Memories

Over a generation had passed since the days of my youth at the New Jersey seashore.   Progress had so drastically altered the landscape that I grudgingly realized my old haunts could only be recaptured as fond memories the remainder of my adult years.

    Those youthful summers were filled with carefree days.   I remember traipsing down beach gravel roads under a scorching sun; heat waves reflected from the white gravel and shimmered in the air like silent banshees.   I remember those special places where an inquisitive young mind could explore, discover, experiment and learn.  

    Patches of milkweed, pods bursting with white, feathery, cotton-soft seeds.   A boy could capture colorful black, white and yellow striped caterpillars from the milkweed leaves and observe one of the miracles of nature, as the caterpillar, in its new shoebox home, would change into a brilliant golden-green chrysalis and, after several weeks, would emerge as a gloriously beautiful orange and black Monarch butterfly, to be released and live out its short life in freedom.

    Beyond the milkweed patches, down an overgrown path, were the woods.   Majestic oaks and diminutive scrub pines stood side-by-side; the ground was covered with a cushion of pine needles and acorns.   In the center of the woods was a secret hideaway.   An abandoned hut stood beneath the shade of one of the larger oaks, windows broken and the once white paint peeling in molding curlicues down the rotting wooden walls.   Inside the hut was a single room and amidst the dirt and dust were an archaic three-legged stool, a splintery wooden desk and the rusted remains of a dilapidated coil-spring bed.   The floors were cluttered with a variety of whiskey and wine bottles - mute evidence of the ancient recluse who once lived there.

    Leaving the woods behind, I would visit the blueberry bogs for an impromptu lunch of the ever-abundant, succulent, thumb-sized berries before continuing on to a nearby...