Although I was born in Bristol PA, New Jersey is my home. Down by the shore. Right on it actually, now that I'm out renting. I'm living in Seaside Heights at the moment, right smack in the middle of tourist central. Very quiet and lonely during the off season, jam packed with Bennies and Webs during the summer. The smell of the boardwalk permeates the air every summer night, and day for that matter. But I wasn't always here.
I grew up in a little neighborhood called Breton Woods, a small community within the Township of Brick, New Jersey about 10 miles north and 4 miles inland from where I live now. It was one of those summer communities popularized in the late 30's nestled along the Metedeconk River. Complete with club house and private marina, maps bore it's name rather than the town it occupied because of it being so well known. That and because it had a Post Office.
My family along with a handful of others would have the entire neighborhood to ourselves during the off season. All of the homes started off as summer cottages that were eventually expanded as families made the move to 'All Year Rounders', thus shedding the term of endearment 'Bennies' forever. There weren't many fences so practically the entire neighborhood was my own, personal back yard. The change was nice. I remember silent, snowy winters just as fondly as the sizzling summers it was famous for.
So then, the summer months would arrive. One day a lonely, quiet neighborhood, the next a summertime retreat full of bar-b-ques, beer, boating and Bennies. Just about all of us were Bennies, at least for a time. Oh, and for those of you who might not know what a Bennie is, it's the term given (good naturedly) to the 'summer only' residents. Nobody really knows where the term came from. Possibly it's an acronym for Bayone Edison Newark and New York. Some even say it was because there would always be someone hanging out the front door yelling, "Benny! Dinner's ready!" but no one knows for sure. "Shoebees," because they wore their shoes on the beach. Then, there were the "Webs", which were WeekEnd-Bas*#%ds that only came down on the weekends and plugged up our roadways and congested our highways.
The Breton Woods Clubhouse
Ah, the Clubhouse. Everybody gathered at the Clubhouse. There were always activities virtually every day of the week. The Clubhouse was a young mother's dream. There were swimming lessons, shuffle board and other games, Arts & Crafts, Kiddy Show rehearsals, Teen Show rehearsals, all of which were lovingly equipped with baby sit... uh... chaperons. There was even a concession stand so Mom could stuff a buck in my pocket for a hot dog and a soda. If there wasn't anything going on at any particular time, I could always just hang out and get beat up by the older kids.
Then there was the beach and the swimming area. The beach was divided into 2 sections: The East Side and The West Side, separated by the Club House itself. The West Side was where the young parents would bring their newborns and toddlers. Mom would fuss over the newborn on the beach while Dad dangled Junior in the shallow water by the wrists just out of reach of the lurking crabs below. The East Side was also known as The Adult Side. Although this was the side with the basket ball court and the huge steel swing set, it was where all the parents would gather and talk about their kids behind their backs. At the very most, I was permitted to show up and politely say, 'Hello' to everyone and beg a buck or two from Mom and Dad for a soda or something. Then it was, "Beat it." This was Adult Time on the Adult Side of the beach.
I could always change the dollar out for some quarters and play some pinball. Nah. I could count the times I played pinball in that concession stand. For one thing, I wasn't very good at it. I was sure it was alive and knew exactly who was playing it at any given time. Mark could stand there for hours wracking up free game after game all for a single quarter. He'd slam it, bump it, bash it, kick it... yell at it. It was amazing. The silver ball would bounce and dart all over the place, occasionally attempting escape by darting down the center to the exit. But one more clever bump from Mark would send it back up to the top of the machine only to do it all over again. Twenty seven million, four hundred and fifty thousand, six hundred and seventy two points later Mark would get bored and give a free game to me.
Ok, 3 balls. Make the best of them. Ploink-woosh! The first ball was off. Ding-ding-ding... bumpity-bump-bump-bump... Oh no! Already it's making toward it's escape! But I knew just what to do. As soon as it struck the lower guide rail, I'd cleverly bump it ever so slightly...
