I am a King. With Ava on my shoulders, and J.J. and Melissa flanking me, I ascend the boardwalk in Wildwood, NJ.
J.J. runs ahead.
The ocean breeze, neon lights, sweet smells and blending sounds assault my senses and take me back. Way back.
"There's where a giant Kong used to be," I say, pointing. "He was huge!"
J.J. does his best to humor me.
"Cooool," he says halfheartedly. He doesn't understand just how big Kong was. He can't see the giant structure, the big head, the huge hands.
But I see Kong clearly in my mind. And I hear him, too.
"And here was a haunted house — Dracula something," I say. "It was so scary."
"I don't want to be scared," Ava protests, grabbing the top of my head.
"No, the haunted house is not here now," I explain. "It used to be here when Daddy was little. It was super, super scary."
I don't know if Dracula's Castle was really that scary, but in my mind, it was. And so were the piano chords that haunted passersby. The castle and chords burned in a fire some years back.
Melissa and I took the family to Wildwood for an official "This-is-where-Mommy-and-Daddy-used-to-go-when-we-were-little" trip.
I wanted it to be official, so we stayed in the place I stayed as a child. And we followed the same routine — bikes in the morning, the beach all day and the boards at night.
When I was a kid, our family took the annual trip to Wildwood. It was our summer vacation. Melissa's family did, too.
You can never go home again, the cliché proclaims. But you can in Wildwood. I don't mean to sound like some corny advertisement, but Wildwood hasn't changed.
The hotel was exactly as I had remembered from the 1970s. They still give you an actual room key, not some keycard. There are still tacky palm trees and annoying neon signs.
The whole scene is beautiful in an ugly way.
That first night, after everyone fell asleep, I sat out on the small patio and stared for a moment at a fake palm tree. I've traveled around the world, stayed in some nice places, and yet there is something comforting about the familiar.
I sat on the chair, forcing my mind back to when I was a little boy visiting Wildwood. It's incredible what little details a mind holds from a family vacation.
Sitting between two brothers, watching a dad's hand grip a blue steering wheel and a mom's smile as we cross the Delaware Memorial Bridge.
A red sand shovel. A beach blanket with a red-and-white colonial pattern. An ugly (and heavy) greenish beach umbrella. Digging in the sand with a cousin. A slice of Mack's Pizza.
Childhood is fleeting — so short in comparison to a typical life span — and yet those early memories dominate. It is important to appreciate those memories the way a collector appreciates a classic car, because those memories are precious and an integral part of who we are today.
And all the while, we must also live today and create new memories for our children and for ourselves. For it is apparent that life is about memories.
It's been almost 30 years since I held my parents' hands while walking on the boardwalk. If I think hard enough, I can still savor the moment.
I can only imagine life three decades from today.
Melissa and I are in our 70s, walking hand-in-hand along the boardwalk. Ava is on my shoulders, as J.J. runs ahead. For a brief moment, I am a King.
Joe Vulopas is a freelance writer whose column appears every other Monday in Your Life. He lives in Lititz. You may e-mail Joe at: jvulopas@aol.com.
(424)
