Lakewood, New Jersey was well past its prime by the time I became cognisant. It had had its heydays of being a Jewish resort and then the center of egg production during the second World War. The resort hotels were still there but barely hanging on, disappearing via an annual immolation (or so it seemed) and the dilapidated chicken coops were torn down when someone came up with a better use for the land. Even though we were about 20 minutes from the shore, the town latched onto the Jersey Shore connection for dear life and so my family did its civic duty and went to the beach.
Every Sunday throughout the year we had our ritual but it was enhanced during the summer. We began with 9AM mass (which later got moved to 8:45 to accommodate traffic), which of course meant getting up at 7:30 to prep. This prep did not include breakfast (that was after mass) but showers, putting on our suits and getting to the church. We were always late, mostly because of my mother. She of course always blames it on the fact she had three men to get ready, but she never did anything to help us. It was just part of the unquestioned family myth. Mother always had to have a hat as well, even after no one had hats anymore. We would then pile in the car and race to church, parking in an illegal place or behind another car ("we all should be going to mass, so if someone else is parked in the church lot, they will just have to wait until we get out.").
After mass, we would stop at Pat's tobacco shop for the paper and, if we were good in church, candy bars for me and my brother (we always were). Back in the car then and off to the bakery for a dozen hard rolls. When we got home, we put the rolls in the oven to keep (or get) warm, changed clothes (in the summer, bathing suits) and prepared breakfast. We always had the same: eggs, the rolls and either bacon or, a New Jersey-specific smoked meat called Pork Roll. It is sort of spam-like, but better.
In the summer, once breakfast was done, we would pile back in the car and head to the beach. This may sound exciting, but really, I don't remember loving it. Piling back in the car, we would follow the traffic across the drawbridge (which was open most Sundays, holding up traffic), to find parking and head to the sand. We each had our beach towels (mine had red and blue stripes with gold anchors!), the beach umbrella, a cooler with iced tea and (of all things) Fig Newtons and always a beach chair for my grandmother and mother.
My grandmother smoked Parliament cigarettes and could never light them at the beach. My father, who had been a heavy smoker of everything but quit cold turkey when I was about 4, lit these for her and then handed them off, never yearning for more. I remember the look and smell of that first puff.
After a number of hours and the tea and Fig Newtons gone, we would pack up the car again and head home, but first, we would stop at Mrs. Guido's for corn and tomatoes. She was the owner of a farm stand on our way home and it was always here that we would go, never to another stand. I often wonder what happened to her after my father died and we stopped our Sunday treks. We would invariably have a barbecue, with the corn and tomatoes and either hamburgers, steak (on a good day) or, a chicken on the rotisserie. The rotisserie was an odd purchase for my family. My grandmother moved in with us probably when I was 8 or 10 and she must have given my parents money for something (bills? a specific purpose? to help out?). Anyway, our parents used the money for an outdoor, charcoal rotisserie for chicken. I know my grandmother always resented it because the money was supposed to be for something else. I can still remember the sound of the motor running for hours.
Those Sunday evenings were quite often spent in pain of sunburn, with sleepless nights and enduring the heat (we had no air conditioning, but only one window fan per bedroom; and I shared a bed with my brother).
This whole remembrance came from Helmut lighting a cigarette on the beach in Italy. Strange how a smell can trigger your memory stronger than anything else.
Every Sunday throughout the year we had our ritual but it was enhanced during the summer. We began with 9AM mass (which later got moved to 8:45 to accommodate traffic), which of course meant getting up at 7:30 to prep. This prep did not include breakfast (that was after mass) but showers, putting on our suits and getting to the church. We were always late, mostly because of my mother. She of course always blames it on the fact she had three men to get ready, but she never did anything to help us. It was just part of the unquestioned family myth. Mother always had to have a hat as well, even after no one had hats anymore. We would then pile in the car and race to church, parking in an illegal place or behind another car ("we all should be going to mass, so if someone else is parked in the church lot, they will just have to wait until we get out.").
After mass, we would stop at Pat's tobacco shop for the paper and, if we were good in church, candy bars for me and my brother (we always were). Back in the car then and off to the bakery for a dozen hard rolls. When we got home, we put the rolls in the oven to keep (or get) warm, changed clothes (in the summer, bathing suits) and prepared breakfast. We always had the same: eggs, the rolls and either bacon or, a New Jersey-specific smoked meat called Pork Roll. It is sort of spam-like, but better.
In the summer, once breakfast was done, we would pile back in the car and head to the beach. This may sound exciting, but really, I don't remember loving it. Piling back in the car, we would follow the traffic across the drawbridge (which was open most Sundays, holding up traffic), to find parking and head to the sand. We each had our beach towels (mine had red and blue stripes with gold anchors!), the beach umbrella, a cooler with iced tea and (of all things) Fig Newtons and always a beach chair for my grandmother and mother.
My grandmother smoked Parliament cigarettes and could never light them at the beach. My father, who had been a heavy smoker of everything but quit cold turkey when I was about 4, lit these for her and then handed them off, never yearning for more. I remember the look and smell of that first puff.
After a number of hours and the tea and Fig Newtons gone, we would pack up the car again and head home, but first, we would stop at Mrs. Guido's for corn and tomatoes. She was the owner of a farm stand on our way home and it was always here that we would go, never to another stand. I often wonder what happened to her after my father died and we stopped our Sunday treks. We would invariably have a barbecue, with the corn and tomatoes and either hamburgers, steak (on a good day) or, a chicken on the rotisserie. The rotisserie was an odd purchase for my family. My grandmother moved in with us probably when I was 8 or 10 and she must have given my parents money for something (bills? a specific purpose? to help out?). Anyway, our parents used the money for an outdoor, charcoal rotisserie for chicken. I know my grandmother always resented it because the money was supposed to be for something else. I can still remember the sound of the motor running for hours.
Those Sunday evenings were quite often spent in pain of sunburn, with sleepless nights and enduring the heat (we had no air conditioning, but only one window fan per bedroom; and I shared a bed with my brother).
This whole remembrance came from Helmut lighting a cigarette on the beach in Italy. Strange how a smell can trigger your memory stronger than anything else.
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