TILT.
Now just do that two more times and you have my typical game faster than you can say, "Aren't you glad you didn't spend your own quarter on that?" So, my pinball career was never imagined let alone lived. I would rather spend my money on something tangible, like a soda or an ice-cream cone. Looking down at my gut now, perhaps I should have tried harder at the pinball. Oh well.
The swimming area was cool. The swimming area was defined by about 6 or so pilings spaced evenly in a semi-curve approximately 20 feet apart from each other. They were always painted some bright color, usually yellow with blue stripes at the top. To finish the effect, there were fish cut out of plywood also brightly painted and nailed to the top of each piling. A line connected all these pilings draped just below the water's surface. Inside this area - little kids and parents a-dangling. Beyond - older kids and adults. But beyond yet, was... The Raft.
The Raft was a floating platform anchored out where the water was about 10 to 15 feet deep. It was approximately 16 feet by 12 if memory serves, with a ladder on the side for easy access. It was stable enough, even when a boat would get too close and rock it with it's wake. But this was more than just a Raft. Oh, yes. The Raft was a Right of Passage. You just weren't a proper kid until you had permission to go to The Raft. Right of Passage was attained when you could swim beyond the fish-topped pilings and brave the deeper waters completely unassisted without drowning. After hauling yourself up the ladder, it was all you could do to keep from spewing forth half a lung's worth of river water, suspending your arms above your head in victory all the while praying that your face was turning at the very least a pleasant shade of blue. You waited... and waited. Then you got the signal. Thumbs up from the life guard! Oh, this was a great day. Parents and friends alike reveled in joy while Mom chewed off every last fingernail she'd been growing for the past year. Getting back was easy because you could get a running start and be within a few yards of standing safely with your head above water upon emerging.
Several days a week all summer long we would rehearse for our respective shows. The Kiddy Show for the little ones and the Teen Show for the older kids. The only shows I can remember are a Teen Show based on the song by The Temptations, "Ball of Confusion" and a Kiddy Show where we performed "Mary Poppins". After much negotiations and contract complications, I managed to land the part of Burt. The only thing I can remember about the play was the costume that I had to wear for the chalk painting park scene and the song "Jolly Holiday". The jacket was a white jacket that I was just about grown out of with red electrical tape all over it. We got the bamboo cane right. Every kid loves to legally possess a nice, long stick he can swat his fellow thespians with. But the straw hat... Ugh. Everyone knew what that straw hat was supposed to look like. Surely SOMEONE had one with a paper labeled "Republicans" on it from some past election stashed in the back of their closet. But alas, no. I had to go on stage looking more like The Artful Dodger than Burt. The thing looked like a bean pot made of dried up, woven corn husks with a big fat red ribbon on it. I felt silly. The only thing preventing me from throwing my guts up right then and there was fact that we had a follow-spot that blinded me, preventing me from seeing any of the audience that I was CONVINCED was pointing at my hat laughing hysterically.
Along came Jeff
It wasn't unusual for neighbors up north to have the same neighbors down at the shore. Such was the case with my father. And so the same bond of friendship extended from parents to children and grandchildren. One of my life-long friends is one such grandchild. Not an all-year-rounder - I guess you might call us AYRs. Hmmm... "an AYR of Breton Woods..." I like that! Perhaps that'll catch on. Anyway, not an AYR, not even a Bennie or a WEB was my friend Jeff. Jeff never lived in Breton Woods, but his grandparents did. So when Jeff's parents visited of course along came Jeff.
Jeff and I were around the same age and had the same silly sense of humor much to the bane of our parents. When Jeff wasn't visiting, I'd address letters (yes, actual letters! We'd affix little pieces of paper on them with glue called "stamps"... okay, fine) to his home address in Bronxville NY and keep in touch with him that way. The letters of course were strewn with the same silliness that we displayed when we were in each other's company. I'd write him and check the mail every day after awaiting his reply more anxiously than a package from Battle Creek Michigan. Actually, in all truth, I think I recall the two of us sending our box-tops away, along with two dollars for shipping and handling to Battle Creek and then awaiting to receive our secret decoder ring or something-or-other.
