Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Category: summer

  • The Fire Pit at the Residence Inn

    The Fire Pit at the Residence Inn

    Back to work and thinking about this weekend, what will I write about?

    Scoops and Tugs
    No hits before 10, 14U Rangers Black
    Who is going to pitch?
    Peer pressure and Bud Heavy, the Kevin W. Story
    Fire Side Chats with Prosecco-Fueled Moms
    Stephanie M. “America’s Sweetheart”
    Tim and James Go on a Date
    How Gay Is a Veggie Burger?
    Martine’s New Outfit
    “You Know Where I Stand”: Dan T. Hot Takes on Youth Baseball
    Why Did Tom H. Cross the Road?
    Steph Learns How to Pronounce Kara
    Coach Goodie’s Uncomfortable Pretzel Talk
    Willie McBride’s and His Toothless Bride
    Duke Cleans Off the Wine Flutes
    Rich M. Gets Fed on His Anniversary
    Gap to Gap Moms Are the Friendliest

    I was really hoping to write about how we persevered through two seasons and finally came through in season two with a big weekend tournament win. It was our last tournament of the summer 14U baseball season, and we were in upper New Jersey at Diamond Nation.

    We were a team still taking shape, but there were plenty of reasons to be hopeful. We had finally filled some of the spots that had been weak and always seemed just one step away from putting it all together. We are still a work in progress, but it will happen. I have it on good inside information.

    The weekends and trips have become just as much fun for the parents as they are for the kids. We are a stone-cold pack of weirdos, to paraphrase Bridesmaids, and that is how we like it.

    Thinking about all the funny little things that happened this weekend, none comes more quickly to mind than the female equivalent of Don Rickles, the uncompromising Steph M., rarely burdened by a kind word for anyone.

    Steph has always spoken her mind and given us such catchphrases as, “Throw strikes,” and, “Get it up, Joe!” This weekend, she let all the filters go. I can only imagine what instructions Rich receives behind closed bedroom doors.

    Still, it would not be the same without her. She is loved. I appreciate all the uniqueness of our very own America’s Sweetheart.

    The kids battled hard during our second game, but we ended up in the dreaded consolation circle. The final game still felt like our own championship, and we wanted the win. It was a good game, and we were all happy that they finished the weekend hitting and on a high note. That always makes the ride home more enjoyable.

    I am always surprised and thankful for the fun we have. Life takes you down all these winding roads, and somehow you end up at a Residence Inn fire pit with people who were once strangers. Somewhere along the way, a team becomes a family.

    We drank our drinks: seltzers, Prosecco, Bud Heavy, Truly, Michelob Ultra, IPAs, rosé, White Claws, and Sip of Sunshine.

    There were professionally prepared charcuterie boards from Jen, Amanda serving as the s’mores grill safety officer, and her Ranger’s chocolate-covered pretzel sticks.

    There were so many inside jokes and stupid stories as we sat around enjoying our time together. Most would make no sense to anyone who was not there, and some barely made sense to those of us who were.

    This was the last tournament of the summer, with an uncertain future as the boys grow and the team changes. Of course, we wanted the big win and the social media post.

    Instead, we left with a consolation win, a hundred new jokes, and another weekend together.

    Maybe that was enough.

    These seasons feel like they will last forever while we are living them. There is always another practice, another game, another long drive, and another hotel. Then suddenly the boys are taller, their voices are deeper, and you realize these weekends are not endless after all.

    One day, the bats will be put away, the uniforms will no longer fit, and the fire pits will be empty. We will miss the noise, the wet-towel snapping, the bad calls, the inside jokes, and even the games that did not go our way.

    The trophy would have been nice.

    But years from now, I do not think I will remember the score.

    I will remember the boys growing up together, the parents becoming friends, and all of us sitting around that fire, laughing and wondering who farted in that group photo.

  • Good Times

    Good Times

    We drove down to Rehoboth Beach for James’s baseball tournament, two cars, because that is just how we do it now. We had been to Rehoboth before, but I had apparently forgotten the whole place, including the long strip of stores, restaurants, hotels, and traffic that greets you on the way in. By the time we pulled into the Holiday Inn Express & Suites, a few of the baseball families were already camped out in the lobby. That lobby would become our unofficial clubhouse for the weekend.

