I think I'll begin with a few announcements before delving into the continuing story. First of all, the Poetry Challenge is delayed for a week or so until I finish the Travelogue. I want to be able to concentrate on each in their own turn. Secondly, after the Poetry Challenge winds down (after a day? a week?) I will begin a serialized story. I used to be good at that sort of thing, and I really enjoy the form. I also feel it will be a good step forward in my professional ambitions. So, stay tuned, fun things are coming! (Yes, even poetry can be fun!)
I left off last night with Russell and I driving around the back roads of rural New Jersey in the dark. That's not as dangerous as it sounds! New Jersey is hugely rural— the southern half of the state is one enormous pine forest. Thanks to Joe Piscopo and endless jokes from New York-based comics, everyone thinks of New Jersey as an urban hell. Honestly, that's only a percentage point or two of the state. The rest of the state is fields, sown and wild, and that huge forest I already mentioned. It's not called the Garden State for no reason.
When my father was stationed at McGuire AFB, we lived in three different places. For a brief time, before we could secure base housing, we lived on the shore— in Seaside Heights to be specific. Seaside Heights used to be a popular tourist destination on the east coast, and when we lived there, there was still a board walk as well as carnival attractions. That's about all I remember of it. We— my brother and I— went to school briefly there, and I recall walking through heavy gusts of sand-laden wind. For some reason, I also have a single snapshot in my head of my classroom at the time. My final memory of the place is of our family one day exploring the boardwalk and coming across a spin-art booth. That's where you pay a couple bucks to drizzle paint on a rapidly spinning half-page sized 'canvas.' I really wanted to try it, but my parents nixed the idea.
We eventually secured base housing, and the base housing was technically off base. That is, directly opposite the gates to get on the real base, there was a large neighborhood of a several hundred houses, designed to house the families of the Air Force personnel stationed there. Though there was a chain-link fence surrounding the whole housing area, there were also several gates along the perimeter to pass through. Only one gate had an actual sentry post— the one closest to the real base— and I don't recall now if that was there while we lived there or if it was added later. (Right now, that sentry post is completely abandoned and run down.) The only other thing of descriptive relevance is that two-thirds of the base housing was row housing— about 25 units each, grouped into three long buildings, spaced around a central parking lot and courtyard like a 'U'— and the remaining one-third of the units were solitary two-storey houses. The row houses were largely for the families of enlisted personnel and lower-ranked officers. The solitary houses were for higher ranked officers.
That first night in New Jersey, after travelling along Rahilly Road, we came upon the back side of the off-base housing. A minute later we drove through one of the perimeter gates and I was suddenly awash in 30-35 year old memories. As we drove up and down different streets, I could point out specific units (or sometimes general areas) where my different friends lived. And, all the while, Russell was listening to the list of my friends, looking for the ones that he also knew. The weird thing was, immediately inside the gate, I pointed out an area where a young woman named Diana Gamboa lived. I didn't know her extremely well, but she was in several of my classes, and she worked on the play that I performed in during my Sophomore year. (The Bad Seed, if you must know.) As soon as I mentioned her name, Russell knew her. Apparently she managed to get all the way through our school.
Since we travelled back through this area the following day, during daylight, I will refrain from saying more about this part of the night, except to say that it immediately became apparent that most of the housing units were utterly abandoned. Their emptiness added an eerie edge to my nostalgia. In the 70's this was a thriving, busy neighborhood, with children running around everywhere from morning until evening. We later discovered that there seems to be a mass renovation project going on at the moment.
After leaving the housing area, we hit the back roads again. Russell knows he area intimately, and pointed out countless landmarks as we passed by. This building used to be a school, now it's a library; that building used to be a library, now it's a community center; another building used to be a firehouse, now it's a school; and so on. This continued through the half-dozen small towns we passed through.
Amusing, about the time we decided that we should head back to Russell's folks' house, we noticed that the car was low on gas. We were in Russell's mother's car and thought we should fill it up for her. Passing through several places where we expected gas stations might be and finding none, we eventually went back to one intersection close to the base again where we knew we'd seen a gas station.
In case you don't know, New Jersey is one of the few remaining states where pumping gas yourself is not allowed. An attendant has to do it for you. (Amazingly, despite this need for an attendant's help, gas was 30 cents cheaper a gallon there than it is here in CA. I'm *sure* the gas companies have a reasonable explanation for this disparity...) So we pulled into the gas station, rolled down a window, and passed a credit card out for a fill up. How nice it was to sit there. The problem came when we were finished and tried to start the car again. No go! The battery would not turn over! You couldn't have picked a better two people to throw this problem at. Not only did we not know what to do, but we were in a strange car as well. So, we hopped out. Russell went to ask the attendant if he could provide a jump, and I, getting cold finally, opened the trunk to grab my jacket out of my luggage. Back there, I noticed a self-starting battery designed for just such emergencies. I told Russell, but he already had the attendant on the job. Fortunately for us, a pick-up truck had pulled up opposite us, and the attendant asked him if he could provide a jump. The man, a local, gladly drove around and got us started 5 minutes later. I'm not going to say that that sort of thing wouldn't happen in California, but it sure was nice out there in the middle of rural New Jersey.
Well, my attention is starting to drift, so that's it for today. I promise this travelogue is going to be top heavy and not all days will take me several posts to get through! I hope you're enjoying things so far, as I'm having a great deal of fun writing it all out.
Until next time!
"I don't like nostalgia unless it's mine."— Lou Reed
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