The incline seemed to get steeper each time I pushed the cumbersome green and yellow plaid stroller up the never ending hills of Manayunk, and I knew it was time for us to go. Sandwiched in between the young twenty something late night partiers and the much older long-time “Yunkers,” we were the minority, young parents with a tiny new addition to our twosome. We tried, believe me, to make it work and to fit in with our new family member in tow. After getting a phone call from my sister in-law, asking if we had in fact brought our new baby to a bar that afternoon, we decided we probably were not a fit for this lifestyle. I walked the streets with her innocently perched in the carriage and wondered, if not here, where were we meant to be. Where was home?
Flash forward: another baby, a huge lawn and the ever expanding stone front colonial in the Pennsylvania suburbs, bursting at the seams. We did not take them to any bars here, opting however for Chuck E Cheese, the Elmwood Park Zoo, and the local YMCA for a routine of swimming lessons and tumbling classes. The quintessential lifestyle, yet still as I pushed the even larger bright red double stroller through the wooded development and up that one steep hill in the coveted northeast corner of the neighborhood, I looked at their seemingly identical faces, and felt that we still weren’t home.
When we made the move onto the island almost 7 years ago, I knew we were finally home.
No stranger to moving, my son has perfectly conveyed to me his real meaning of home. It isn’t a physical building or an address, a bedroom, or that comfortable couch with the perfect indent of your backside. Before purchasing Mrs. Hoovers house last spring he asked me one stormy night where we would live next, which house would we save. “Our new house is out there, we just haven’t found it yet, but it has to be in Ocean City” he said. Then he perfectly described to me the feeling that we all get when gliding across the causeway into town. “You know when you haven’t been here for a while, and you are almost here and you get that feeling in your stomach? Then you get to the top of the bridge and can see the entire island, you know you are home, and your body sort of relaxes…”
Whether a full time resident, seasonal visitor, or weeklong summer vacationer, simply crossing that bridge into Ocean City each time in the too short summer season, we all know that feeling. Ocean City is home, there is a certain special vibe that seemingly can’t be found anywhere else in the country. On the heels of winning Coastal Living’s “Best Beach in America,” we all understand the feeling my son knows so well.
Years ago, between renovations while living in a short term rental, I met Mr. Finley. Life lessons somehow emerge from so many unexpected encounters, and this one I will never forget. From the kitchen window of the twin houses at the end of Battersea, I watched him slowly make his way across the manicured lawn. Then, suddenly he stumbled, and lost his footing. Darting outside, I helped him to his feet and suddenly realized his age. He told me he was a grandfather to 12, soon to be a great grandfather. He had purchased the house for $5,000 some 50 plus years ago. He told me it was the best money he had ever spent, and he wasn’t referring to the shrewd real estate investment he had made. Grabbing my arm for support, his crystal blue eyes looked in to mine, and he softly recited these words: “Ocean City has something special, it keeps them coming back time after time, year after year, always keep this town a part of your life, you’ll understand one day.” I believe he was telling me that this island is home to so many, whether you have an address here or not. We all consider a piece of it ours, our home, whether it be that familiar house on the island, spending countless hours swimming on that same beach, the repeated trips to our favorite pizza place, or the long walk on the windy boardwalk eating caramel corn while fighting off the seagulls. A piece of it belongs to each of us, which is why we keep coming back.
As a child we vacationed on 2nd Street for that one glorious week, a week like no other. We set up camp under the boardwalk, for fear that one of the five Irish siblings would blister in the sun. We always ordered family buckets of spaghetti and meatballs on the first night in town and attend the sweltering services at the church on the corner of Atlantic the next morning. We rode the amusements one night, walked the boards one night, and enjoyed the beach each and every day. On the last day, while my parents scrambled to load up kids, pets, and a half a block of over packed luggage I would always sneak away to get one last look at the ocean, bidding it farewell until the next summer season. Ocean City had a hold on me then and still does now. It has become home to me, just like the rest of you, all for our own reasons.
Tell me why you love Ocean City! I can be reached at: maureen@ocnjdaily.com.
