7.31.2014

Scouts hike in search of nudist camp

After breakfast our troop packed up
and followed Hiney, our Explorer,
past the swamp end of Wildcat Lake,
over the mountain in search of the nudist camp.

Hiney knew from other scouts that if we went over the mountain we'd find a road and from that road it was a short walk to the nudist camp somewhere near Blairstown, where anything could happen to pubescent boys.

This was the second week of our stay. We were bored.


First week of summer camp was typical scout stuff. The nature trail had several different kinds of pine trees you could determine by the number of needles in a bud. You followed a colored plate on the tree and that kept you on a trail. A counselor would explain what you were looking at. "It's much more than a tree, it's an evergreen pine tree," and such.


Jersey Shore Envy

This whole beach thing, changing, badges, outside shower,
was alien to me. I might as well have been from Wisconsin
for all the time this Jersey boy had spent down the shore.


When my childhood friend regaled me with tempting tales of sun, sand and surf at the Jersey Shore, and all the good times I missed, he planted the seed for a chronic case of Jersey Shore envy.

Joey, another childhood buddy, had told me of his family taking bus trips to Seaside Heights, and all the grown-ups from his old Montclair home were singing, "Hail, hail, the gang's all here, what the hell do we care now!"

So, there we were, two very white guys about to fry on the beach, or die of windburn from the sand showers that washed over us. The water was way too cold to go in. The penguins were tussling with polar bears for the last blocks of ice. Lou and I could take a hint. 

The two of us North Jersey kids just stretched out on a towel in the late spring sun and enjoyed the privacy of having the entire Seaside Heights beach to ourselves.


Continue reading Jersey Shore Envy

7.24.2014

Chasing the mosquito man

For all the DDT -- Drop Dead Twice -- sprayed
on hot summer evenings, the killer fog never seemed
to eradicate mosquitoes (or lightning bugs). One always managed
to squirm through a tiny hole in the metal screen
and spend most of the night buzzing your ear.


I saw the greatest minds of my dead end street running into the blue mist of the sweet-smelling cloud behind the Essex County Mosquito Man's Jeep.


Summer in the 1960s, and the living was good.

Sticky fly paper hung over the Maytag wringer washing machine next to the kitchen sink. Melmac cups were neatly stored on the yellow contact paper on the shelves behind the glass doors. Sometimes, you'd bug Ma while she was cooking and get to eat a raw hot dog. It was just like rolled baloney from Prosperi's around the corner store.

Continue reading Chasing the mosquito man

7.17.2014

Alas, Wildcat Lake Is Now Catfish Pond

One ingredient in the summer camp bug juice
was water from Wildcat Lake,
another was genuine bugs from under genuine
Appalachian Trail rocks, and the last was lots
and lots of sugar to help keep all those little campers
excited about being away from home for two weeks.


My first overnight camping trip was at the scout camp at Wildcat Lake. It was a cold Friday night in January and we lugged our equipment up the trail to the rustic open-air cabins.

Our troop leader and the older boys draped the tents across the front and sides.

Shining our green handled right-angle flashlights into the dark woods we scampered through the cold evening prying frozen logs from the crusty ground.

A wet-boot detail disappeared with the Jerry jugs and returned with the water we would need for the night.

A coffee pot and some large sauce pans were set on the open fire to boil the lake water.


7.10.2014

Summer Peaches and Tomato Gardens

Watering the garden was a chore best completed before sunset.
After sunset, starving squadrons of Jersey mosquitoes
searched ravenously for the warm-blooded.


Sucking on a peach pit is the perfect way to while away a steamy summer afternoon.

Roll it around carefully and use the pointed end of the pit to pick out the strands of peach fuzz and pulp between teeth.

All this while the taste of fresh peach tingles through your cheeks.

One of the first things Dad did when we moved into the big house in Belleville was to chop down the black walnut trees and plant a half-dozen peach trees in their stead.

It wasn't long before the low growing peach trees bore fruit and we filled baskets while we decided what to do with the bounty.

7.03.2014

The fountain of youth under the pipeline

The fountain of youth under the pipeline
Four decades later, I return to the pipeline. The dragon's
tail is less pronounced, and full-grown trees
hide the view of homes on Sycamore.


“Hey, Ant! You got a third eye!” Gary yells but it doesn’t help me see much better.

Fumbling, I pick up my twenty-six-inch Schwinn, but I drop it just as quickly. Then pick it up again. Holding it up, it’s holding me up.

Gary is staring at me. I sense this more than I see it. Can’t see much of anything really. Gary looks like a tree, the bike in my hand, a tangled red bush. The world isn’t spinning but it’s coming in cloudy.  I sense something tremendous has transformed my eight-year-old body.

“That’s what happens when your bike hits a rock on the pipeline,” Gary explains.