The wild distribution of human remains, part 3 (finally)
Or, how I managed to put this off until nearly the anniversary of my dad’s death
[Part 1, in which I re-fall in love with my homeland, on the occasion of my father’s death; Part 2, in which I preside over a strange yet perfect memorial, and get reacquainted with family.]
By the time my partner Chris and I got back to the little motel in Point Pleasant Beach, we were pretty beat, and still really full from the crazy dinner we’d finished only recently. But I wanted to show him Jenkinson’s by night.
Jenkinson’s, the magnificent amusement-hell I was forbidden from often in my youth, is recently restored to a nigh-pristine glory after Hurricane Sandy devastated the area. Not to be outdone, the badass Jerseyites I’m so familiar with rebuilt the thing, restoring it to its former glory and beyond.
That’s not to say the place isn’t still spooky in the way carnivals tend to be; Chris and I walked around looking for odd angles and creepy imagery, and while in mid-June the park was already in gently-full swing, there was still some spooky to be had.
We even managed to get some nice pictures of each other.
After a while, we’d had about enough of the rides and the smell of cotton candy and popcorn and funnel cake and all the stuff we had no room in our stomachs for, and headed back toward our motel. The walk was somewhat less picturesque than the boardwalk itself, though it proved interesting nonetheless. Combine late-night early-summer fog with low light and a touch of suburban decay on a waterfront, and you’ve got some interesting shots indeed.
The next morning, we planned to make our way back home via Asbury Park, that fabled Jersey Shore city that started as a summer playground for New Yorkers in the turn of the 20th century, saw the rise of some of the gods of rock at venues like the Stone Pony and the Saint, fell to race riots, gang warfare, and neglect through most of my life, and is finally, finally getting its feet again, through an odd gentrification process that may actually be taking its long-term residents into account, sort of. It’s a long process, but it’s nice to see the city returning after literally decades of corruption, slumlords, attempted restorations that ended in more corruption and bankruptcy, etc. (There’s a pretty great piece about it, with extensive photos, at the Asbury Park Press.)
I had heard things had been looking up, but I was still floored to see the stretch of Cookman Ave. all shined up and full of restaurants. We had brunch at the hipstery Cardinal, which was excellent, and then headed further toward the shore to park.
What we found at the boardwalk tugged hard on some old stuff. Here’s a canonical shot of the place, taken in 1996:
The current boardwalk is built up, vibrant, loaded with people, and the old buildings — the Victorian arcade over the boardwalk, the copper-gilt carousel, the theatres — everything is in process of being restored to former glory. We mostly took pictures of the things that are still in-between.
The place is still haunting, haunted, even — which felt right for the real reason we were there. Which is to say, that exchange I recorded with the prototypically surly beach attendant in the first installment of this report took place at this juncture of the narrative, and having paid my (still absolutely criminal!) $14, I went down to the ocean with Chris, carrying the 10-pound brick of my father’s ashes in an innocuous-looking shopping bag.
Not knowing, again, exactly what the laws were here, we were circumspect about this part, but I felt strongly that the third right place for some of my Dad’s ashes was right here, in the surf off of Asbury Park Beach. I knew he’d spent countless summers here, grown up here; there are pictures of him and his brother and sister as children walking this boardwalk. Part of him rests with his parents; part in the pond where he swam with my mother and the rest of his family; part in the Atlantic, just off a certain jetty. The rest remains in an ungainly green plastic container, in my closet.
This duty done without incident, it was time to start the long drive home to Boston. This Chris and I did, in the little blue SmartCar, me driving barefoot along the hallowed Shore as long as I could, my hair thickened with salt, my skin pinked with sun.
It’s now nearly a year since he died; several months, now, since this trip. There are tears that remain unshed, stealth reminders that pop from time to time, ambushing my solace. But the trip was good, the memorial right, the family lovely, Papa Atlantic my old friend. Whatever else happens, I feel confident that my dad is where he would have wanted to be.
Miss you, Dad.
