I realized during a conversation with a coworker the other day, I’ve never spent a Fourth of July in Key West. I’ve lived here for 23 of them, but have always managed to head home to the South Jersey Shore, a place that, for me, embodies everything I love about the summertime.
The summer season spawned most of my best memories from the time I was 14 and working my first summer job on the Ocean City boardwalk at Shriver’s Salt Water Taffy. (I can still probably gift-wrap a 1-pound box of taffy faster than anyone.) I graduated from the candy store to a clothing store a few doors down, still on the boardwalk, when I was 16. Then in college, cash was king, so I waited tables each summer at a crab place, where, quite frankly, the waterfront location was better than the food.
Summers at the Shore as a teen and 21-year-old were irreplaceable and unforgettable, which is a good thing, because winters at the Jersey Shore leave a bit to be desired. The town empties by October. The boardwalk shops, mini-golf courses, amusement rides and restaurants are shuttered and depressing, like trees without their leaves. Porches are stripped of their wicker furniture, but hey, at least there’s plenty of parking.
Most of my best memories carry the scent of sunscreen and boardwalk pizza. I’ll never lose those mental snapshots of suntanned shoulders, salt-crisped hair, the squeal of screen doors, the ringing of the ice cream man’s bell and the sounds of conversations that carry from one front porch to the next.
Damp, colorful beach towels hung heavily over clotheslines in back yards. Soapy water from each home’s outside shower pooled in the alley out back as returning beachgoers rid themselves of salt and sand. We then reconvened, refreshed and ready for another summer night and the possibility of yet another summer love.
I can always smell the salt air and hear the clack-clack-clack of the climbing roller coaster on the boardwalk five blocks away, followed inevitably by the delighted screams upon its descent.
I still hear certain ’90s songs that were the soundtrack of specific summers. REM’s “Shiny Happy People” and “Losing My Religion,” every song by the Dave Matthews Band, Hootie, Pearl Jam and U2’s “One.”
Up north, summer’s impermanence made it all the more precious. It was a season to be savored, celebrated and squeezed to the last drop. And the promise of its return made it possible to endure the cold, gray winter.
My love affair with summer is also what brought me south to a place where it never ends. Where mornings are only cold if the A/C is set too low and where heat pours out of a sunbaked car in visible waves.
I wouldn’t trade my life here — or up there — for anything in the world. And when I can have the best of worlds by heading up there for 10 days with the people I love most, I’ll sacrifice the holiday here.
So enjoy yourselves, Key West. Have a warm and wonderful Fourth of July. I know I will.