    Thursday was our beach day, and after a week of forecasts threatening otherwise, we lucked into perfect weather. We arrived early and set up right in front until the lifeguards paid us two visits. First, they made us take down our tent. Then they confirmed that no, we could not fly a kite either. It was Stephanie’s birthday, though, and we were not about to let a few town ordinances ruin the day. We tried to leave enough room around us for the families who would arrive later. The strangers who set up camp around us did not get that memo.

    Then the tournament started.

    We won one game and lost one. The loss was a game we could have won, though I am fairly sure every baseball parent says that after every loss. A double play ended our comeback and took the wind out of us. Charging us $20 to park after we had already driven four hours felt like a personal insult, but that is travel baseball.

    Saturday was our day. We beat the top team in the tournament, then handled the next one easily, which moved us into fifth place and the winners’ bracket. At the time, every pitch felt important, every at-bat like it might decide the whole weekend. A few days later, I could barely remember most of it.

    What I remember now is everything that happened between the games. Families spread across the hotel lobby. The group growing as siblings and extended family arrived for the weekend. Parents trying, and mostly failing, to keep the boys from sprinting down the hallways. We lost a couple of kids at the beach and then found them again. Some boys overate, some got sunburned, and one or two took too many waves to the head and paid for it later. Mysterious feminine hygiene products surfaced from the sand. The bathrooms were too far away, so everyone made their way into the ocean and pretended it was only for a swim.

    There were nightly walks to Rita’s, where we learned Tim is a vanilla connoisseur. There was a fiercely competitive round of cornhole and the total dominance of Casey and James on the boards. There was a mysterious blue vase, so out of place in the hotel lobby that someone eventually removed it from the premises and gave it a loving new home in Connecticut. There was my service buddy Duke, a rescue dog and my new favorite beach friend. There was the Crooked Hammock Brewery, the humidity finally breaking, and a sunset appearing through the clouds at just the right time.

    And there were the moms who organized the entire weekend so the rest of us could show up, complain about parking, and enjoy ourselves. I am always grateful for that, even when I forget to say it.

    Not the counts. Not the innings. Not who was up with two outs.

    The lobby. The beach. The laughter. The nonsense.

    By Sunday morning, we were still alive in the winners’ bracket, ranked fifth and facing the sixth-ranked CNS All-Stars, a team that had scored more runs than anyone else in the tournament. Our pitching was great, but two balls found the third-base line. I did not get a clean look at the first one. The second was one of those line-hugging shots that curves away into no man’s land just when you think it is going foul. Those two plays cost us four runs.

    We rallied anyway, pulled within one, gave everyone one final dose of hope, and could not finish it. After all the pacing, anxiety, and hoping, we were sent packing around 10:30 Sunday morning. We later found out the team that beat us went on to win the whole tournament. I still cannot decide whether that is supposed to make it hurt less or more.

    That is the agony of being a baseball parent. Every missed chance feels enormous. Every mistake feels like a small tragedy because, for a few hours, their hopes become your hopes too.

    But they are still kids. Everyone needs to take a breath.

    They are caught somewhere between following instructions and disappearing into their own worlds, wanting their coaches’ approval, their teammates’ respect, and their parents’ pride. They almost certainly do not want their fathers talking baseball at them for four hours on the ride home.

    There is a line from The Office I have always loved: “I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.”

    I think about that line more than I would like to admit.

    The baseball will fade. I will forget the score, the missed chances, and probably even the names of the teams we played. What I will keep is the hotel lobby, the beach, the blue vase, Rita’s, Duke, the cornhole games, and the boys laughing together into the night.

    As we were leaving, I saw a father in the batting cage with his young son, feeding him pitches while the two of them were completely lost in it. I remembered when James was that small. For a moment, I could see the whole circle of baseball life right in front of me.

    The tournament gave us a reason to go. The time between the games was the reason it mattered.

    I already miss it.

    These are the good times.

  • The Greek Experience, Danbury, CT

    The Greek Experience, Danbury, CT

    According to 23andMe, I am around 14 percent Greek. I’m from a small fishing village, like my cousin Balki. The number keeps changing as more and more people spit into tubes and send them away.

