Jersey Shore

Jersey Shore

Blessings abound.

I spent most of last week on the Jersey shore in a little beachside community called Ocean Grove. Ocean Grove was established as a permanent religious resort (Methodist) in 1869 by Reverend William B. Osborn who wanted the resort to be a "camp meeting" or "revival camp," sporting lovely little tents in which the faithful could live while renewing or affirming their devotion to their faith. The Ocean Grove Camp Meeting Association would eventually add an auditorium which, by 1894, could seat 6,600 of the faithful.

Although, at one time, there were 660 tents leased or owned on individual lots in Ocean Grove, today, there are only about 114 tents left. However, the majority of dwellings have, over the years, evolved into wonderful two, three and four story Victorian painted ladies that line the little east/west streets that lead to the well-kept Atlantic coast beach. In fact, Ocean Grove contains the largest aggregate of Victorian and early 20th century structures in America. Many of the painted ladies are bed and breakfast establishments within one of which we (and, I'll provide the details of who the "we" were) stayed.

Interestingly, during the Ocean Grove's religious heyday, rules and regulations were established that banned all carriages and automobiles on the streets on Sunday, as well as the banning of Sunday beach bathing, and the prohibition of the sale of liquors within a mile of the community boundaries.

Another interesting fact about Ocean Grove is that the person who bought the first lot in the community for $86.00, James A. Bradley, would also later purchase and develop the land directly to the north of Ocean Grove known as the city of Asbury Park.

Now, in case you're wondering, I am a lapsed Catholic who would, under no circumstances, seek out a religiously oriented summer resort town in which to spend a little time. I have given-up my soul to good deeds and the truths of my heart and have a very intimate and commited relationship with the Great Maestro who conducts the gyrations of the cosmos to the satisfaction of some us and the consternation of many of us. Indeed, I am happy, I am ecstatic simply to wake up each morning and see the giant and ancient silver maple that fronts David's and my property. It is a beautiful tree; certainly inspired by the best the Great Maestro had/has to give.

So, why Ocean Grove?

My little sister lives in Rutherford, New Jersey. She has one son, six years old; and one daughter, eleven weeks old. Each year on my nephew's birthday, my little sister orchestrates a pilgrimage to Ocean Grove -- which is only about an hour away from Rutherford -- and family and friends merge upon the resort town which, incidentally, does not check your religious affiliation or your bags for stowed vodka or whiskey at the gate before entry is granted. Anyway, this was the first time I've been able to attend the annual rite in Ocean Grove. And, it was, ah, interesting.

Besides my sister and her two children, three nieces-in-law flew in from Denver with four of my grand nieces and nephews between them. So, in all, there were eleven of us in the same bed and breakfast celebrating the birthday of my nephew Jack.

Leaving Rutherford, it was decided that my little sister's Subaru would be loaded up with everyone's luggage and my sister and her children and one of my nieces-in-law would occupy my little sister's newly-purchased Volvo station wagon and my other nieces-in-law and the remaining grand nieces and nephews would be carried to Ocean Grove in the Lincoln Navigator my niece-in-law had rented at the airport. I alone -- and absolutely terrified of losing my way on the New Jersey Turnpike -- would navigate the Subaru to Ocean Grove by following my little sister's Volvo.

Now, my little sister's Subaru has a standard transmission. For those of you who don't even know what a standard transmission is let me explain that with a standard transmission it is necessary for the driver to actually physically shift the vehicle into the various gears that are necessary to propell the vehicle to its destination. Suffice it, for now, to say that the clutch immediately seemed to be a little off the moment I first shifted from first gear into second. Remember now, I am alone in the Subaru.

We were actually travelling on the Garden State Parkway, but I think it is emminently more dramatic and poignant to sugggest we were on the New Jersey Turnpike when, alas, the clutch on the Subaru gradually, regretfully but inevitably failed. I could not make it up the hill just past exit 109. I pulled the Subaru over to the side of the road, dialed my sister's cell and said, "Okay, honey, the clutch just went out. I'm sitting in the weeds on the New Jersery Turnpike watching the cars go past and wondering what the hell we're going to do."

My sister called the Garden State Parkway number and, within a hour, a tow truck arrived to take the Subaru (and me) into I have no idea what town we ended up in.

Long story short: The garage I was towed to could not complete the clutch job until Monday -- I was flying out on Sunday -- so we had AAA come and get the Subaru and tow it into a Subaru dealer maybe ten or twnety miles away who was able to have the vehicle ready for operation on the Saturday we were scheduled to leave Ocean Grove.

Okay, so now we're at Ocean Grove.

I am a runner. I usually run on asphalt surphaces in Denver around Berkeley Lake; even, smooth surfaces that dont' require a lot of adjustment of foot movement, up or down. But, let me tell you that the wooden boardwalk along the Atlantic at Ocean Grove is not smooth; is not even; is not safely flat like the surfaces I run on in Denver. So, the first morning I arose at 6a.m. and headed for the boardwalk for my first run (two miles). I headed north toward Asbury Park. I was going at my normal clip when I caught my foot on a raised plank of wooden boardwalk and, guess what? I fell. I smashed my knees, and the right side of my head into the boardwalk. My glasses went flying; the gash along my right eyebrow began a profuse flow of blood; my knees were destroyed and, AND, I stood up, grabbed my handkerchief from the waist of my running shorts and said, "Wow!' I put the handkerchief to my right eyebrow, turned around and ran another mile in the opposite direction.

Oh, believe me when I tell you that life is not fulfilled unless there are adventures; unless there are the unexpected results of what would otherwise just be another day in the life... Please understand that the essence of life; the excitement of life; the essential meaning of life is about the unexpected; is dependent upon the unexpected; is enriched, is enhanced, is blessed by the unexpected...that is, if you remain conscious after taking your tumble.

I'll go ahead and publish this post. But, there is much more to report. I'll do that later. The adventure will continue.