Reflections of a Shoobie

This is hard to admit, but here it goes: I am a shoobie.
There, I said it. Things used to be different, though. Through most of my childhood and on into my early 30’s, for the most part, I lived on or around the barrier islands in Cape May County. For $2 an hour, at age 11, I passed out circulars for Brian’s Place Restaurant. Later, up and down Seven Mile Island, I washed dishes at the Backyard Restaurant, cooked breakfast at Polly’s Place, stocked shelves at the Avalon Supermarket, painted house for Shore Works, and hauled garbage for the Borough of Stone Harbor.
Like many locals, I couldn’t wait for the shoobies and the lifeguards to go home. Ten years ago, I left. I took a new job. I moved to the Washington DC area and got married and we have two great kids. Last week, we rented a house in Avalon. One look said it all: shoobie. I arrived in a minivan with out–of-state plates packed with bikes, linens, food, bug spray, fishing rods and board games. My skin was pale. I wore big white socks. And just in case there were any lingering doubts, my 7-year old son brought with him his prized metal detector (he found 13 cents).
From 14-year old dishwasher to 41-year old shoobie dad, it all happened pretty fast. I looked forward to the same sorts of things that all vacationers like to do: skee-ball, bike rides, the beach and boardwalks. But the island was more than a vacation destination. It held memories. They were everywhere.
One day, I stopped by the house where I grew up Stone Harbor. At the sight of it, things I hadn’t thought of in years came back in an instant. I thought of all those wonderful summer nights spent playing wiffle ball with my brother until it was too dark to see. Then, there was the time I’d brought home a seventh grade report card with two F’s and two D’s. After the school bus dropped us off, I took my little sister, who was in first grade, into the backyard. I sat her down. I told her that once our mom and dad found out about my grades, I’d probably have to run away, maybe find work on a fishing boat. But I’d be sure to keep in touch.
I saw the current owners of the house where I grew up sitting on the porch. They couldn’t have been kinder. I told them I was glad they’d kept the house much the way I remembered it. When I’d driven through Sea Isle during our recent trip, I hardly recognized parts of the town. But I was glad to see the character of my old house and, for the most part, of Seven Mile Island remained.
One night, I went out for a quick drive and ended up at the home of my high school English teacher. We sat and talked for an hour or more. We talked about family, writing, life and old times. I told him the thing is, when you grow up in a place, you don’t think about it. It’s all you know. Only later, you realize how just lucky you were to be there in the first place.
Jim McElhatton is a newspaper reporter. He lives in Alexandria, Va. and can be reached at jimmcelhat@yahoo.com