Friday Feature: Why New Jersey Rocks

On Monday, I wrote a post about my Jersey roots. In trying to find a photo for the post, I came across this article on why New Jersey is the best state in the nation.

Yep. Couldn't agree more.

Comments? Keep 'em to yourself.

Unless you agree, of course.

Have a fun weekend, wherever you spend it.

One Last Jaunt to Jersey

Photo: The Odyssey 

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know I'm a Jersey Girl, as in, "you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can't take the Jersey out of the girl."

For several years, however, I've been trying to get my parents to move to my adopted state of Pennsylvania. After my mom got sick, we (my mom, my sister and I) convinced my dad that a move closer to my sister and me was a good idea. Last month, we outfitted his new place with the basics and last Wednesday, he made the move official. Though my mom's presence can be felt everywhere in the apartment, from the large, framed photo in his bedroom to the furniture and furnishings throughout, this is my dad's apartment.

I'm thrilled to have my dad close by; it's a lot easier to drop by for a visit or go out for a meal when he's only three miles away. Though we've talked practically every day for the past year and a half, I'm really excited to have him "just around the corner." He worries about asking too much of me; I'm glad he's here to ask.

Last Saturday, we went to my dad's place in New Jersey to get the remainder of his things and to clear out the basement. Although I thought a lot about how my dad might feel about leaving his home state behind, I didn't really give much consideration to how his move might make me feel, Jersey-wise. On Saturday night, as we drove away from the condo, car stuffed to the gills, we also drove away from my last direct connection to my home state. I still have family and friends in New Jersey, of course but with my parents no longer there, I can't imagine when I might visit again.

I'm still not sure how I feel about that. After all, you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can't take the Jersey out of the girl. As I've said before, no matter how many years I live in Pennsylvania (closing in on forty now), New Jersey will always be home. It's not like it's that far away, of course, or that we can't plan a trip to the shore, but it feels strange knowing that spur-of-the moment trips "home" are now a thing of the past. Then again, I guess "home" is more than just a place. Anyone who knows me knows better than to question my love for the state I will always call home.

I just hope my dad's as happy in his new home as I always was in my home state.

Life's A Beach

Since we're spending today at the beach, I thought I'd share a"vintage beach blog" from May 2009, with a few updates.

I've been going to the beach since I was a little girl. Growing up in New Jersey, everyone went "down the shore" -- day trips, weekends, post-prom. You cold get away and enjoy the sunshine and ocean breezes without a passport or airline reservations; in fact, you could easily make the trip down and back in a day. It was a change of scenery, yet comforting and familiar.

Photo of Bethany Beach shoreline courtesy of my husband.
I'm not up early enough to take these shots. 

I always enjoyed going to the shore, even though I was never a beach person. I grew up in the era of bikinis and baby oil, but neither ever suited me very well. No amount of fragrant tropical preparations ever produced the promised deep, dark tan, and to this day, no sunscreen, hat or beach umbrella protects my skin completely from the inevitable "healthy glow" brought on by a day at the beach. Fortunately, I've learned from experience, so these days, I return home more carnation pink than lobster red.

These days, the beach is the Delaware shore, the family I travel with is my husband and my daughter, and our destination is a condo in the same complex we've stayed at for eight years. It's beautiful and spacious, with a loft that my daughter claimed as her own back when she was about seven. One summer, when she was anxious about sleeping up there alone, she rotated between her "apartment"and the downstairs guest room. The following summer, she displayed no such hesitancy, having grown fond of the television that sat at on the dresser at the foot of bed, and succeeding summers brought the addition of teenage traveling companions that kept things fun and lively for all of us.

The condo is a far cry fro the places I stayed at the Jersey shore when I was young. Back then, it was a hotel efficiency with an outdoor pool (my husband, daughter and I did that one summer as well); later on, my accommodations were the top floor of a beach house belonging to my high school boyfriend's grandparents. Both were grand places as far as I was concerned, because I was down the shore, surrounded by family and friends.

Photo: DMedina via Morguefile

Now, as I lay back in my beach chair, I realize that other things have changed, too. The scents of coconut and sea spray are still ubiquitous, but if someone lights a cigarette, heads turn to sniff out the source. Beautiful, bikini-clad bodies, many with piercings in places too painful for me to contemplate, still decorate tropical-print beach towels, but now a rainbow of umbrellas surrounded by a covers the shore. In some places, there are even tents and canopies, providing shade and respite for babies, grandparents and sun-sensitive people like me. The surf still pounds -- powerful and rhythmic -- now unaccompanied (mostly) by the bass of competing radio stations. Instead, personal music devices of every ilk supply individualized accompaniment to beach goers as they read, nap and sunbathe.

This summer, we're in a first-floor unit for the first time. Like the ones we're used to, it's spacious and has the screened-in patio that I love. There's no loft, though, and if my daughter were traveling with us, she and her friend would be in a room with a trundle bed. Not sure how that would go over. My guess is that they'd probably just take over the living room, which would have ruled out the chair-hopping I did last night from the love seat with my iPad to the reading chair with my book, much like Goldilocks, or my daughter the summer she wasn't so sure her "apartment" was for her.

Like daughter, like mother.

Photo: pippalou via Morguefile

Jersey New Year

It's nearly 2 pm on New Year's Day, and there's a hunk of pork simmering in my crock pot. My Central Pennsylvania friends are nodding and smiling, inhaling the aroma of pork and sauerkraut simmering in their houses as they read this.

My New Jersey friends are wondering what the heck this post is about.

I just poked at it (the pork, not NJ) with a fork to see if there's any chance it will be ready for dinner when my family is. If I were a betting woman, I'd say my odds are 50-50. Better if I nudge the crock pot up to "high."

I think I'd have had a better chance if I'd gone with the Italian tradition, which probably has something to do with "gravy" (spaghetti sauce, for my Pennsylvania Dutch friends), but I'd have had to call my mother to find out what that Italian tradition is.

After more than thirty years in Pennsylvania, I still have not fully embraced the Pennsylvania Dutch traditions that began infusing my life when I came to Pennsylvania to attend college. After college, I went to grad school in PA. I got my first (and second, and third, and current) job in PA. I married a PA boy. I'm sort of dug in.

But I remain a Jersey girl.

This is not news to anyone who knows me. Because, as the saying goes, you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can't take Jersey out of the girl.

Good luck to anyone who plans to try.

Let's get a few things straight. My Jersey is not Mafia, Jersey Shore or Newark. My Jersey is the Garden State, historic towns and Atlantic City before casinos.

Jersey is small, loud and proud. Brave. Indomitable. Stubborn.

But mostly, Jersey is feisty.

You don't mess with Jersey, you see, not because she'll put a hit out on you, but because, under the proper circumstances, she can roll out the sort of pit bull personality that makes you sorry you started in the first place.

But, contrary to popular belief, Jersey has class. Jersey has style. Okay, it's a style all its own, but it's style nevertheless. Jersey will stand up for what she believes, fight a fair fight and walk away with her manicure intact.

And, given time, she'll stop holding a grudge.

Jersey girls forgive, but they don't forget. They embrace the philosophy that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. They learn from the lessons life hands them and they move on to tackle the next obstacle. They love fiercely, believe passionately, and toss a hunk of pork into the crock pot because it makes their family happy, but they make their husbands cook that disgusting sauerkraut.

If you're lucky enough to know a Jersey girl, you know when to step in, and when to back away. But best of all, you know you have a friend who's loyal through thick and thin...and who expects the same from you.

Happy New Year to all my Jersey friends...and those I've adopted from so many other places.