East Fifth Avenue

Everytime I hear a seagull, I am instantly whisked back to East 5th Avenue in North Wildwood, NJ where my grandparents used to live.  East 5th Ave that was reached by way of the rickety bridge which ran through shanty town where the smell of marshland was so intense it could wake you from the deepest of drool on your cheek slumber.

Many days were spent walking the few blocks from Grandmom and Grandpop's small blue bungalow home to the North Wildwood beach where it seemed there was atleast 2 miles of sand to conquer before you could even reach the ocean.  I can hear the ice cream man shouting out his advertisements of "Creamsicles!  Fudgy Wudgy Bars! Ice Cream Sandwiches!" as he drags his wheeled freezer behind him. My favorite, when I am actually allowed to get money from my Dad's plastic blue coin holder, are the ice cream sandwiches that are absolutely beyond words perfect as the vanilla starts to melt, the chocolate sticks to your fingers and sand inevitably finds its way into your treat adding just the right amount of crunch.  As we head back to the house, walking past the old hotels that have wet towels drying on the balconies, I can see Grandmom waiting on the front porch for us.  Her "stories" must not be on yet since she wouldn't leave that black and red sectional couch when they were--she only really tore herself away to use the bathroom and "don't forget to shut that door when you're done because Grandpop doesn't like to see 'the throne' from his recliner." On the side of the house is the hose with water pressure so intense, it could take your foot off, but we must rinse the sand off our feet before entering onto that insanely bold colored shag carpeting.  I have to walk back around the long way since walking with wet feet in the grass would only get them dirty again.  As I make my way back to the porch, I always make note of my Aunt's hand prints cemented into the sidewalk infront of the house unsure of whether to walk on them or hop over them.  Once inside, I can't figure out if it's hotter in there or outside. Although as long as everyone remembered to replace the rubberband on the door between the front room and the bedroom hallway, the small window unit managed to keep the living room pretty cool. It's always a competition to see who can get into the shower first and use up most of the hot water.  But after I'm done, I know Grandpop has homemade crockpot chicken soup waiting for me to eat under the boiling bubble dome that is above the kitchen table.  Hot day, hot kitchen, hot soup but somehow I don't mind.  I can't help but bang my 1960's swivel chair against the table a few times, much to my Grandpop's disapproval, as I glance around at the diamond patterns in the carpet, the faux stained glass light above the blue kitchen cabinets and the colorful beads that hang teasingly from the railing (which were replaced, for a while, with beige and brown macrame that I never liked).  There is no old time mind numbing country music playing on the small grey radio for this meal--that will come at dinnertime.  After lunch, I sneak off to raid the tall cylinder plastic containers in the laundry room where the snacks were kept (the one marked "I" is always better--it has the Hydrox cookies. The one marked "R" only has no salt pretzel sticks or other low sodium snacks).  Sometimes after lunch I join Grandmom for some of her "story" time although at such a young age, most of the content shoots over my head.  I don't really care since I just want to spend time with her (although I enjoy watching Golden Girls with her much better).  If I find TV unappealing, a ride on the stationary bike hidden in the corner by the sunken rock and cactus garden or fiddling with the "magical" plant light helps pass the time. Or I might even go lay down in the bedroom with the curtain door, almost never failing to pick up a pin with my toe along the way (somehow, it is always my fault that the pin found its way into my foot. It is never Grandmom's fault for dropping it in the first place).  A nap after a hot day on the beach with a stomach full of homemade chicken soup always feels refreshing and slightly disorienting upon awakening.  There is nothing like salt air and sun induced sleep. 

I do remember some intense moments of boredom during those frequent summer trips to Grandmom and Grandpop's house especially since they only ever seemed to pick up ABC, Lawrence Welk and the Travel or Weather channels on the TV.  However the fond memories far outnumber the ones of boredom. I have such cherished memories from time spent that small blue bungalow on East 5th Avenue that sometimes it only takes something as simple as an seagull's call to bring them all rushing back.