By: centraljersey.com
Jim and I moved to New Jersey under duress. He had been transferred to an office in Newark and the thought of commuting from Eastern Long Island to New Jersey was daunting, so relocation was in order.
New Jersey, to a native New Yorker, was a joke – a pimple that God stuck on the civilized world’s backside. In New York, when we saw a car with a Jersey plate, we cut the driver off or tortured them in some other way. As we became more experienced drivers, we realized that this was dangerous behavior, so a sneer and a headshake had to suffice. (Sad to say, but when I drove to New York with my New Jersey plates, I was displeased to note that many New York drivers still behave like I did in my teens.)
When I told my friends we were moving to New Jersey, their reactions were all the same – disbelief followed by abject sympathy. They mourned for us as if we were already dead.
Fast forward: We found a terrific town. We found a house that wanted us as much as we wanted it. We found friends. And we love New Jersey. We absolutely do. Well heck, it’s been 20 years (and we’re still the "new people" on our street). We’d better love it or life would be a tragedy.
So, someone in my high school class plans a "We Made it to 60" reunion since we all turn 60 this year or next, and the thought of that reunion makes me achingly homesick. I’m sitting out by the pool on a hot summer’s night and my heart is in a dither because I want to go home. I hate New Jersey and I want to go home. I pout like a teenager without an iPhone.
Dusk is almost upon us. The breeze stills and I hear sounds – the rumble of a freight train, children playing, a jet overhead, and "Turkey in the Straw."
"Turkey in the Straw"? It’s the local ice cream truck making its rounds, and I can’t help but sing, "Do your ears hang high, do your ears hang low, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?" Except I don’t sing "ears." I sing about other body parts, my dirty little mind in full gear. My husband rolls his eyes.
When I was a kid, we had the Good Humor truck supplying us with ice cream. He came each night at the same time, garbed in a spotlessly white uniform. We called him "Mr. Ice Cream." (Had to put the "Mr." in there, as those were gentler, more respectful times.) No loud music for him; he rang a bell as he cruised the neighborhood, and we were Pavlov’s little doggies, salivating at the sound. He fathered a generation of slurping ice cream addicts.
We summoned our Good Humor man by jingling our change – he could hear money jingling in our pockets from two blocks away. Or maybe it was that look of naked hungry need on our faces that gave us away. Or maybe he heard us begging our parents: "Please? Mommy, please! It’s only a dime!" (It was. Honest.) So there I sat, longing for home and listening to the ice cream truck that had triggered these memories. I could still hear him, even though I knew he was 10 blocks away. The song drifted to me in the summer air.
Then the lightning bugs came out. There were thousands of them, and my thoughts drifted back to Long Island summer nights, when we used to trap fireflies in jars with holes in the lids. We kept them by our beds and fell asleep to their mesmerizing blinking. In the morning, the jars were empty and our parents explained that the fairies had taken their "friends" back to the garden.
I basked in the darkness of that summer night and thought of all the things that my little town in New Jersey offers me.
I love the Sept. 11th ceremony that we hold each year. It’s sad, but it reminds me that I am part of a community. It’s just as I felt when my friends gathered at the park on Memorial Day so many years ago. Never mind the fact that as a member of the Girl Scouts, I had to put flags on hundreds of veterans’ graves. What was a burden then would be an honor now.
I love my library. I was always a reader, and the proximity of books still gives me a warm, homey feeling. I’ll never forget the day that I, a sixth-grader, was given access to the adult books. It was so special. It opened a whole new world of reading.
I love the sound of children playing on a summer night. We lost that for awhile, but it’s come back to us. The fascination of computers and video games finally seems to be wearing off. Kids are riding bikes, roller blading, playing sports, and generally soaking in some daylight.
It’s refreshing. I hadn’t realized how much I missed their screams of delight. (The kids next door have a swimming pool and a trampoline. I guess I could take less of their shrieking, but it’s still nice to hear them having fun.)
There I was, mulling over these thoughts, when the bomb of realization hit me. I love New Jersey.
It’s all here, except for my friends and you have to know that friends don’t always stay with you. They end up relocating all over the country. And they’re only an email or phone call away (need I mention Instant Message or Skype?).
Yeah, it’s true. Your state is now my state.
Except for one thing.
I recently went back to Long Island (Fire Island, in fact) and loved watching the seagulls diving into the ocean for their food. They seemed so joyful, not like the gulls here in Central Jersey that seem almost depressed about eating garbage in the Walmart parking lot.
I know, you’re telling me to go down the shore where I’ll see real seagulls, but I’m afraid that if I did, I would meet Snooki and her friends.
Minx McCloud is a freelance writer who writes about life in New Jersey. She can be reached at [email protected].