The Jersey Blues
Jeff was quieter than I. My sister is quite convinced that I was ADHD as a child, and I guess I'd have to agree with her. Perhaps I still am. Oooh look! A bunny rabbit! Oh, where was I? Oh yes. When Jeff was visiting, whichever one of us was up first would go and knock on the bedroom window of the other. Then the two of us would go down to the T-Dock, a small, private marina exclusively for Brentonians. It wasn't much more than a hundred steps away our homes. We'd bring our crab nets and poke around the dock and bulkheads for crabs. Jeff would seldom speak a single word as I'd be yammering on the entire time. Although Jeff NEVER said "shut up" to me, Bell Hodes had no problem saying it what-so-ever. "Who is that? Chris Boylan? It's still early! You be more quiet Chris Boylan or I'll go and get your father!" Bell's voice would come rolling down from the little gazebo that sat on the edge of her property over-looking the T-Dock. Jeff would snicker, indicating that he agreed her and was at the same time amused that we ticked off Mrs. Hodes. Ah, Bell Hodes. Funny how she shows up in the part where I'm talking about crabs.
The crabs were Jersey Blue Claws. We weren't supposed to keep the females or any males that measured under 6 inches from their shells tip to tip, and we didn't need to. There were plenty enough qualifying males to go around. No boat. No bait. No string, no trap. Just our long handled crab nets. We'd quietly (yeah, I know...) start on one end of the property walking on top of the bulkhead and work our way around, cautiously peering over and down into the water. And there, the crabs would hang face up... face? I don't know if crabs have a face... okay, eye-stalks up hanging on to the barnacles. It took some acquired skill to slowly dip your net into the water a distance away from the un-suspecting crab. Slowly... slowly... move it closer until, Swish! Scrape! And there was your crab. You got used to the fact that it looked larger when it was magnified by the water, but still - what a monster! These Jersey Blue Claws were absolutely huge. I was a bit smaller then, but it's a fact that the crabs were really big back then. I understand that they are making a nice healthy come back in recent years. We'd often come across a "double-decker", which of course was a naive kids way of describing two crabs together that were actually, well you get the picture.
Then there would be the soft-shelled crab, "Softies" for short. These of course were the crabs that have recently shed their shells and were vulnerable for the short while it took for their new shells to harden. I will always think of my Aunt Mary's affinity for Softies when ever I see or think of one. She absolutely LOVES Soft-Shell crab sandwiches.
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. Just wonderful," she'd reply.
"Well, which part do you eat?" I asked curiously.
"All of it." came the answer.
"All of it?" I cringed.
"All of it!" accompanied by a look that suggested, "What's wrong with you?"
"Of course! You just fry them up in a little oil and put them between two slices of bread, and Yum yum yum..."
Okay, now the line's been crossed. I still get a bit queezy when the lobster hits the boiling water and you'd swear that you're hearing the sound track from The Fly, "Help me! Help me..." This is all I need, having an active imagination. "The Screaming of the Crabs." I'm a well rounded Jersey Shore guy, but eating something with it's claws and legs dangling out from the sides of my bread... Is there a sniglet for that? I think "splooge" is when your deli cold-cuts slide out the back end of your sandwich, but I don't know if crab legs and claws qualify for that. There must be a separate sniglet for that one. Anyway, I enjoy lobster, shrimp and crab PARTS just as much as the next guy, but I draw the line at putting anything in my mouth that has eye stalks.
Some of my fondest Breton Woods memories are of my exploits with Jeff. Although it's been many years that I've seen or talked with him, I know that if I were to see him tomorrow it would be just as if no time had passed. It's special indeed when a friendship spans from diapers to, well, right back to diapers again, I guess. Too much information?
