I grew up at the shore. No, not some white sandy beach with shingled homes and wind swept dunes. No fresh flags or lighthouses flickering off in the distance. No isolated stretches where it’s just you on the beach feeling the enormity of the world and your place in the cosmos.
No way. I spent my summers at the Jersey shore.
The Jersey shore is all about crowded boardways, tacky amusement parks, Tiki bars on the beach, Springsteen blasting on load speakers over the beach, low flying flags advertising bands at the local dives. It’s cheap prizes on the boardway and cheese fries in the shade. Raw oyster shacks. A quarter on Mom, Dad or Sis to win a Van Halen mirror. One more nickel and all those coins will fall for sure. Donuts for breakfast and taffy for brunch.
It’s a three ring circus and heaven for people with short attention spans and a high tolerance for the flash and the buzz.
Mo pictures of heaven below the flap:
Apt. 11d 
Oh, Laura, you had to know that this post was gonna break my heart!
Don’t forget greasy dudes in their wife-beaters and gold chains. As you know, there’s a term for them, but I’m told it’s no longer acceptable to say it in polite company…
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Oh, skee ball. I spent more than a few summers on the Jersey shore, too 🙂 Such good memories.
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Ahh, it’s not summer until I’ve played a few games of skeeball. Glad to hear that some others understand my irrational nostalgia for the shore…
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I get tired of explaining to people that I’m not going to “the beach,” I’m going to “the shore.” People who’ve been to the shore know the difference.
But does it count as going to the shore if I didn’t get to play any skeeball or have a Rita’s Italian ice?
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To the people who lived and grew up there, we don’t call it”the shore.” It’s “the beach” to us.
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