    Growing up, my father’s side was Greek. It was also the only side of the family that really made it over here, so we were Greek in a big way. Greek culture is family and food, and there is no real separation between the two. It was my inherited and adopted nationality, besides being first and always a proud American.

    Since my parents passed, I have been one giant bag of feelings, sentiment, emotion, and nostalgia.

    My father kindly accepted my mother’s Lutheran religion, and that was how their boys were brought up. To be fair, there wasn’t a Greek Orthodox church in the area when we were growing up. My parents were also always on the late side. We were lucky to make the Sunday service in Newtown. There is no way my mother would have handled the tour de force of Orthodox Christianity—hours of standing and prayer, a good deal of it in Greek.

    But after attending the funerals of my Yia Yia and my Aunt Mary, my mother became convinced that the Greek Orthodox Church was for her.

    She wanted to be known. She wanted her eulogy to be given by someone who knew her and cared about her. Father Peter was her man, whether he knew it or not.

    My father was very happy to be going back home.

    I can only imagine the questions and questions my mother asked Father Peter as she went through the catechumenate and was finally chrismated into the faith. He literally needed the patience of a saint.

    I think of 1 Corinthians 13:12:

    “Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”

    That verse has taken on a new meaning for me as a father, looking back while my daughter is graduating from high school and my son is graduating from middle school.

    The love that pours out of a father for his son and daughter is almost impossible to explain. Recently, I found myself thinking about how differently that love is experienced on each side. A parent carries the whole history—the years, the worry, the sacrifices, the ordinary days that somehow become sacred when you look back on them. A child is simply living inside it.

    For a moment, that realization made me melancholy. Not because the love was not returned, but because it could never be fully understood in the same way. They could not see it from where I was standing, just as I could not fully see the love of my own parents while they were still here.

    Then I thought again about the verse and realized that we are never going to be fully known down here. We can’t be. Maybe it is a mistake to expect another person to understand every part of the love we carry for them.

    But the desire itself is true. We want to be fully loved. We want to be known and loved in all the strange and particular ways that each individual person needs love.

    It became another lightbulb moment about God. Maybe the question is not simply whether we love God, but whether we will allow ourselves to be loved by Him. Jesus asks the crippled man if he wants to be healed. Love does not force itself upon us. It asks to be accepted.

    I am extremely grateful to Father Peter and Father Nikolas for their love and kindness when my parents passed. They took the time to know them, and that gave me peace. In those moments, the garments of the Christian faith began to mean something different to me. Worn honestly, they represented men trying to place their trust in love and allow it to guide them.

    All of this, and what about the Greek Experience?

    To understand the festival, I think you have to understand the Greek instinct to work together, feed everyone, support the church, and somehow enjoy the chaos of doing all four at the same time.

    And then there is the food.

    The food is pretty amazing. How could it not be when you have all the Greeks who run the diners and food businesses in the area working together.

    I know the McDonald brothers and Ray Kroc developed the modern quick-service restaurant model, but I have no doubt they were divinely inspired after watching Greeks run a church festival somewhere in California.

    That is what my father loved about it. Not just the gyros and all the great food, although he certainly loved the gyros. He loved the work, the organization, and the people stepping in wherever they were needed. To him, faith was not only something spoken about on Sunday morning. It was something built, cooked, served, cleaned up, and then done all over again the next year.

    For me, the festival is impossible to separate from my parents. It reminds me of my father being proud of his Greekness, my mother asking Father Peter enough questions to test the patience of heaven, and all the strange ways that funerals, faith, food, and laughter become tied together. It also reminds me of all the people we loved who are no longer standing beside us in line.

    So I sat there eating a gyro, looking at the icons, watching everyone work, and thinking about my father.

    For a little while, he did not feel very far away.

    That is a pretty amazing experience for someone who is 14 percent Greek.

  • Remembering Pocmont

    Remembering Pocmont

    Driving to Kalahari this Sunday with my brother and son, we took an unexpected diversion and ended up going down memory lane on Route 209 South. Going to the Poconos is a special part of our family history. For my parents, it was their destination for a romantic honeymoon-style escape at places like Cove Haven and Paradise Stream. They were “Forever Lovers,” VIP members from long ago. They always spoke fondly of those resorts and their time there, saying how quickly the years had passed and how the places just weren’t what they used to be.