Venturing out
Breton Woods is quaint, warm and a really great place to grow up. But there came an age where I thought that it just wasn't enough to contain the expanding yearns and desires of approaching manhood. So, by the time I was 37... just kidding. I was probably around 13 when my bike riding skills took me across town to another neighborhood within our town, Lake Riviera. It even sounds snootier, doesn't it? Lake Riviera. It was really no more upper class than Breton Woods, but it was certainly a newer development, so my friends that lived there would lob that one at me in lieu of sticks and stones and other adolescent ammunition. Harmless, friendly one-upsmanship. I knew better and kept it to myself. Now who's the snob, huh? So, much of my later adolescence was spent over there, but I always felt the difference. Good, friendly people of course, but... something was always missing.
I was very fond of my friends in Lake Riveria and we most always hung out over there. It's only now that I look back and realize that I was able to fit in there, while my friends weren't comfortable with the lifestyle of Breton Woods. It was a lifestyle that was only shared with those little communities within communities that crowded around the Metedeconk River. Anyone that lived and grew up elsewhere didn't experience the anticipation of Summer and the return of old friends... the sadness when Labor Day arrived and it was time for them to leave and go back up north for the remaining seasons. It was truly a feeling of family, a feeling of belonging.
Home
My father's parents purchased the little Breton Woods house I grew up in for approximately seventeen hundred bucks back in 1938 and were Bennies themselves. They, along with my dad and his two brothers went back and forth seasonally between there and Newark. They experienced the same if not deeper Breton Woods life that I enjoyed. It wasn't until around 1960 with my grandparents passing that my family moved in permanently and became all-year-rounders. As it happens in life, change is inevitable. My mother passed away some years back and finally with my father's passing, I was forced to sell our home in Breton Woods. I'd like to move back there one day, but for now I'm living not too far away on the coast in Seaside Heights. But of course, it's not the same. Oh, it's a proud town - full of tradition and a story all it's own. But that's not my story.
I love you Breton Woods. No matter where I live, you will always be my home.
I grew up in a little neighborhood called Breton Woods, a small community within the Township of Brick, New Jersey about 10 miles north and 4 miles inland from where I live now. It was one of those summer communities popularized in the late 30's nestled along the Metedeconk River. Complete with club house and private marina, maps bore it's name rather than the town it occupied because of it being so well known. That and because it had a Post Office.
My family along with a handful of others would have the entire neighborhood to ourselves during the off season. All of the homes started off as summer cottages that were eventually expanded as families made the move to 'All Year Rounders', thus shedding the term of endearment 'Bennies' forever. There weren't many fences so practically the entire neighborhood was my own, personal back yard. The change was nice. I remember silent, snowy winters just as fondly as the sizzling summers it was famous for.
So then, the summer months would arrive. One day a lonely, quiet neighborhood, the next a summertime retreat full of bar-b-ques, beer, boating and Bennies. Just about all of us were Bennies, at least for a time. Oh, and for those of you who might not know what a Bennie is, it's the term given (good naturedly) to the 'summer only' residents. Nobody really knows where the term came from. Possibly it's an acronym for Bayone Edison Newark and New York. Some even say it was because there would always be someone hanging out the front door yelling, "Benny! Dinner's ready!" but no one knows for sure. "Shoebees," because they wore their shoes on the beach. Then, there were the "Webs", which were WeekEnd-Bas*#%ds that only came down on the weekends and plugged up our roadways and congested our highways.
The Breton Woods Clubhouse
Ah, the Clubhouse. Everybody gathered at the Clubhouse. There were always activities virtually every day of the week. The Clubhouse was a young mother's dream. There were swimming lessons, shuffle board and other games, Arts & Crafts, Kiddy Show rehearsals, Teen Show rehearsals, all of which were lovingly equipped with baby sit... uh... chaperons. There was even a concession stand so Mom could stuff a buck in my pocket for a hot dog and a soda. If there wasn't anything going on at any particular time, I could always just hang out and get beat up by the older kids.
