sandy hook

Sandy Hook is exactly what its name implies: a hook of sand. I don't remember the last time I was actually on it. It has to be more than 30 years. When I was a kid, our folks would take us on drives - where I first learned about no-money fun - and often we ended up in the Atlantic Highlands, or at the Twin Lights. This was also where I first learned about my fear of heights.

Yesterday we took Aunt Grace up to the Highlands to the Hofbrauhaus for my birthday dinner. She had hoped the German Um-Pah bands would be playing but they didn't start until 4 and we were the first party in the dining room. We got an excellent table, of course, and had a beautiful view of Sandy Hook and Gateway National Recreation Area and beyond, NYC and the Verrazano Bridge. The day couldn't have been more beautiful, and it was warm, sunny and not windy - perfect weather for Aunt Grace to be on the go. She was pretty disappointed about the Um-Pah band, but I'd rather have a conversation. Then again, I'm not 92 and housebound. That would have been the utmost excitement for her. Our lunch was fine, and we decided to take a drive out on Sandy Hook to Fort Hancock.

The landscape out there is flat, of course, and sandy - that goes without saying. I'd forgotten how much I love the wasteland scape - the trees gnarled by wind and sand, the brush, the stunted pines. I could have spent the entire day just walking through the wooded and brushy areas, looking to see what grew and how, noticing the differences in the beaches on the ocean side and bay side, and looking back at the highlands of eastern New Jersey. I don't actually remember ever being there on Sandy Hook, but I still thought of our drive as a farewell tour, and lamented the fact that we didn't ever get there in our three brief years back here in NJ.

We decided to make the return trip along the ocean front through Monmouth Beach and Sea Bright, with not much to see behind the rocky sea wall, and on through Long Branch, Asbury Park (yikes! Still looking pretty awful), Ocean Grove, Bradley Beach, Avon-by-the-Sea, Belmar, Spring Lake, Sea Girt, Brielle, Point Pleasant and Mantoloking. Which is to say, basically the stomping grounds of my youth and adolescence. Aunt Grace reminisced and pointed out several guest houses where she'd stayed in the 30's and 40's, and talked at length about her hosts and adventures at the Shore.

Sightseeing from the back seat of my car doesn't exactly give the best view, but I was pretty happy anyway. I felt as though I could wrap up my stay here satisfactorily, having given the waterfront its due. And it was an outing that I knew would brighten up Aunt Grace's day, despite the fact that she'd be crying when it was time to say goodnight. I will see her again, at least once before I leave.

But more importantly I visited the places that might call to me again someday. I set foot upon them, so to speak, witnessed once again the particular features that I will always remember about the place of my birth. I'll be getting up to the Highlands again on Friday for one last appointment, but I won't have time for that Shore drive. Instead I'll be taking the tour through the mansion district of Rumson, which, though interesting, doesn't hold any appeal for me at all. (Well, that's not entirely true. I do wonder why an 25,000 square foot home needs a 2,000 square foot addition. I guess I'll just have to live with that mystery.)