Summer at the shore

at the Shore in the 1960’s

My grandparents had a small bungalow by the shore . There were 2 bedrooms and 1 bathroom with no tub or indoor shower. There was a kitchen just big enough to turn around in and a dining/living room combination where everything happened .. eating, playing cards, arguing and laughing.

Somehow the whole family, 14 of us,managed to fit into that tiny place. My grandparents had one bedroom. One of their 3 daughters took the other. The rest of us, six kids, were scattered like refugees across sofas, rocking chairs, and lumpy fold-out couches. When mosquitoes weren’t too bad, we slept on blankets in the back yard on the sand.

On weekends, the fathers joined us, and that’s when the real chaos started. We called it the Army Camp and that’s exactly what it felt like. At one in the morning, a kid trying to sneak across the living room oom was just as likely to step on a sleeping cousin’s arm, an uncle’s leg, or a snoring father’s back. The symphony of snores, whispers, mosquito buzzing, slaps, and curses was our summer soundtrack.

Most of the week, though, the parents stayed north to work. That meant the place was ours, just me and my cousins Linda, Joey and occasionally our cousins Bobby and Terry joined us. (My sister Judy had her own older crowd who treated us as invisible.) Three kids, free at the shore, under nothing more than grandparent “supervision.”

Nickel Hunters

One of our first acts of independence was turning “collecting bottles” into a business. We walked up and down all 12 lanes in the neighborhood. We’d knock on every door asking if anyone had empties. We told them that we would take them to the store and return with the money. Most people were happy to hand them over and most even said to, “Keep the money”. We did return the cash to those few that wanted it returned. Since there was weekly turnover in most bungalows it was an ongoing enterprise.

We’d haul the bottles to the store, cash them in for nickels, and split the take. A few houses we could count on every week like regular customers. The whole thing felt like a small-town enterprise, even though we were really just three kids hustling for candy and sodas.

Those nickels bought us freedom, ice cream sandwiches, cherry Cokes, pinball machines and once in a while a ride on a boardwalk ride. It was our first taste of earning something for ourselves.

The Outdoor Shower

The bungalow had an outdoor shower with an overhead tank that held about forty gallons of water. The sun heated it all day, so you didn’t get “hot” water until late afternoon and only for the first two or three lucky souls. Everyone else yelped through a cold rinse.

The shower was just a wooden box, open to the sky, with the walls ending a foot above the floor and slats just wide enough to make modesty a challenge. To get to it you had to parade past everyone lounging on the back deck. And if you took too long, you got heckled: “Hurry up! Don’t use all the hot water!”

While waiting, sometimes we played what we called “The Peeling Game”. After a long day in the sun, our scorched skin bubbled and peeled and whoever managed to peel the largest single strip was declared the winner. No prize, just bragging rights. Disgusting? Sure. But endlessly entertaining.

Life in the 50s and 60s really was fun.

Don’t Bug Me

Another favorite summer activity that would horrify parents today was chasing the mosquito truck. Every evening between 5 and 8 p.m. a township pickup truck with a fogger machine in the back cruised up and down every lane in neighborhood , spraying a thick cloud of “mosquito control chemicals”.

The fog was so dense you could barely see three feet in front of you. What did we kids do? We ran barefoot behind the truck laughing, whooping and vanishing into the poison cloud like a gang of happy idiots.

One kid ran straight into the pointed fender wing of a parked car and came away with a bruise that lasted his entire two-week stay. I guess you could say the mosquito truck made an impression on him!

The adults? They didn’t stop us. In fact, they opened the windows and doors so the fog could drift inside the bungalow. Imagine that! Today parents panic if a kid eats too many Skittles. Back then, they practically shoved us into a cloud of poison gas and called it healthy fun.

Live and Learn

We were around 11 years old the first time we fell for a practical joke. We were waiting in line at the Good Humor ice cream truck, with our ten cents in hand, ready to buy a cone full of fun. As always, we were discussing which treat to buy, and as always we would end up buying the same one every time.

A teenage boy came up to us and said “ Why are you paying with money? Don't you know that if you're under 12 and have a pure white stone from the beach you get a free ice cream?” He explained that it isn’t well known but it is a fact and we shouldn’t spread it around. We were thrilled, this might be the last time we have to pay for ice cream this year.