Then there was the beach and the swimming area. The beach was divided into 2 sections: The East Side and The West Side, separated by the Club House itself. The West Side was where the young parents would bring their newborns and toddlers. Mom would fuss over the newborn on the beach while Dad dangled Junior in the shallow water by the wrists just out of reach of the lurking crabs below. The East Side was also known as The Adult Side. Although this was the side with the basket ball court and the huge steel swing set, it was where all the parents would gather and talk about their kids behind their backs. At the very most, I was permitted to show up and politely say, 'Hello' to everyone and beg a buck or two from Mom and Dad for a soda or something. Then it was, "Beat it." This was Adult Time on the Adult Side of the beach.
I could always change the dollar out for some quarters and play some pinball. Nah. I could count the times I played pinball in that concession stand. For one thing, I wasn't very good at it. I was sure it was alive and knew exactly who was playing it at any given time. Mark could stand there for hours wracking up free game after game all for a single quarter. He'd slam it, bump it, bash it, kick it... yell at it. It was amazing. The silver ball would bounce and dart all over the place, occasionally attempting escape by darting down the center to the exit. But one more clever bump from Mark would send it back up to the top of the machine only to do it all over again. Twenty seven million, four hundred and fifty thousand, six hundred and seventy two points later Mark would get bored and give a free game to me.
Ok, 3 balls. Make the best of them. Ploink-woosh! The first ball was off. Ding-ding-ding... bumpity-bump-bump-bump... Oh no! Already it's making toward it's escape! But I knew just what to do. As soon as it struck the lower guide rail, I'd cleverly bump it ever so slightly...
TILT.
Now just do that two more times and you have my typical game faster than you can say, "Aren't you glad you didn't spend your own quarter on that?" So, my pinball career was never imagined let alone lived. I would rather spend my money on something tangible, like a soda or an ice-cream cone. Looking down at my gut now, perhaps I should have tried harder at the pinball. Oh well.
The swimming area was cool. The swimming area was defined by about 6 or so pilings spaced evenly in a semi-curve approximately 20 feet apart from each other. They were always painted some bright color, usually yellow with blue stripes at the top. To finish the effect, there were fish cut out of plywood also brightly painted and nailed to the top of each piling. A line connected all these pilings draped just below the water's surface. Inside this area - little kids and parents a-dangling. Beyond - older kids and adults. But beyond yet, was... The Raft.
The Raft was a floating platform anchored out where the water was about 10 to 15 feet deep. It was approximately 16 feet by 12 if memory serves, with a ladder on the side for easy access. It was stable enough, even when a boat would get too close and rock it with it's wake. But this was more than just a Raft. Oh, yes. The Raft was a Right of Passage. You just weren't a proper kid until you had permission to go to The Raft. Right of Passage was attained when you could swim beyond the fish-topped pilings and brave the deeper waters completely unassisted without drowning. After hauling yourself up the ladder, it was all you could do to keep from spewing forth half a lung's worth of river water, suspending your arms above your head in victory all the while praying that your face was turning at the very least a pleasant shade of blue. You waited... and waited. Then you got the signal. Thumbs up from the life guard! Oh, this was a great day. Parents and friends alike reveled in joy while Mom chewed off every last fingernail she'd been growing for the past year. Getting back was easy because you could get a running start and be within a few yards of standing safely with your head above water upon emerging.