    Before everyone had bigger ambitions, driving two hours into the wilderness was the vacation, especially for city people. Back then you went either to the mountains or to the shore. The idea of taking a plane for a getaway was a radical departure from their modest upbringing and surroundings.

    Pocmont became another special place for us. Once my mother grew comfortable with the area and the drive, she would find a weekend, or more often several weekdays, to take advantage of better prices and bring my brother and me.

    Pocmont Lodge was one of those classic old-school Pocono resorts that had a bit of everything rolled into one. Families came in the summer for a week, parked the car, and never had to leave the property. It was a kind of limited Dirty Dancing experience, with enough activities and entertainment to fill every day.

    The food setup was classic resort dining hall style, with buffets and communal seating. The atmosphere was family-friendly but still appealing to couples on a weekend escape. I remember we had the same server for the whole trip, and we’d quickly become best friends with them. They would sneak us extra dinner rolls, bring more drinks, or even slip my mom another entrée that she would stash away in her Mary Poppins bag for her growing boys. It became an epic doggy bag for a dog who was never there.

    The campus in Bushkill was sprawling, with a lodge, conference facilities, and plenty of outdoor activities. Guests could enjoy indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, shuffleboard, and golf. In winter there was skiing nearby, and in summer there were organized games and entertainment. At night we would go to the live shows: cabaret-style performances, music, and comedy. Danny and I even played bocce ball with the Italian men and somehow won a weekly tournament one year, much to their surprise.

    Most of our days were spent playing ping pong in the arcade room. Ping pong is our family sport, if a family can have a sport. My mom was our teacher; she learned and played as a child at one of the city’s summer camps. We had a table at home eventually, but before that, Pocmont was where we practiced for hours, trying to beat one another on that resort table.

    Those weekends at Pocmont were our special trio getaways. It was all my mom. She worked hard to make those trips possible, saving her twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She put her own touch on every detail. The resort was fun, and the game room with its ping pong table was our anchor.

    I loved that time with Danny and my mom. The warmth, love, and adventure of those days still course through my spirit. I didn’t realize until today that our trip was an unspoken homage to our past. It was part of that unknown reason we have always been drawn back to this area. To revisit the ghosts of a well-lived childhood, filled with blessings and love. A love note to my mother for all that she did for us, and a way to keep her spirit alive through our commitment to each other and the next generation.

  • Epic Universe Part 3 – The Finale

    Epic Universe Part 3 – The Finale

    After our relaxing meal, crisscrossing back to Super Mario, we made our way out of Donkey Kong Country and into the Mushroom Kingdom. Our destination was Mario Kart Racing. This game is a favorite for both of us, and we are equally competitive against the AI and each other. We decided to use our Express Pass here to cut down on the wait.

    The inside of the ride and queue were excellent, full of detail and excitement. But the ride itself was a disappointment. The augmented reality glasses are a neat feature, but they do not succeed at immersing you in the race. The speed is painfully slow, one of the slowest in the park, and no amount of screens or AR could make up for that. I never felt like we were really moving or racing anyone.

    I had been excited about the idea of collecting power-ups, but the ride just gave you an endless supply of turtle shells. I ended up spamming them into nothing. Halfway through I lost interest and just casually tossed shells and spun the wheel without caring much. The whole thing felt more like a Disney water ride than a Universal attraction, which is the opposite of what Universal usually delivers.

    Our last stop in Mushroom Kingdom was Yoshi’s Ride, which was a big nothing. It is basically a slow loop around the area for younger kids. The highlight is seeing the land from above, but otherwise it is simple and forgettable. The colored eggs on my kart did not add much, and I kept wishing they had included some interior cut scenes or more surprises. For me, this ride needs a serious boost. I had expected Mario Kart to be the standout, but the real champ of the day was still the Mine Karts.

    From there we returned to the How to Train Your Dragon region for some nighttime rides, the Wing Gliders and the Pyre Fire Boats. The water ride was actually kind of fun. It reminded me of a half-dream memory of combining American Gladiators with a water ride, blasting other boats with water cannons. The real joy was soaking other riders and watching them get frazzled, heated, and then burst out laughing. To be fair, those spinning wooden wheels that turn when you soak them did feel like a last-minute idea that somehow made it through management.

