Saturday, July 30, 2016

Nostalgia, The "Smell" of Jones Beach

I took this picture on the way to the New Montefiore Cemetery, for my brother's funeral just over a week ago.

Jones Beach, that gorgeous Long Island beach, multiple beaches- by parking lots-  if I'm not mistaken, was my favorite summer place to go when I was young. Besides the glorious beach, which dwarfed all others, I loved the Indian crafts, basket-weaving and beading. I don't think I've been there since I was 18. That last visit was with a friend. I drove, and we danced to the Indian drummer...

For some strange reason, the rich smell of a certain flower always reminds me of Jones Beach. Those flowers decorated the areas between the parking lots and the beach itself.



Does anyone else remember Jones Beach? And do you remember the sweet smell of those flowers? What do you remember?

9 comments:

Risa Tzohar said...

Ah, yes, I remember it well!
It is a beloved childhood memory of mine as well.

Batya Medad said...

To think we may have jumped waves together...

James Morrison said...

Some of the happiest times of my life. As a teen, going there so much in the summer.. Sheer bliss. Transcendent times

Dorothy Primich said...

I live in New Jersey and Jones Beach will always be The Beach for me.

Batya Medad said...

Does anyone else remember the smell of the flowers?

Debra Martine McGaughey said...

West End II was THE spot for us in high school. I remember senior beach day, the oily smell of Coppertone suntan lotion, the wide, wide stretch of whitish sand and hilly dunes, and ocean water I was never afraid to enter. Times have changed.

Batya Medad said...

Are you saying that now you're afraid?

Joel said...

When I was about eleven my parents, who had spent most of their time when we were at the beach, creating in each of their children as much terror of the water as possible decided to register me for swim class. Growing up on the lower East Side, near the East River, known not for its swimming excellence, but for its muddy surface, the prefect place to drop those sporting cement shoes, gave them a negative impression of water. Water deeper than that resulting from taking a shower and having the drain plug up, rising to ankle depth equaled possible death. The nearest beach, Jones Beach was “way-out” on Long Island. The drive started early.
When we finally got to Jones Beach, after a lovely three hour ride, no air conditioning, no drinking until we get “there,” we do not want to have to stop, we would park, grab all the crap in the trunk, the three umbrellas (the sun is not good for you) the six beach chairs (there were only five of us, but you had to be prepared should one chair break then what would you do?) and a thick blanket. “You want to sit on the sand?” queried my mother. “You could sit on a piece of glass, God forbid.” Then after tying a ribbon on the antenna, would walk about ten steps onto the stop and set up camp. The shore line dimly visible a zillion yards away.
My mother would say. “You don’t want to be to near the water, a wave could come”. I needed binoculars to see the surf. But we were safe. Safe from the dreaded tsunami my mother was sure would sweep us away. Safe from the deadly and every dreaded undertow. If I attempted to go near the water, let alone in the water, I needed to be sure, I was right in front of the lifeguard stand. It did not seem to matter if there was a lifeguard present. The stand seemed to give my parents comfort. That was my parents Jones Beach...

Batya Medad said...

You missed the best part of the beach, but you tell a great story!