Several days a week all summer long we would rehearse for our respective shows. The Kiddy Show for the little ones and the Teen Show for the older kids. The only shows I can remember are a Teen Show based on the song by The Temptations, "Ball of Confusion" and a Kiddy Show where we performed "Mary Poppins". After much negotiations and contract complications, I managed to land the part of Burt. The only thing I can remember about the play was the costume that I had to wear for the chalk painting park scene and the song "Jolly Holiday". The jacket was a white jacket that I was just about grown out of with red electrical tape all over it. We got the bamboo cane right. Every kid loves to legally possess a nice, long stick he can swat his fellow thespians with. But the straw hat... Ugh. Everyone knew what that straw hat was supposed to look like. Surely SOMEONE had one with a paper labeled "Republicans" on it from some past election stashed in the back of their closet. But alas, no. I had to go on stage looking more like The Artful Dodger than Burt. The thing looked like a bean pot made of dried up, woven corn husks with a big fat red ribbon on it. I felt silly. The only thing preventing me from throwing my guts up right then and there was fact that we had a follow-spot that blinded me, preventing me from seeing any of the audience that I was CONVINCED was pointing at my hat laughing hysterically.
Along came Jeff
It wasn't unusual for neighbors up north to have the same neighbors down at the shore. Such was the case with my father. And so the same bond of friendship extended from parents to children and grandchildren. One of my life-long friends is one such grandchild. Not an all-year-rounder - I guess you might call us AYRs. Hmmm... "an AYR of Breton Woods..." I like that! Perhaps that'll catch on. Anyway, not an AYR, not even a Bennie or a WEB was my friend Jeff. Jeff never lived in Breton Woods, but his grandparents did. So when Jeff's parents visited of course along came Jeff.
Jeff and I were around the same age and had the same silly sense of humor much to the bane of our parents. When Jeff wasn't visiting, I'd address letters (yes, actual letters! We'd affix little pieces of paper on them with glue called "stamps"... okay, fine) to his home address in Bronxville NY and keep in touch with him that way. The letters of course were strewn with the same silliness that we displayed when we were in each other's company. I'd write him and check the mail every day after awaiting his reply more anxiously than a package from Battle Creek Michigan. Actually, in all truth, I think I recall the two of us sending our box-tops away, along with two dollars for shipping and handling to Battle Creek and then awaiting to receive our secret decoder ring or something-or-other.
The Jersey Blues
Jeff was quieter than I. My sister is quite convinced that I was ADHD as a child, and I guess I'd have to agree with her. Perhaps I still am. Oooh look! A bunny rabbit! Oh, where was I? Oh yes. When Jeff was visiting, whichever one of us was up first would go and knock on the bedroom window of the other. Then the two of us would go down to the T-Dock, a small, private marina exclusively for Brentonians. It wasn't much more than a hundred steps away our homes. We'd bring our crab nets and poke around the dock and bulkheads for crabs. Jeff would seldom speak a single word as I'd be yammering on the entire time. Although Jeff NEVER said "shut up" to me, Bell Hodes had no problem saying it what-so-ever. "Who is that? Chris Boylan? It's still early! You be more quiet Chris Boylan or I'll go and get your father!" Bell's voice would come rolling down from the little gazebo that sat on the edge of her property over-looking the T-Dock. Jeff would snicker, indicating that he agreed her and was at the same time amused that we ticked off Mrs. Hodes. Ah, Bell Hodes. Funny how she shows up in the part where I'm talking about crabs.
The crabs were Jersey Blue Claws. We weren't supposed to keep the females or any males that measured under 6 inches from their shells tip to tip, and we didn't need to. There were plenty enough qualifying males to go around. No boat. No bait. No string, no trap. Just our long handled crab nets. We'd quietly (yeah, I know...) start on one end of the property walking on top of the bulkhead and work our way around, cautiously peering over and down into the water. And there, the crabs would hang face up... face? I don't know if crabs have a face... okay, eye-stalks up hanging on to the barnacles. It took some acquired skill to slowly dip your net into the water a distance away from the un-suspecting crab. Slowly... slowly... move it closer until, Swish! Scrape! And there was your crab. You got used to the fact that it looked larger when it was magnified by the water, but still - what a monster! These Jersey Blue Claws were absolutely huge. I was a bit smaller then, but it's a fact that the crabs were really big back then. I understand that they are making a nice healthy come back in recent years. We'd often come across a "double-decker", which of course was a naive kids way of describing two crabs together that were actually, well you get the picture.
