You may have noticed that this page was a little weak on content the past two weeks. The reason was that I was out of town on my yearly summer sojourn back to my hometown waters of the New Jersey shore, specifically Long Beach Island, so we just sort of filled the page with some miscellaneous stuff.

As I'm sure many of you can relate, visiting family can sometimes be a dicey affair. But this year I had an absolutely wonderful time, so much so that I extended the trip a few days. While I was up there my sister gave me a copy of Pat Conroy's latest novel, South Of Broad. I've never been a big fan of Conroy's writing but this book struck a chord in me. I'll not reveal the plot but I will say that the book was mostly about close old friends and family bonds, tested through the trials and tribulations of time and circumstances, somewhat similar to the movie The Big Chill. Since I also got to catch up with some close friends I've known for decades, it all got me in a bit of a reminiscent and reflective mood.

First off, over this past winter many of us watched the weekly human trainwreck that was the reality series Jersey Shore, about a group of self-absorbed, hapless, ignorant and somewhat reprehensible young Italians and their overly tanned time sharing a beach house in Seaside Heights. Please understand, equating Seaside Heights and the sort of people you find there to my part of the Jersey Shore is like comparing Sullivan's Island to Myrtle Beach.

The Lowcountry has been my home for over 20 years now but my roots are still deeply embedded in the white sands and wide bays of Long Beach Island and old memories are a hard thing to shake. I have a young niece, age 6 now, and having her around and taking her to places I frequented in my youth provided some special delights. There's a place called The Holiday Snack Bar down in Beach Haven. It's been there forever and has that old and familiar feel to it and is adorned with old black and white photos of simpler times at the shore. There's not a single table in the place. Instead, it has just one big circular counter with short stools all around. The food is basic and simple, almost as if it's one big kid's menu and I took special delight in sipping my cherry coke along with my BLT. The place is also known for its chocolate cake, served as a huge slab. It was my niece's first time there and I'm sure it won't be her last. After lunch we all headed down to look at a piece of waterfront property my parents had their eye on and while there I noticed a line looped around one of the pilings. I pulled it up and just as I suspected it was attached to a crab pot and my niece took special delight in examining the few crabs it contained. Later that night my brother took her over to M&M Steam Bar, renowned for its seafood and open air dining room just off the main boulevard. They go there regularly because she likes to give names to all the lobsters in the tank, oblivious to the fact that they'll soon all meet the same boiling fate.

Watching kids play at the beach gives me a special delight and takes me back to my own early days as a beach rat. A simple bucket or skim board provides hours of fun and my niece has a whole beach wagon full of them. Not to demean the beaches of the Lowcountry, but they don't hold a candle to the one I grew up on. True, you can ride a bike on the beaches here but the sand is too fine and dirty and takes a lot of scrubbing to get off the feet. The beaches of LBI are blindingly white and about twice as coarse. Also, thanks to decades of nor'easters and an aggressive dune fence replacement program, the dunes of the island are very high with a good deal of dune grass, a plant that has always amazed me for its ruggedness and ability to eke out its living in a nearly waterless environment. But the best thing about the beach of my youth is the smell. Unlike most beaches here which deepen very gradually, northern beached deepen more aggressively and that means that even on a relatively calm day there are always good sized breakers pounding away and besides the wonderful booming and hissing of waves that churns up the bottom, the sea releases an aromatic cloud of brininess that reaches deep into your primordial psyche.

While I'm on the subject of aromas there's one I can still smell if I think hard enough about it. Back in the day, mosquito abatement on LBI was accomplished in a manner not long seen since. On the back of a Jeep was installed a machine that breathed out an endless fog of DDT mist. The Jeeps would drive all over the bayside portion of the island where the marsh grass was to kill as many of the pests as possible. I remember my friends and I running through the fog but even back then parents would warn us that we should refrain from doing so.

I also have to make mention of the corn. I was fortunate enough to be up there when the first of the famed Jersey Silver Queen corn was harvested out on the other side of the pine barrens and there is no doubt, it is the finest corn you'll find anywhere in the world. The sweet bursting of the kernels dripping in butter and crunching of the salt will always remind me of summer meals taken outside while I still had the feel of a slight sunburn and salt kissed coating of dried sea water.

Probably the most well known and enduring image of my home island would be 'Old Barney,' the Barnegat Lighthouse. It was originally constructed in 1834 and its red-over-white paint scheme can be found on an endless list of products and nick nacks. As kids we would make a yearly pilgrimage "just to see if Old Barney was still there" and much to my parents chagrin we'd insist on climbing its seemingly endless circular staircase all the way to the top to take in the magnificent view. My niece has not yet been to see Old Barney but according to my brother that day will soon come and I must admit, I'm glad I won't be participating.

The night before I left I met some friends at the Engleside Inn, a beachfront hotel/restaurant that's been hosting vacationers since before the turn of the century. Although the Engleside is now what you'd rate as an average place, back in its day it was considered one of the most luxurious resorts in the northeast. and was frequented by the rich and famous Elizabethians of the NY/NJ/Philadelphia area. But the most famous (or possibly infamous) aspects of the inn's history was that back in 1916, one of its guests was attacked and killed by a great white shark that continued its grizzly rampage up the Jersey Shore for the next week, killing five more people and thus providing the story line that Steven Speilberg used when writing the script for his blockbuster movie Jaws. In fact, if you're looking for a great summer read pick up a copy of the book, Close to Shore: A True History of Terror in an Age of Innocence, by Michael Capuzzo (2001 Broadway Books). Aside from a fascinating historical account it's masterfully written.

But now for the weird title of this article. One of the things I love about living here is the architecture, more specifically the place that front porches and piazzas play in daily life. Historically speaking it was the gathering pace to take in the evening breezes after the heat of the day wore off and not a lot has changed in that respect. Many of the houses on the Jersey Shore don't have porches. Instead we have a few simple brick or concrete stairs leading to the front door, and those porches are commonly referred to as "the stoop." "Stoop sitting" has gone on forever in the northeast and I'm not entirely sure why, but for a kid at the shore it made perfect sense. After dinner we'd always wait and listen for that sound to come down the block, the gentle jingling of the bells that meant the ice cream truck was headed our way! Whether it was a simple snow cone or a more elaborate strawberry shortcake Popsicle, it was the only proper way for a beach kid to end the day. However, a young kid slurping away on a fast melting ice cream treat has serious mess potential, so it was the most natural of things to do to simply sit down on the stoop where any drips could be easily washed off with the hose or a bucket of water.

The evening we ended up out on the stoop the ice cream man never did come by, but I could still hear those bells, the crashing of the waves up the street and I was so very happy that my niece was just starting to store those sort of summer memories that will sustain her through the winters of her youth.