Point Pleasant, where my son touched the ocean for the 1st time in June then and now. 
Women of God can never be like women of the world. The world has enough women who are tough; we need women who are tender. There are enough women who are coarse; we need women who are kind. There are enough women who are rude; we need women who are refined. We have enough women of fame and fortune; we need more women of faith. We have enough greed; we need more goodness. We have enough vanity; we need more virtue. We have enough popularity; we need more purity. Margaret D. Nadauld
Showing posts with label NJ. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NJ. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Thursday, November 08, 2012
We Take Care of Our Own
I lived in New Jersey for most of my life, with the exception of five years in my early teens that I spent in Utah, my college years in New Hampshire and the last eight on the northern plains. During all those times, however, a piece of heart has remained back home in the garden state. Watching the devastation wrought by Sandy, and now a nor’easter has been heartbreaking. Words can’t even begin to describe my emotions right now.
I spent a lot of time at the shore as a teenager. My friends and I would drive down from northern NJ and go to Point Pleasant or usually Seaside. We’d spend the day in the sand and then play on the boardwalk until it was time for the long drive back north. We were definitely day trippers. As I got older, I started going to Long Beach Island, and spending time there. Its just the beach, no boardwalk. I read Stephen King’s The Stand amongst the dunes of Beach Haven. I learned that Jack Daniels is no friend of mine at a rental one summer. For day trips, I would go to Island Beach State Park-it was closer, and quiet.
This past June, we went home for the first time in eight years. My son went to the shore for the first time, at Point Pleasant. It was his first opportunity to play the games and ride the rides, and most notably, feel the sand and ocean. There is something magical about all that combined. There is the smell of salt air and food from the boardwalk. The noise and lights and the game barkers trying to convince you to play all circulate in your head. I had my beloved salt water taffy. Someone else ate my fudge. It was glorious.
Seeing the boardwalks of my youth destroyed has ripped my soul a little bit. I am so glad that we had the chance to share it with the Little Man before it was gone forever. I am heartsick that tens of thousands of people are still without power. Thousands have been left homeless. Just look at those sentences. Thousands of people have no homes. That is staggering. It will be years before all is rebuilt and recovered. In the meantime, the needs are vast.
If you want to help, there are many ways to donate.
Give to the Red Cross, Episcopal Relief and Development, Salvation Army or Feeding America.
Donate blood.
Send cards and care packages to first responders who are working tirelessly to help their communities recover.
Send school supplies to students who have lost theirs.
Pray.
And when its back open for business, go to the shore.
They will recover. They are Jersey Strong and we take care of our own.
I spent a lot of time at the shore as a teenager. My friends and I would drive down from northern NJ and go to Point Pleasant or usually Seaside. We’d spend the day in the sand and then play on the boardwalk until it was time for the long drive back north. We were definitely day trippers. As I got older, I started going to Long Beach Island, and spending time there. Its just the beach, no boardwalk. I read Stephen King’s The Stand amongst the dunes of Beach Haven. I learned that Jack Daniels is no friend of mine at a rental one summer. For day trips, I would go to Island Beach State Park-it was closer, and quiet.
This past June, we went home for the first time in eight years. My son went to the shore for the first time, at Point Pleasant. It was his first opportunity to play the games and ride the rides, and most notably, feel the sand and ocean. There is something magical about all that combined. There is the smell of salt air and food from the boardwalk. The noise and lights and the game barkers trying to convince you to play all circulate in your head. I had my beloved salt water taffy. Someone else ate my fudge. It was glorious.
Seeing the boardwalks of my youth destroyed has ripped my soul a little bit. I am so glad that we had the chance to share it with the Little Man before it was gone forever. I am heartsick that tens of thousands of people are still without power. Thousands have been left homeless. Just look at those sentences. Thousands of people have no homes. That is staggering. It will be years before all is rebuilt and recovered. In the meantime, the needs are vast.
If you want to help, there are many ways to donate.
Give to the Red Cross, Episcopal Relief and Development, Salvation Army or Feeding America.
Donate blood.
Send cards and care packages to first responders who are working tirelessly to help their communities recover.
Send school supplies to students who have lost theirs.
Pray.
And when its back open for business, go to the shore.
They will recover. They are Jersey Strong and we take care of our own.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Cemetery gates
I grew up in New Jersey, where there is a lot of history-and apparently a lot of hauntings.
I must preface this with the disclaimer I have never seen a ghost. Believe me, I really really REALLY want to-but, alas it has yet to be. That is to say I have not tried to make it happen. I just have not had that fortune come my way.
Growing up, I was fascinated by supernatural tales. It started with Hans Holzer, then it intertwined with my love of history. I am also a huge history buff, and a lot of ghost stories are also a retelling of a particular place’s history.
For example, the Hermitage in Ho Ho Kus, NJ. At one point in time, Aaron Burr lived there. George Washington slept there. In high school, I helped restore and curate costumes there. It was a house built in the mid 1700’s, and had been renovated two centuries later to open as a historical locale.
As I’ve said before, I have never seen a ghost. I have, however, felt weird things. Off limits to the general public, the upper levels were where the docents worked and I did some of the restoration work. I was mostly there on Saturday afternoons, and especially in mid-winter, the sun would stream through original leaded windows and it would be particularly warm and inviting. However, there would be an occasional cold breeze that would waft through. No explanation, just this momentary blast of cold air and as soon as it was there, it was gone. Other people have reported footsteps, hearing voices and one particularly dramatic docent was convinced she had seen Aaron Burr himself.
