TRANSITIONS
I Recently Fulfilled My Lifelong Dream to Live at the Jersey Shore
My “happy place” is now my home
I’ve just moved to a town in which I could not afford to buy one square foot of property. And yet here I am — renting a 3-bedroom apartment in a 100-year-old house on a leafy residential street.
Three-quarters of a mile up my street is the beach. Though I moved in ten days ago, I’ve been furiously unpacking and only just made it to the beach today. The Atlantic Ocean was undulating softly on this lovely, late-October afternoon. I walked along the boardwalk for a bit, then sat on a bench to gaze out at the near-placid water and feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders.
Finally, I’m here.
I fell in love with the Jersey Shore in high school. My friends and I usually would go to Belmar; it was just a 45-minute drive from where we lived, so it was an easy day trip. The week after graduation, eight of us rented a house for a week and had a blast. This story about a memorable night on the Seaside Heights boardwalk was the highlight of that week for me.
I spent the next few summers renting shore houses with friends, through college and into my early 20s. The summer after college graduation my friend Cindy and I rented a big old house in Belmar with 13 guys. Some of the guys we knew from high school; others we didn’t know at all. We were like two flirtatious flies on the wall in a high-school locker room, complete with a stack of Playboy magazines in the bathroom and a housemate who liked to shoot bottle rockets under our bedroom door on Sunday mornings, startling the shit out of us.
Once I married my husband, a former lifeguard-turned-salesman, we started going down the shore on weekends, staying at bed-and-breakfast inns and renting a house for a week each summer. We started taking the kids when they were babies, and dreamed of buying a house there so we could go down anytime we wanted.
Whenever I would buy a new blender or other household accoutrement, I would save the old one “for the shore house.” Unfortunately, our marriage ended in the summer of 1999 when my daughter was nine and my son six, and the shore-house dream went down with it.
As a single mom I continued to go down the shore as often as possible to meet friends at the beach or for live-music events; and to take my kids to the beach for the day, followed by mini-golf and boardwalk rides and games. Moving permanently to the shore was not an option while my kids were still in school, so I tucked my dream away.
Fast forward a decade or so and I was now in a new relationship. I sold my condo and moved in with my boyfriend; our plan was that he would sell his house and we would buy a home together down the shore. It was the reawakening of my dream and I was very much looking forward to it. Sadly it was not to be.
When that relationship ended I moved back to Hunterdon County — land of rolling hills, farmland, hiking trails, and charming, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them towns. One of the latter was Clinton, the bucolic river town where I had lived for 30 years (minus the year-and-a-half I lived with my boyfriend). I was determined to make a fresh start, but I needed the love and support of my family and the dear friends with whom I had lived and breathed every moment of joy and angst over those previous three decades.
Little did I know that I would need them more than ever; they had been noticing increasing cognitive issues and as soon as I was back in their midst my sister and my best friend made an appointment for me to see a neurologist. I had no idea why they were taking me there, yet I was so out of it that it didn’t dawn on me to ask. An MRI confirmed a frontal meningioma, a tumor of the covering around my brain.
I was now navigating an existential health crisis requiring brain surgery. Thank goodness I had chosen to move back home, rather than closer to my office, where I would have been more isolated (particularly since Covid was in full swing). They rescued me from God-knows-what fate and helped shepherd me through my recovery — not just back to the person I was before, but forward to someone better, someone I never thought I had the capacity to be. I am eternally grateful.
I continued to live in Clinton for three years after the surgery, and grew to love it and my life there more than ever. I could walk out the door of my apartment and in ten minutes be downtown. I might meet friends for breakfast, grab a coffee by the river, patronize the local shops, or just pass through on the way to my favorite walking trail behind the old Agway.
That all said, the summer after my surgery I treated myself to a cottage at the shore for two months. It was like salve on a wound after the cluster I had been through. I knew I eventually wanted to be a full-time resident, but I wasn’t ready to make the move just yet. I felt I had the best of both worlds being connected to both places.
After two more years of summer rentals, this past summer I WAS ready, and asked a realtor friend to keep an eye out for a year-round apartment. She got right on it and found me this one. As soon as I saw the location and the interior, I knew it was perfect for me.
Leaving Clinton would not be easy. Leaving my closest friends would not be easy. Where I was headed was just a little over an hour away, so it’s not like I would never see them again or go back there. And I had good friends at the shore that I was looking forward to seeing more of. But I would dearly miss being near these particular friends; being able to buzz over on short notice for coffee or to check out the new couch.
When I was recovering from surgery and still very wobbly and weak, the friends that I did yoga with every week would come over and walk with me into town. We’d sit and have coffee, and just talk. We called our group “Yogalicious,” because after doing yoga in Marianne’s converted dining room we’d have a meal together, with each person bringing something healthy and delicious (hence the name). A week before I moved we all went out to dinner, and I tearfully shared how much I appreciated their friendship, especially during that difficult time. I’m determined to make it back for Yogalicious at least once a month.
I am equally attached to the classic rock band that I have been part of for more than 10 years. My four brothers-in-arms, whom I met when all of our kids were still in school, are as dear to me — and were as important during my recovery — as my yoga friends. We make music together, we harmonize, we collaborate, we savor wine or whiskey or chocolate; we are a family. We don’t rehearse or perform every week, so there’s no need to “leave the band” just because I’m moving an hour away. They’re stuck with me.
The day I moved in was gloomy and rainy. After the movers left I looked around at the stacks of boxes. I was surrounded by cardboard. Unpacking only made it worse, as my stuff was now littering every available surface. It was a clutter-fuck. A growing pile of large, black garbage bags crammed with balled-up packing paper was turning my living room into a landfill. Only thing missing were the seagulls circling overhead.
I sighed. This was supposed to be my dream, but I was feeling blue. Not the blue of a soulful Irishman preparing to depart this earth, as in the traditional Celtic tune, The Parting Glass. But the blue of a soulful Italian girl who had just left the beloved town where I had planted deep roots, raised two amazing children, and formed bonds of friendship that will last forever. And yet the emotional intensity of this vocal masterpiece is how I was feeling on this day. Good night and joy be to you all!
And onward.
Looking around at the move-in mess, I knew a rowdy night of live music was just what I needed to lift my spirits. I made plans to meet a friend at a local tavern to see two of our other musical friends perform. I sang along with the songs I knew and knocked the blues from here to Sunday.
Even better was that this bar was only five minutes away. I was used to driving more than an hour late at night to get home from live-music events at the shore, but now I no longer need to do that. This place is practically around the corner from me, and many of my other musical haunts are minutes away as well. Despite the rain, I was all smiles driving home.
When I walked in, the godforsaken mess was still there. But the blues were gone.
It’s nearly two weeks later and the place is really shaping up. Today I dropped off two carloads of flattened cardboard boxes and packing paper to the town recycling center. The man working the gate helped me unload my car, and we got to chatting about my move into town. As I got in my car to drive away, he yelled out, “Welcome home!”
“Thanks!” I yelled back. Yes, this is home now!
And I was all smiles again.
Given what is going on in the world today — in Ukraine, Israel and Gaza — I’m well aware of how fortunate I am to have moved from one beautiful, safe place to another. My heart aches for those who have been brutally killed and injured, those who have lost their homes to senseless bombings, and those who dream nightly — and simply — for peace.
These are the three related stories I reference above.