    As the sun set, we strolled back through all the lands again, starting with the Ministry of Magic in Paris. This time we slowed down, really taking in the details, the atmosphere, and of course another butterbeer. We ended up back in Darkmoor for our third and final ride of the day on our favorite attraction, Monsters Unchained.

    The last ride of the night was the Constellation Carousel, glowing under the stars. It was a calm and fitting end to an epic day. I did not ride, it was enough for me to watch my son circle slowly under the stars, completing his list of every ride in the park. Meanwhile, I was still recovering from my final, bruising ride on the Stardust Racers. 

    I try hard to record these memories deeply in my mind, carving grooves that last a lifetime. This was one of those adventures that will last. I am so blessed, lucky, and grateful for this time together. It is a fleeting window, the teenage years before driving at sixteen, those rare years when everything still feels possible before responsibility takes over.   By the time we walked out, the park was quiet and glowing. We had conquered kingdoms, battled monsters, raced through galaxies, and sailed dragon skies. It felt like the closing of an epic quest, one that will always live in our story.

  • Epic Universe Part 2 – The Middle

    Epic Universe Part 2 – The Middle

    Stepping out of the warp pipe into the Mushroom Kingdom, the day truly began to level up. What had started as a long stretch of lines and heat was suddenly transformed into something electric. The colors, sounds, and movement around us made it feel like we had stepped into the game itself. For us, this wasn’t just another attraction—it was personal. Video game collecting has been part of our bond since the beginning, starting with an original NES we bought on eBay with Super Mario Bros. and Duck Hunt.

    The layout felt like a labyrinth, but I didn’t have to worry about directions. My son was a professional guide, already familiar with every turn from months of watching videos.

    The Donkey Kong Mine Cart had a posted wait time of 45 minutes, with the line stretching back to the entrance. The single-rider line looked empty, so we made the executive call to try it. Our thinking was that we’d knock out two of the three non–Express Pass rides early. It turned out to be a mistake. Because the vehicles seat two, single riders only get pulled in when there’s an odd-numbered party. We ended up waiting just over 45 minutes. The worst part was the animatronic Cranky Kong repeating the same line for the entire time: “Noisy Nincompoops.” By the end, that phrase was burned into my brain.

    I wasn’t expecting much from Donkey Kong, but it surprised me. Looking down, the track makes no sense, which makes the ride fun and exhilarating. It’s a mid-level coaster with plenty of flair, and when we got off, we both laughed and said the same thing: that was way better than expected.

    Leaving the Mushroom Kingdom behind, we entered the Monster area, Dark Universe. It was midday and the sun was blazing, but the land still pulled us in with swirling mist and eerie details at every turn.

    We went straight to Monsters Unchained: The Frankenstein Experiment. The first time we used our Express Pass, but we came back twice more to ride it again in the regular line. This was our ride, our jam, and in our opinion the best ride in the park. From the queue to the artwork and music, the immersion is on another level. I thought the IP might feel tired, but Universal gave it real respect and delivered for both longtime fans and first-timers. The ride is continuous like Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey, so the line moves quickly. Once inside, it’s pure brilliance. The graphics set a new standard, and the animatronics even surpass Disney. It’s an absolute triumph.

    After that, we saved Curse of the Werewolf for later. It’s a fine little coaster, but short. I usually get dizzy with spinning, but this one was more than manageable.

    Next was Stardust Racers, Universal’s homage to the legendary Dueling Dragons. I’d always regretted missing it, so this felt like redemption. Two coasters race side by side, dipping and weaving with breathtaking speed. We rode the right side first, then came back at night for the left. Both were incredible, but racing under the lights at night was unforgettable.

    From there we went to How to Train Your Dragon: Isle of Berk. By then we were hungry. We passed on the famous Mac and Cheese Cones at Spit Fyre Grill—the heat made them less appealing—and went for bowls instead. My son had Stoick’s Steak Bowl and I had Valka’s Vegan Bowl. Both were tasty and surprisingly good for quick service.

