4th of July and Island Dreams...

With my little sister on the beaches of LBI

Deep in thought at the shore house....with my brother. 

Fourth of July.  It was my favorite holiday as a kid-- kicking off a month-long vacation on Long Beach Island, New Jersey with my grandparents on my Dad’s side.  For me, it was summer paradise.  The day started with our annual “Wimbledon Breakfast,” a feast of Uncle Victor’s creamy chipped beef, blueberry pancakes and hot donuts for the kids from Marvel’s Market. 

I remember sunny mornings on the 4th, the crunch of the pebbles that surrounded our waterfront house, as various grandchildren charged in and out with shrieks of laughter. 

“Close the screen door!” my grandmother would shout above the fist pumping yells from the crowd around the TV, watching a championship tennis match-up.

We could never get to the beach soon enough...The minute the breakfast dishes were cleared, there was a mad dash to the “bunk bedroom,” a small corner room with bunk beds, to change into still salty and sandy bathing suits from the day before.  Pop packed sandwiches for lunch on the beach: fresh poppy seed rolls with turkey and coleslaw, tucked next to the backgammon board and his latest paperback.  

The moment we pulled up the few blocks to the 21st Street beach, flip flops were tossed as our tanned toes dug into the hot dunes, racing to stake out our spot on the sand. I loved the feel of that ocean air as my squinting eyes scanned the horizon, taking in the waves, the sounds.  Lying on my towel, my ear pressed to the sand, I listened as mothers doted on toddlers with sand buckets and drizzle castles...the murmur of lovers sharing a stolen moment....the bickering banter of teenagers, volleying back and forth with the rhythm of their paddle balls....the rolling and crashing of foam topped waves, lapping the feet of tourists, teasing and retreating like child’s play.

There was a safety, a comfort in those sounds; a sense that everything was right in my world at that moment.  Even if Mom and Dad were getting a divorce....even if I didn’t get picked for the lead in the school play.  I drifted into breezy dreams where heaven smelled like Coppertone and I was a Sea Shell Princess who was suntanned all year long.

As the afternoon wore on, the beach crowds thinned out and dispersed to rooftop decks and dinner reservations.  Pop and Aunt Debbie were always the last of our group to pack up.  I loved being part of that “late shift” at the beach, where conversation would turn to gossip and giggled jokes; it was like being part of the “cool” family clique and I would think to myself that I was certainly the favorite kid!

Coming back to "the shore house," the grandchildren compared tan lines and blonde highlights gleaming on Pert Plus washed hair.  Then, we’d run barefoot down the street to the General Store for ring pops.  I wore my cherry ring for as long as I could stand it before chomping down on my candy ruby, then eyeing my brother Natty’s untouched jewel.  Still reeling from our sugar high, we’d cajole Dad into giving us cash to kill time before dinner at Mr. T’s Arcade.  It was a race to get there, a blur of gangly legs and sunburned cheeks-- haphazardly grabbing whatever bicycle was closest in Grandmom and Pop’s diverse collection of family wheels in the crowded garage.  If we were lucky, there was time for Skee-ball AND mini-golf.  We could tell when it was time to come home when the sun started dipping into the bay.  Sunset meant cocktail hour and corn shucking and we raced back with the same bicycle chaos that we arrived with.

By the time we got back to the house, the "adults” were clinking their martinis on the waterfront patio next to platters of brie and pâté with minced onions.  Dad made us drinks too--- plain tonic water “on the rocks” with lime.  We all waved when a party boat filled with sightseers passed by-- we called it the Sunset Cruise.  I remember thinking that those people who waved back must wish they had a family like mine, a family who could enjoy sunsets every night in the comfort of their very own house on the bay.

Inside, the kitchen was packed, while Victor negotiated with steaming lobsters, Grandmom finished her signature blueberry crisp, and Uncle Dennis tended bar; outside Dad fired up the grill with burgers and hotdogs for the kids--- our Fourth of July dinner was a serious operation. 

The grandkids had their own picnic table outside, but I always found a way to squeeze in next to Grandmom, who would share pieces of butter drenched lobster while I helped crack open the shells.  Grandmom had a way of making me feel so special and grown-up.  She always smelled good, like Pond’s cold cream and fresh air.  

I was thrilled when we were handed sparklers to light on the patio every 4th of July....the sound of fireworks was already starting, and we didn’t want to miss a second of the action.  The highlight of our night was taking our boat out so we could watch the fireworks show in Beach Haven.  We’d anchor the boat and look up at the night sky, plumes of color and light bursting above us in majestic display.  The grand finale looked even more spectacular reflected in the rippled water; I would dip my hand in, thinking I could pull the rainbow of color right out of the bay to keep for a memento.

It was late when we made our trip back in the dark, tying the boat down for the night and making our way inside, rubbing sleepy eyes and stifling yawns.  Grandmom was there waiting for us, with plates of warm blueberry crisp and vanilla ice cream.  Across from our dock, the Spray Beach Yacht Club’s Fourth of July party would be winding down, the echo of laughter and music still shimmering across the water, like sequins from party dresses catching the moonlight. 

As I lay down in my bunk bed, I closed my eyes and listened to the soothing sound of boats at the club nudging against their slips, halyards swinging in cadence with the tide coming in...My seashore lullaby, my island dream.

xxoo