The road trip

Whoever said you get to slow down as you get older was lying. But it’s not all bad; we still love a good road trip.

Last Saturday morning Ben put out three rolls of hay, we filled the tanks with 700 gallons of water, and we jumped in the car heading for New Jersey, land of our nativity.

This is where you say, “Why, Karen, I did not know you and Ben were Yankees!” But alas, we are. I was actually born in Washington DC, which is technically the South, but I spent the majority of my life in New Jersey after a short stint in an LA suburb. Ben was born and raised in the Garden State. We lived in rival towns on the Jersey Shore: Ben in Point Pleasant, whose panther mascot mysteriously ended up at the bottom of Lake of the Lilies, and me in Point Pleasant Beach, the idyllic one-mile-square hamlet right on the ocean that was almost destroyed by Hurricane Sandy in 2012.

I’ve heard all the jokes about New Jersey being the armpit of the Northeast and how we are nothing more than the outskirts of New York City. But here’s a factoid you may not know: New Jersey was once mostly farmland. Half the state is still wooded. My grandfather was a dairy farmer, then when he got rid of the cows, he grew vegetables and sold them in a farm market on the highway in Wall. I have a farmly heritage.

Growing up at the beach was the perfect place to have a childhood, and not just because we spent our days basking in the sun and learning to swim in the ocean.

We have better pizza than New York. Ben and I arrived in Point Pleasant Beach at 4pm and had to be at his brother’s surprise birthday party at 4:45. We checked in to our hotel lightning fast, then calculated that we had just enough time to stop at Vesuvio’s for a slice and an RC.

Here’s what you need to know about Vesuvio’s: Dominic has been making pies since Ben and I were little children and he didn’t know any English. The crust is very thin and crisp on the bottom without being like a cracker. The sauce is not thick and goopy and sweet. It tastes like actual cooked tomatoes with a good bit of oregano and not too much salt. The cheese is not heavy and chewy like a wet wool blanket. It is a thin layer you can bite through with one bite leaving one tiny string of cheese from your mouth to the slice. You can pick up a slice and make a little fold in the crust and the tip doesn’t droop down, leaving you fishing around with your tongue in midair trying to get the first bite. You don’t eat two slices and then walk around feeling like there’s a lead weight in your stomach.

This is pizza as the Lord intended. And the choice of soda is of utmost importance. I am not a carbonated beverage fan by any stretch, but a small RC with a Vesuvio’s slice takes me back to my childhood in all the very best ways. We would spend all day on the beach, then ride our bikes to Vesuvio’s to end the day. God bless you, Dominic. You are pure gold.

Anyway, Ben and I made it to the party with time to spare and had loads of fun visiting with family we don’t get to see much, and Scott was definitely surprised. I ate a huge plate of scallops broiled in butter because when you can get them literally fresh off the boat, you don’t skip them. Chocolate cake for dessert, and does it get any better? No, it does not.

We headed back to our hotel at the south end of the boardwalk, which, in Point Pleasant Beach, is still made of boards, not concrete. It drives me crazy when they pave a walkway at the beach and call it a boardwalk. (Looking at you, Manasquan.) It’s just wrong. Anyway, after driving all day and then eating more than our fill, we decided to take a late-night walk to the inlet, a mile north. There is almost nothing I love more than a brisk walk with the smell of salty air and the sound of the surf, even at 9 pm.

THEN I was ready for bed. We may have slept with the door cracked so we could hear the waves all night. It was perfection.

Sunday morning we we were awake and ready by 6:30. We were meeting a friend for an early breakfast, but we knew we had time for another walk, so off we went to the inlet and back, knowing we had a 7-hour drive ahead of us.

Sunrise over the dunes

The inlet connects the Manasquan River to the Atlantic ocean. See the foghorn sticking up way out on the end? When we first moved to this town, the foghorn blew all night and I thought I would never sleep again. I got so used to it I missed the mournful sound when I moved away.

We had a great breakfast catching up with Ben’s fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Wilson (how do you call your former teacher Arlene?), then went 20 minutes inland to meet another friend for church.

I might be the only one who thinks about these things, but . . . when I was in high school I was a completely different person. Totally, 100% different. Not who I am now, by a long shot. Going to church with someone was the very last thing on my mind back then. Yet here we are, two people who went to high school together, excited to go to church together in our sixties. If you had told me 45 years ago we would be doing this, well, you know. It is amazing and humbling to look at the path the Lord has led me on all these years. His graciousness abounds, for sure. Thanks, John, for inviting us. We loved worshipping with you.

Back in the car and heading for Virginia, we made one last stop for gas at the Wawa on exit 16 on 195. For all of you who are my age and grew up at the Jersey Shore, it’s the Great Adventure exit, even if the signs say Six Flags now.

Did you know that in New Jersey you don’t pump your own gas? It’s been that way since the inception of motorized vehicles, I think. When I went off to college in Pennsylvania, I had to learn how to do it like the rest of the country. I felt like a calf at a new gate. Also, if you ever have a chance to go to a Wawa, please do get coffee. It’s the literal best.

Over the DelMemBr and down the miserable stretch of 95 between it and the Capital Beltway, it was smooth sailing even though traffic was heavy. We made it all the way around DC without slowing until we rejoined 95 south in the area of the Mixing Bowl, which is as horrible as ever, and traffic stopped. What is it about this part of Northern Virginia that causes drivers to brake unnecessarily? All it takes is one person to tap the brakes and it starts a chain reaction. The first one did it 50 years ago and traffic is still slowing down because of it. Six lanes wide, stop-and-go traffic from Alexandria to Stafford on a Sunday afternoon when everyone should have been at home eating wings and yelling at a football game. It never changes and every time we drive through there we thank God he let us move to the boonies of south-central Virginia where rush hour looks like four cars at the red light instead of one.

I still think of New Jersey as home and probably always will even though I haven’t lived there for 40 years. It was where I became a person, even though I’m so different now. It’s where my earliest memories live along with friends who, despite the miles and years, will always be friends. It’s where I learned what pizza should be and that crumb cake is 10% cake and 90% crumbs and the only good ones come from Mueller’s bakery. It’s the home of Hoffman’s (ice cream) and Thursday night fireworks on the beach and the stolen McDonald’s sign (John, please remind Carol of that). It was cruising in “the boat” with Meatloaf and bridge jumping and I’d better stop in case my mother reads this.

When I hear about their property taxes I’m so thankful I don’t live there anymore, but part of me will always miss it. Ben and I have said for years that if we ever win the lottery we will buy a house on the beach in Bay Head big enough for all the kids and grandkids. I just have to figure out how to buy a ticket.