Conjugating Wildwood
Wildwood. Without context clues the word begs to be italicized. A word with an independent power supply, it is a sweating bundle of dynamite packed with unrealized possibilities. The best of these possibilities being when my parents informed us that Wildwood would be the venue of our summer vacation. This was most true for the children prior to the inaugural visit to the New Jersey shoreline.
Wildwood as a pristine canvas. Absent any practical knowledge nothing could curtail the runaway excitement as the “X’s”on the calendar converged with the one boldly circled Saturday. The true significance of this initiation would only reveal itself after decades of travels and millions of Atlantic City Expressway miles were accrued on the odometer of life. In the immediate future, this place called Wildwood was inviting us to decide if it could be more than a proper noun.
Wildwood was to a child what I imagine Las Vegas might be for some adults. I had never been to a beach or cast my gaze upon a horizon that was 180 degrees of water side to side. I had never heard the murmuring waves that gave voice to the bubbling brine lapping at my sinking sandy feet. Although I did not realize it at the time, every subsequent trip to Wildwood became an annual pilgrimage that began so long ago as an innocent desire for vacation and grew into a sacrament we would share with millions of fellow travelers.
Including traffic, ‘the shore’ was a mere two-hour drive curbside to seaside. Equipped only with a child’s sense of time and place, those two hours in the backseat could have been all the data Einstein needed to prove his theory of relativity. As we crept closer to our destination a subtle but very definite shift in the environment manifested itself. The density of the air grew thicker and the very air we were breathing carried traces of an undefined scent that both of my parents claimed to be the salt air. Once within the sphere of influence that enclosed Wildwood like a giant invisible dome ,ordinary life outside this bubble would never be the same. This is what Dorothy experienced the moment she stepped out of her sepia toned farm life and into the technicolor land of Oz.
Wildwood was an explosion of colors, sounds and smells laying siege to your senses. Even with fully dilated pupils the scenery saturated perception. It became evident that this invisible ether had diffused into the bloodstream of the adults as well. The mysterious force lines of the Wildwood boardwalk meant it was totally acceptable to ask for an ice cream sandwich freshly assembled with a slab of ice cream between two hot waffles at 10:30pm, --and get it! Only in Wildwood could you see kids and adults proudly walking ‘invisible dogs’, while being admonished to ‘watch the tram car please’. Games of chance promised an array of the best prizes just one wheel spin away. Twisted glass soda bottles filled with colorful sand, shops overflowing with T shirts that were never sublime and always ridiculous. Who would not want to be the proud owner of a T shirt that loudly proclaimed that you were with stupid? Wildwood was where you went out for breakfast every morning and listened to your parents spend the rest of the day debating where the best seafood could be found that night. Wildwood, the land of Ed Zaberers famous restaurant, apparently required bragging rights for anyone within the confines of the Wildwood influence. Only at Zaberer’s could you enjoy a virtual phonebook of dining options while trying to sort out an interior decorating scheme conceived and executed by an explosion in warehouse of otherwise unrelated pop culture items. This was the realm of a guy named Cozy Morely who managed to compete with molecular oxygen for ubiquity. Salt water taffy by the pound, fudge on demand, and french fries directly from the fryer doused with malt vinegar. All of this before I knew what senior week was all about.
Wildwood was the longitude and latitude that managed to halt time and accelerate it simultaneously. While you were there the rest of the world paused, yet your vacation was always ended too soon. I was certain that vacations for the rest of my life would hug the New Jersey coast. Although that has not been entirely the case, I am always comforted by the thought that the ocean is just a two-hour ride from my front door. For its place at that time in my life, it was all I could have ever wanted in a vacation.
Of course, there were always other lessons that life would reveal as the odometer racked up mile after mile. For many, ‘regular’ life meant reporting to work for fifty weeks per year, all the while looking for the circled Saturday date that meant you could once again hear the ocean summoning you back to the waters we all evolved from. Without notice, the business of growing up and growing older crept quietly into daily life. The parents of your friends began espousing the virtues of other shore points. Those other towns dotting the map that you once ignored were growing in significance. Sea Isle City, Stone Harbor, Avalon and Cape May wove themselves into the winter planning sessions as options. Then on an unseasonably warm weekend in the early Spring, you spontaneously point your car to the east and drive to Wildwood. Just a gentle boost to tide you over until the full force of summer arrived.
As you park your car you are aware of a difference. The feeling is reminiscent of the first time you returned to your grade school after you were in high school. Standing amongst the out of scale furniture, you wonder if you are suffering the fate of Gulliver. The colors and sights and sounds of the shore are all still present and accounted for, yet your perception is speaking to you in a different tone of voice. Nostalgia and reality compete for neurons in your brain, and without warning, finding Cozy Morley seems like a good idea.
