and was full of so many flowers and vegetables in neat rows of green. Sometimes in the summer, we would take a ride over to Grandma and Grandpa’s after supper. Summer visits always included garden inspections. As a small child with no real knowledge of what was what in those lines, all I could determine was that peenees were something special and my Grandma liked to talk about them.
Later in my childhood, as I became more aware of the differences in garden plants, I began to see that the plants that once were a blur of green were actually different. One in particular that caught my eye looked like lollipops on a stick, tight balls of green with bright colors peaking through atop tall stems. It wasn’t so much their resemblance to candy that held my attention but the fact they were covered with large black ants. When I asked my mother about the ants, she said those were “peenee” buds and the ants helped them blossom. Her simple answer was enough for me and I continued to watch the ants but lost interest when the flowers opened and have no recollection of what they looked like.
Many years later, while working for Agway Gardens in Fayetteville, NY, I learned there was an old peony field ( with age comes wisdom, or at least knowledge) behind our store. One late May day at lunch time I walked back into the fields and was amazed to see acres of pink and white pompom blooms dancing in the afternoon breeze. So that’s what they looked like. I was surprised not only by their beauty but by the fact that this was the third spring I’d worked at this store and was just discovering this bounty of peonies!
Timing is everything. With my wedding just a few weeks away, the blooms held and I was able to pick at least a peck of peonies to fill in the arrangements my friend Beth created for us.
And so, peonies are big part of my spring garden watch. Everywhere we have lived, we have planted at least one peony. In early spring I watch for the first sprigs of green to peak from under the mulch and make almost daily garden inspections, taking note of the foliage, buds and naturally the ant assistance until late May when the blossoms finally open into their spectacular glory.
Every time I walk the beds I am aware that I am carrying on a family tradition, although on a much smaller scale. This time of year, when I see my peonies, I understand what all the fuss was about and why Grandma was so happy to have them in her garden. I am happy as well and thankful that looking at these flowers takes me back to my childhood and brings the echo of my Grandma’s voice alive in my memory.