In the neighboring town was Lester Manor. It burned down in the mid 1970’s, and if memory serves correctly, prior to the fire it resembled a prototypical haunted house. After the fire, the town bought the property and renovated the stables, turning them into an arts center. My writing group met there, and there were times when the overwhelming scent of horses and hay would be smelled. I never experienced it, and the stables were not used as such for the better part of a century previously.
I felt, smelled, saw nothing.
I think every community, or region, has the equivalent of the ghostly hitchhiker or ghost girl on the roadway. In Suffern, NY you have Violent ( sometimes she’s called Lavendar), in Chicago there is a girl by a cemetery that wants to go dancing. Totowa, NJ has Annie. Annie was either killed walking to or from her prom (or was it homecoming? Winter formal?) and she was run over by a drunk driver (or was it her dad?) the particulars are lost to history, but she still walks Riverview Drive where she allegedly was killed-conveniently across the street from the cemetery where she is buried. Her blood stain is still on the road where she died. Despite many a night with friends back in our high school days, we never saw Annie, or anything even creepy.
In Princeton, there are supposedly as many ghosts as students it seems. Most buildings on the campus report a ghost or two, or more. Allegedly, Albert Einstein still rattles the doorknobs at his former home. A woman had been murdered in her basement on Mercer St (just down the block from where Albert lived), and I do believe the murder went unsolved. Supposedly, people still see her gardening in her yard. I think she might be angry that Opus Dei now calls her beloved place home. Even my church was reported to have a ghost or two. On the upper floor, in the tiny garret that was home to children and youth ministry, it used to be either the organist’s home or the rector’s home at one point in time, and again (allegedly) others experienced other worldly phenomena.
Me, nothing. Nada. Nunca. Niente. Nein.
Princeton battlefield-supposedly haunted. Me, great place to go and read on a spring day.
The Mercer Oak (now the Mercer Twig, as the original tree was struck by lightening and died-now its been replanted), again supposedly haunted. Again, I think nothing of picnicking in its shadow.
For every place that George Washington allegedly slept, there also are places that are haunted. Try as I might, I never did encounter that ghostly figure in NJ.
I must preface this with the disclaimer I have never seen a ghost. Believe me, I really really REALLY want to-but, alas it has yet to be. That is to say I have not tried to make it happen. I just have not had that fortune come my way.
Growing up, I was fascinated by supernatural tales. It started with Hans Holzer, then it intertwined with my love of history. I am also a huge history buff, and a lot of ghost stories are also a retelling of a particular place’s history.
For example, the Hermitage in Ho Ho Kus, NJ. At one point in time, Aaron Burr lived there. George Washington slept there. In high school, I helped restore and curate costumes there. It was a house built in the mid 1700’s, and had been renovated two centuries later to open as a historical locale.
As I’ve said before, I have never seen a ghost. I have, however, felt weird things. Off limits to the general public, the upper levels were where the docents worked and I did some of the restoration work. I was mostly there on Saturday afternoons, and especially in mid-winter, the sun would stream through original leaded windows and it would be particularly warm and inviting. However, there would be an occasional cold breeze that would waft through. No explanation, just this momentary blast of cold air and as soon as it was there, it was gone. Other people have reported footsteps, hearing voices and one particularly dramatic docent was convinced she had seen Aaron Burr himself.
In the neighboring town was Lester Manor. It burned down in the mid 1970’s, and if memory serves correctly, prior to the fire it resembled a prototypical haunted house. After the fire, the town bought the property and renovated the stables, turning them into an arts center. My writing group met there, and there were times when the overwhelming scent of horses and hay would be smelled. I never experienced it, and the stables were not used as such for the better part of a century previously.
I felt, smelled, saw nothing.
I think every community, or region, has the equivalent of the ghostly hitchhiker or ghost girl on the roadway. In Suffern, NY you have Violent ( sometimes she’s called Lavendar), in Chicago there is a girl by a cemetery that wants to go dancing. Totowa, NJ has Annie. Annie was either killed walking to or from her prom (or was it homecoming? Winter formal?) and she was run over by a drunk driver (or was it her dad?) the particulars are lost to history, but she still walks Riverview Drive where she allegedly was killed-conveniently across the street from the cemetery where she is buried. Her blood stain is still on the road where she died. Despite many a night with friends back in our high school days, we never saw Annie, or anything even creepy.
In Princeton, there are supposedly as many ghosts as students it seems. Most buildings on the campus report a ghost or two, or more. Allegedly, Albert Einstein still rattles the doorknobs at his former home. A woman had been murdered in her basement on Mercer St (just down the block from where Albert lived), and I do believe the murder went unsolved. Supposedly, people still see her gardening in her yard. I think she might be angry that Opus Dei now calls her beloved place home. Even my church was reported to have a ghost or two. On the upper floor, in the tiny garret that was home to children and youth ministry, it used to be either the organist’s home or the rector’s home at one point in time, and again (allegedly) others experienced other worldly phenomena.
Me, nothing. Nada. Nunca. Niente. Nein.
Princeton battlefield-supposedly haunted. Me, great place to go and read on a spring day.
The Mercer Oak (now the Mercer Twig, as the original tree was struck by lightening and died-now its been replanted), again supposedly haunted. Again, I think nothing of picnicking in its shadow.
For every place that George Washington allegedly slept, there also are places that are haunted. Try as I might, I never did encounter that ghostly figure in NJ.
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