Then there would be the soft-shelled crab, "Softies" for short. These of course were the crabs that have recently shed their shells and were vulnerable for the short while it took for their new shells to harden. I will always think of my Aunt Mary's affinity for Softies when ever I see or think of one. She absolutely LOVES Soft-Shell crab sandwiches.
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. Just wonderful," she'd reply.
"Well, which part do you eat?" I asked curiously.
"All of it." came the answer.
"All of it?" I cringed.
"All of it!" accompanied by a look that suggested, "What's wrong with you?"
"Of course! You just fry them up in a little oil and put them between two slices of bread, and Yum yum yum..."
Okay, now the line's been crossed. I still get a bit queezy when the lobster hits the boiling water and you'd swear that you're hearing the sound track from The Fly, "Help me! Help me..." This is all I need, having an active imagination. "The Screaming of the Crabs." I'm a well rounded Jersey Shore guy, but eating something with it's claws and legs dangling out from the sides of my bread... Is there a sniglet for that? I think "splooge" is when your deli cold-cuts slide out the back end of your sandwich, but I don't know if crab legs and claws qualify for that. There must be a separate sniglet for that one. Anyway, I enjoy lobster, shrimp and crab PARTS just as much as the next guy, but I draw the line at putting anything in my mouth that has eye stalks.
Some of my fondest Breton Woods memories are of my exploits with Jeff. Although it's been many years that I've seen or talked with him, I know that if I were to see him tomorrow it would be just as if no time had passed. It's special indeed when a friendship spans from diapers to, well, right back to diapers again, I guess. Too much information?
Venturing out
Breton Woods is quaint, warm and a really great place to grow up. But there came an age where I thought that it just wasn't enough to contain the expanding yearns and desires of approaching manhood. So, by the time I was 37... just kidding. I was probably around 13 when my bike riding skills took me across town to another neighborhood within our town, Lake Riviera. It even sounds snootier, doesn't it? Lake Riviera. It was really no more upper class than Breton Woods, but it was certainly a newer development, so my friends that lived there would lob that one at me in lieu of sticks and stones and other adolescent ammunition. Harmless, friendly one-upsmanship. I knew better and kept it to myself. Now who's the snob, huh? So, much of my later adolescence was spent over there, but I always felt the difference. Good, friendly people of course, but... something was always missing.
I was very fond of my friends in Lake Riveria and we most always hung out over there. It's only now that I look back and realize that I was able to fit in there, while my friends weren't comfortable with the lifestyle of Breton Woods. It was a lifestyle that was only shared with those little communities within communities that crowded around the Metedeconk River. Anyone that lived and grew up elsewhere didn't experience the anticipation of Summer and the return of old friends... the sadness when Labor Day arrived and it was time for them to leave and go back up north for the remaining seasons. It was truly a feeling of family, a feeling of belonging.
Home
My father's parents purchased the little Breton Woods house I grew up in for approximately seventeen hundred bucks back in 1938 and were Bennies themselves. They, along with my dad and his two brothers went back and forth seasonally between there and Newark. They experienced the same if not deeper Breton Woods life that I enjoyed. It wasn't until around 1960 with my grandparents passing that my family moved in permanently and became all-year-rounders. As it happens in life, change is inevitable. My mother passed away some years back and finally with my father's passing, I was forced to sell our home in Breton Woods. I'd like to move back there one day, but for now I'm living not too far away on the coast in Seaside Heights. But of course, it's not the same. Oh, it's a proud town - full of tradition and a story all it's own. But that's not my story.
I love you Breton Woods. No matter where I live, you will always be my home.
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