I’ve spent every summer at my grandmother’s shore house for as long as I can remember. It’s a simple house—small, and somewhat outdated compared to the sizeable beachfront estates on the New Jersey coastline. But if you look carefully, the fingerprints of her eleven children and fourteen grandchildren touch every inch of her little sun-stained cottage.
Grand mom and Pop-Pop purchased their Strathmere house in 1973. And since then, it’s been forty summers of Banana Boat and bug spray; bonfires and Bruce Springsteen; Mrs. Grass’s noodle soup at lunch and an extra scoop of peanut butter ice cream for dessert. Each season followed the same gentle ritual as the last. From Memorial Day right through September, we sucked each and every summer dry. I believe in the magic of summers in Strathmere, New Jersey.
Less than one square mile long, Strathmere is somewhat off the beaten track—a hidden gem on South Jersey’s rather crowded coast. It’s a modest town, with a handful of small businesses and tourist attractions. Down there, I never needed a cell phone and I barely watched TV. I had my friends, my cousins, my bike, and an infinite supply of Oreos to get by.
With the waves lapping at our ankles, we played most afternoons until the sun slithered towards the westernmost corner of sky. As it receded into the distant Pine Barrens, I’d count all the colors, and number each shade climbing up the firmament. Scarlet, magenta, tangerine, and amethyst. The horizon erupted into an endless fluorescent spectrum. But I was never satisfied just watching on the bank. I always wanted to move a little closer. I always wanted to chase the colors of that sky.
So I’d balance myself on the splintering wood pilings, careful not to trip over the ledge. I’d pretend if I stretched my fingertips out far enough, I could touch the sun’s surface, soak in each pigment, and then smear them across the horizon. Instead, I simply watched the colors fade, until the last piece of sun slipped beneath the earth and the cars on the Parkway switched their headlights on. Time to go home. Another summer day in the books.
Of course, I’ve grown older since then. And here I stand, on the brink of adulthood with the threat of “the real world” looming overhead. I’ve traded my bathing suit and bike for a pantsuit and a planner. I’m lucky if I can steal one weekend of my summer to revisit those carefree days at the shore.
I went back to Strathmere recently for the Fourth of July. I was pleased to see how little it had changed. Grandmom still makes a fresh batch of noodle soup for lunch every day. The same families still live across the street. Twistie’s jukebox still plays Otis Redding and Bruce Springsteen. And the sun still sets over the bay in a million glorious colors.
Even as my life changes, it’s comforting to know Strathmere has the same magic it had when I was a kid. I still believe in Strathmere.
- Meghan Garrity is starting her senior year at Penn State in the fall. She's a WPSU radio intern and a staff reporter on Penn State's student newspaper, The Daily Collegian.