The end of summer always gets to me. Nothing, growing up in New Jersey, was as romantic as summer — the sudden, electric thunder storms. Hot nights playing capture the flag. The hum of cicadas.
And later, the late nights on the boardwalk — if you squinted, you could still make out the white water, illuminated by arcade lights as the waves broke below. I snapped this photo when I traveled east this August; it’s of Lucky Leo’s, an arcade on the boardwalk in Seaside Heights, NJ, where I spent many summer afternoons playing skeeball. (Those clouds are receding thunderheads.) Come to think of it, I’d argue that no figure looms as large in my consciousness as a writer than memories of summer as a kid.
Sorry, old boyfriends. You’ve got nothing on roller poker.
So today, I’m raising my coffee mug to a productive fall — Labor Day will always feel like the real New Year’s to me. But pssst: Jersey Shore, I’ll see you next summer. You can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t take Jersey summers out of the girl.