‘Tis Time, Parking Meters and Beach Tags

The season of the parking meter and beach tag are upon us. Yes, with days that shine forth at about 5 a.m. and linger until nearly 9 p.m., it’s the time of year to get out and wander, pedal, stroll or jog. Did you realize there is actually a statute against wandering? It’s ordinarily used by police when the need arises to pinch a drug peddler. Amusing? Well, I often look over my shoulder and wonder if the minions of the law will target me with the statute “Wandering with intent.” Intent for what? Pretty nebulous to be sure, but one of those ways to maintain a semblance of law and order among scalawags.
Parking meters are my avowed archenemy. I console myself walking blocks from a parking-meter-free zone of a town to the place where I must go, priding in the exercise I get and saving maybe 50 cents or more. It goes back a long way this cheapness of mine. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Just leave it alone.
I also have an unreasonable dislike of parking kiosks. There, just like in Atlantic City gaming halls, you put in your money and take your chances. Sometimes you win, sometimes you might find a ticket on your windshield, even if you don’t deserve it. Such a dastardly occurrence was visited upon a co-worker last year in North Wildwood.
Covering an event for the Herald, she dutifully put her money into one of those one-armed bandits in a municipal parking lot. Fortunately, she kept the receipt it spit out. Upon her return, she was greeted with a parking ticket. It was not a great way to begin a municipal relationship, to be sure. The day was literally boiling. Humidity was probably over 1000 percent, and when she saw the ticket, her understandable rage kicked it up a notch.
Part of her complaint, which was valid, was that her receipt clearly printed when her time was finished. The meter maid or butler who penned the ticket put a time on the infraction prior to that paid-up time. It was one of those little things, like the proverbial nail from the horse’s shoe that caused the battle to be lost.
She was not alone that day, there was a chap in a similar unfortunate circumstance. Maybe it was the heat or thinking about the weekend, past or present, that caused the problem. No way to win friends and influence people, especially if they don’t speak English too well, are on vacation, and figure it was their mistake for parking too long.
Maybe there was something to that line of thinking decades ago in Avalon. One of the borough’s solons decided the borough needed parking meters. There was widespread opposition to those meters, not unlike the Lower Township mercantile license that was despised when it went into effect. Money was the chief aim at the time, and the wrath of the public was felt in Avalon. The parking meters were soon dismantled, and I don’t recall too many tears being shed at their demise.
There was a time when it was bantered about that a seaside town could pick its poison, as it were: beach tags or parking meters. Someone has to pay the freight for the beach patrol and maintenance of the beach, right? Who should it be, townspeople or those who use the beaches?
It seemed to work for a spell, but then the allure of beach tags seemed to overtake the benign notion of parking meters paying part of the freight, so up went the meters and tag peddlers were stationed on the hot sands by the surf.
I’m not a skier, so I might be treading on very thin ice, but when winter snows fall and ski areas open, as in the Poconos, upstate New York, Maine or Vermont and New Hampshire, I don’t believe those tourist areas impose a “mountain tag” on those who ski. Yes, I know, you pay to go on the mountain to the firm that keeps it, and that’s the way it should be. The towns, however, don’t force the fee upon those who tote the gold into their kingdoms.
Federal dollars are regularly used for the upkeep of beaches, and towns are allowed to charge a fee for using the beaches in the prime time of the day. After hours, when it’s foolhardy to swim when lifeguards are gone, beaches are free for walking, just don’t picnic thereupon. When is the last time federal bucks were spent replenishing a mountain?
Just be warned when you venture into a seaside resort to have a fistful of quarters (or dollars) depending upon how long you intend to wander. When you park, be mindful of the time. Look at the meter when you drop in your coins. Did it correctly register the time? Should you be confronted with a kiosk, make darn sure you know your space number. Enter it properly, or some stranger will be thankful for your mistake.
Headed toward the beach? Take the tag you bought earlier or bring some greenbacks to pay for the privilege. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT tell the tag seller one of those tired lines, “I left my tag at home.” “My wife (or husband) has my tag and they’re coming in about five minutes.” “I bought one last year, do I need a new one this year?” or “I didn’t think I needed one. I pay taxes.”
You need a tag. It’s that simple. If you refuse to buy and wear a beach tag, head to the Wildwoods where they are still arguing over whether it’s time to start selling beach tags. When you go, wonder don’t wander!