We began searching the ocean’s edge early every morning. We wanted to find the white stones before anyone else did! Let me tell you, we must have examined 100’s of stones. Finally we found 2 in one morning. We couldn’t wait for our free ice cream!

At last, after dinner, the Good Humor truck appeared. We ran to the truck, placed our order and gave the man our 2 pure white stones. He gave us a strange look then started laughing “ looks like you kids just became the latest victims of the ice cream scam”. He explained no secret code existed and that we should throw the stones away or better yet hang on to them as a reminder that if something seems too good to be true it most likely is a scam.

I didn’t keep the stone, but I kept that lesson in mind even up to today. Probably saved me enough to buy a ton of ice cream.

The All-Summer Crowd

The three of us, me, Linda, and Joey, fell in with what we called the All-Summer Crowd, a bunch of boys and girls who stayed the whole season and became our little beach tribe.

Sometimes part-timers were allowed to join our “tribe” for the time that they were staying at the shore. Although it was just a bunch of friends, sometimes a boy and girl would click and become a “couple.” For me, that was Diane, also a member of the all summer tribe. She lived on Lane 8 right behind me on lane 9. We held hands, snuck off for kisses, the usual kid stuff, nothing more. But her father didn’t approve. He didn’t like that I wasn’t Jewish. When he told her to stay away, Diane listened. He struck me as a no BS kind of guy.

It was towards the end of the summer, and we all headed back to our homes. I couldn’t let it go. I liked her and she liked me. After we got home, I started taking the train from Newark to New Brunswick to see her. Her friends accepted me. Being from Newark gave me an edge. They thought I was a little dangerous. I didn’t bother to correct them.

Then one day, walking through town, her father stopped me.

“Leave town,” he said flatly. “Stay away from my daughter. Don’t make me repeat myself”.

Turns out he was the Chief of Police. I knew my real fear wasn’t what he’d do to me , it was what he might do to Diane. So I backed off.

Full disclosure: while hanging out with Diane’s group, I was attracted to her friend Pat. She was funny, pretty, easy to talk to. One night, one of the boys pulled me aside.

“I like Pat,” he said. “Always have. I see you two starting to click and I don’t want trouble. I just wanted you to know”. I told him not to worry. “You live here. You see her every day. You’ll be fine. I’ll step back.”

Sounded gracious, but honestly, the train fare was steep and in the back of my mind, I always saw Diane’s father watching. I didn’t want to risk trouble for either of us.

Crabbing in the Moonlight

Our favorite summer ritual was night crabbing.

Walking barefoot on the splintered boards, risking fishhooks and splinters , we carried flashlights, nets, and a bucket half-full of bay water and seaweed for our catch. At dusk we’d climb down the pier pilings, hang a lantern from the longest beam, and wait for the crabs to come swimming by.

Night crabbing didn’t require bait. Light was the bait. We hung the lantern on the end of the longest beam. Catching the crabs was an art, not luck! When you spotted crabs swimming around the lantern light, you had to coax them in slowly, holding the flashlight correctly, right in front of them. If you shined it directly on them, they dove into deeper water. Move the light too fast and the crabs lose sight of it, too slow and they drift off in another direction.

Three kids, 11 to 13, sitting on beams above dark water at night, listening to the bay waters lapping against the pier, the smell of the salt water bay, summer breeze gently blowing cool air over us. The thrill of freedom buzzed through us. We loved every second of it.

Funny thing is, those nights taught me more than crabbing. Years later, as a manager, I realized I used the same principles with people:

• Get their attention.

• Move them gently, without them realizing they’re being guided.

• Keep a steady pace. Too slow, they wander off; too fast, they resist.

Who would have thought that chasing crabs in the moonlight would prepare me to lead teams in boardrooms? But it did. You never know where life’s lessons will come from.

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Summers at the shore were a mix of freedom, danger, laughter, and lessons I didn’t know I was learning. And soon enough, life would shift again, pulling me away from the carefree chaos of Seaside Park and into the next stage of growing up.hh