    By about 4:30 or 5 p.m., we had completed nearly every ride. Ready for another meal and a break, we ducked into the Oak and Star Tavern. We found a cozy booth for two, ordered slow-smoked brisket and BBQ jackfruit sandwiches, and enjoyed the air conditioning. The food hit the spot, but the real gift was sitting down and catching our breath.

    I was fading, but my son stayed strong. I asked if finishing everything meant we could leave a little early. He just said NO. That settled it—we were staying to see the park in all its glory, both day and night.

  • Epic Universe Part 1 – The Beginning

    Epic Universe Part 1 – The Beginning

    This was the main point of the trip, a 14-day pass with just one day reserved for Epic Universe. My son had been preparing for this since the moment he found out we were going, watching an endless stream of YouTube videos from creators who make it their job to share every detail of how to do the park right.

    We were told Wednesday was the best day to go. It turned out to be one of the busiest. I’m convinced it was because everyone else was watching the same recommendations. Later we learned it was also the last day of summer break for Florida kids, which explained a lot.

    We woke at 7:00 a.m., almost like a travel day. The night before, we had booked a car service for the short 2.8-mile ride to the park, which cost $25 with tip. That expense was nothing compared to the $500 I had spent on Express Passes. These allowed us to skip the line once on 8 of the 11 attractions. If we hadn’t used them, I could have asked for a refund, but I knew better. My son knew better too, teasing me that there was no chance I’d ever stand in a line that long.

    We were dressed and ready and arrived at 8:15 a.m. to join the initial line before the 9:00 opening. My son wanted us there early so we could hit the rides quickly once inside. He was right. This would be a day of lines. One kid later humorously muttered, “Epic Universe, more like Epic Lines.” By 8:20 we were already waiting in the sun, that relentless Florida sun that hunts you down. At 8:30 I was sweating and I knew this was going to be a long one. The day would stretch into 14 hours.

    The staff did a good job raising spirits with countdowns and encouragement. When the security gates opened, we were moved forward but then held again at the ticket checkpoints. Eventually we were corralled into two groups, each pointed toward one side of the park. Our target was the Harry Potter Ministry of Magic ride, the new flagship attraction. This was the crème de la crème, the Cadillac of rides for the park. From watching the app, we knew it was always going to have a long wait and that it broke down often, so it had to be first.

    My son, quick and athletic, made his way halfway up in the pack while I was the big old lumbering dad on the side, trying to keep pace with families and kids sprinting forward. By the time we reached the Ministry, I was several rows behind. Thankfully, he gave up his hard-earned position and waited for me so we could continue together. Once inside, we were funneled into yet another queue, the last one before the ride itself.

    The silver lining was that we were in a good position and the sweet AC gave us relief. By then it was 9:15 a.m. and the ride wouldn’t open until 10:00. It felt like waiting in several lines just to avoid waiting in line. Still, the atmosphere carried that first-day-of-school energy. Everyone was buzzing, and the excitement was contagious. We sat, walked, and waited with our new-found line friends eagerly anticipating and taking in all the queue aesthetics we could handle.

    At 10:05 we were finally on the ride. It was incredible, as most Universal rides are, but it wasn’t quite the earth-shattering experience the hype had led us to expect. We both felt like there should have been more—bigger thrills, something novel, an unexpected twist to earn all that buzz. Unfazed and happy to check off the big ride we joyfully continued onward, not knowing that wow moment would come later with another ride.

    After leaving the Ministry, we walked through the Parisian area. The whole park was stunning, with every section and portal pulling you into its own fantasy setting. When you look up, you see the buildings towering, layered with detail. Every corner seemed to hold hidden Easter eggs, honoring the original material while letting the designers and engineers leave their own mark.

    Our next destination was one of the most anticipated rides of the day. The Super Mario portal was something special for us. Video game collecting has been part of our bond since the beginning of our adventures together, so this was more than just another attraction. Watching my son step into that warp pipe and emerge in the Mushroom Kingdom was a moment I’ll never forget. Suddenly, we were surrounded by the best pieces of Super Mario Brothers brought to life.

    This is where Part Two of our day begins, and where things really started to warp to the next level.

  • Review: The Jersey Shore – Diamond Beach, NJ (Part 1: Hotel & Vibe)

    Review: The Jersey Shore – Diamond Beach, NJ (Part 1: Hotel & Vibe)

    What can be said about the Jersey Shore? For better or worse, my impression was shaped early on by a little MTV show called Jersey Shore. I thought it was a carnival side-show hookup spot for young Italians trying to catch every survivable STD before summer ended.

    My first trip down didn’t really change that view. I had to come back a few times to get my mind right. We went to Wildwood Crest—Exit 0—the very end of the Garden State Parkway, the end of the line. We stayed in the Diamond Beach area, a tiny sliver of shoreline just before Cape May.

    After going over the iconic E-ZPass bridge, then an inlet stretch or two, you make your way into a different mindset. It’s the kind of place where the road is policed by the Jersey Gods who nobody dares defy. The speed limit is 25, and everyone drives 25 or less. I spent a week there and only saw one police SUV. What kind of law-abiding madness is this? I felt like the Outlaw Josey Wales doing 30, just waiting for the Wildwood PD to swarm in.

    Driving 24 mph, we arrived at Icona Diamond Beach, a boutique hotel that had once been problematic during my first visit. They’ve since transformed it into something completely new. The core of what it was is still there, but this lipstick made the pig completely lovable and livable for our 5-day excursion.

    The rooms, I believe, are all suites. Ours was nicely appointed, though the bedroom area was tight. My wife and I had to do the boardwalk shuffle to get past each other, and sharing one bathroom with four people gets tricky as the kids grow. Thankfully, our daughter stayed with her Mima and Aunt, which helped.

    Still, the tight quarters sparked some memories—back to earlier trips when the kids were little and the space didn’t feel quite so cramped. That wave of nostalgia hit hard. How quickly it all moves. How every age holds something magnificent. I tried to store it all away on that mental shelf where the best moments live, while quietly dreading how much slips away with time.

    The hallway was a long run down the length of the hotel, and the pattern made me feel like I was at the Overlook Hotel in The Shining. There are historical photos lining the hallway, and I was looking for a party with Jack Nicholson at the beach with that wild Joker smile.

    The hotel employs young people from all over the world, it seems. The staff feels more like they would on a Caribbean island than in New Jersey.

    After breakfast, we’d make a quick visit back to the room to get ready for the day. The walk to the beach is great. It’s a fair distance from the hotel to umbrella city. Once you get to the end of the composite deck walkway that runs adjacent to the beach bar, I flip my flops into the air and plant my feet in the hot, warm sand. It seems like they brush it out each night, creating a fluffy step for me each day.

    I enjoy the little walk and feel the hot sun on my face, causing me to squint like Clint Eastwood staring down an adversary in any Wild West exploit.

    The staff helps you set up any number of chairs, lounges, umbrellas, and towels you need for the day. I’m always a fan of the efficiency in getting this done, complete with their cordless power drill to dig out a place for the umbrellas each day.

    Then we set up our chairs and sit. We sit and enjoy the all-excellence that is going to the beach. The warm air, constantly stirring and flowing over your body. The sounds of summer—fun, seagulls, kids, cocktails, mocktails and waves crashing forever. The shells and sand being turned into fine elegance, millennium after millennium, as the circular waves crash down and out.

    It’s always so amazing how quickly time can move and how tired you can get doing nothing all day. It doesn’t feel the same as sitting at home and watching shows that leave you deflated. A day at the beach leaves you feeling invigorated, closer to God, and with a sense of accomplishment. I don’t know what was accomplished, but I felt like I had put in a day of work.

    Vacation work.

    Sitting around with my family and two stowaways that joined us on our trip, I felt renewed under the energy of the plasmatic sun. Taking time to enjoy this flow of time, surrounded by the people that I love. Thinking of the people that I’ve lost and inviting them to join us.

    I didn’t expect to fall for the Jersey Shore, but somewhere between the wind, the waves, and watching my family lounge in the sun, it got me. It’s funny how doing nothing can leave you feeling so full. We didn’t conquer anything. We didn’t need to. We just showed up, stuck our toes in the sand, stayed present and let the days take us.

    Final Verdict:  8.15/10  (Aruba Light)