Weekend at the Beach

This past weekend, I "finally" got down to the New Jersey shore - A trip had been planned for the Thanksgiving Day weekend, but due to my Dad's illness, it was postponed - and delayed - and postponed again.

It was cold and windy down there - but the sunshine and the sight of the "winter beach" was a restorative for me. I didn't have to do anything on my folk's house - so I was free to roam, think, and read.

I started reading a huge (700 page plus) book on the ins and outs of the "forgotten war," that is, Korea.

To clear my head of all the things filling it of late - I strolled down to the beach and watched some little kids fly a kite and throw balls to dogs that were delighted to run free in the clean white sand.

In the town park, the "clam" has been painted with "Old Barnegat Lighthouse". "Super Storm Sandy" (I hate the ridiculous names "they" give to storms) was rough on the park - and the homes and businesses nearby. The park was home to a tree that memorialized a local boy - the tree was killed by the salty storm waters. I hope "they" plant another tree and soon.

Returning to the beach, I thought about that tree - and the boy it memorialized. Ensign Arthur Joseph Platt Jr. was my age. Born a few months before me, to the people that lived next door - down the shore. As such, I grew up with him during the summer months. He was a short, sturdy guy with laser like focus on his dream to fly.

He was the only son of A. J. and Marylou Platt. His two older sisters were beauty pageant winners - his younger sister was a charming little girl. His parents came from Philadelphia, and ran both a motel and a bike rental/Ice cream parlor. Mrs. Platt was one of the nicest, hardest working person I knew. She always a kind word, a happy greeting, and a smile for me each morning when she walked past our house from the ice cream store to the motel carrying clean sheets for the day's change-overs.

A.J., as the older Mr. Platt was known, worked long hours during the summer season, renting and repairing bikes along side with selling ice cream cones and sundaes. I owned several bikes that came from his store. A.J. was very proud of his son, the Naval Aviator. He beamed with delight if someone mentioned him or asked how he was doing.

Young "Artie," as he was called, joined the navy in 1978, the year he graduated from high school. He was soon flying jets in Pensacola, Florida (the home of the Blue Angels).

One day, in 1984, young Arthur Joseph Platt was involved in an accident while flying and killed. His death was so unexpected and sudden, it was as if a candle had been puffed out.

I think young Artie's death killed his father - it took several years - but the old man was never the same afterwards. He slid into a quiet kind of grieving despondency. He no longer cared about dishing up ice cream, or his appearance, and the bike place slowly dwindled - from a place with hundreds of bikes to a mere handful.

And so it was - I decided to pay my respects to the A.J.'s buried in the nearby "Holy Innocents' Garden of Memories". Artie was buried about 100 feet from the motel his mother spent so much time at - with his father buried next to him.

As a further heartbreak to a hard working, close-knit family, the youngest girl, who went to Washington College in Chestertown, died not long after her father from a freaky accident. She fell from a ladder while working on her home and hit her head. She never woke up.

As I thought about the hard times a family endures - and the unfairness of it all - I thought about the damage the storm had brought to the shore - if it were uncaring and randomly capricious; but... life goes on. Mrs. Platt - goes on - she works in Pensacola at the National Naval Air Museum there - a living testimony to her son.

One the beauty pageant winners - still runs the bike rental shop - and the business suffered from the storm as the sea water destroyed much of the "stored for the winter" bikes and other rental goods. But they too - simply cleaned up the mess and go on.

Someday, I should tell them all how much I admired them as a young boy - and how much I admire them today.

Captain Starn's - Atlantic City Landmark - Wordless Wednesday

Postmarked 1967

Some words - This postcard was sent in 1967 by my younger brother to our Aunt Bea. We used to go to this restaurant for his birthday dinner. The boardwalk to the right always had seals and sea lions playing under and around it - you could feed them some stinky fish (heads and all). This place was at the very northern end of the boardwalk, it was opened by Clarence Starn in 1940.

There is a Facebook page for the place. It uses the same photo!

This webpage has further photos and a video.

Ah, the memories...the place no longer exists.

The Three Musketeers...

My parents named my brothers and I with names starting with the letter "K". None of us have middle names. While we were young boys growing up - we were often called the other's name in confusion - and we were often called the the "Three K's" when we were all together. Of course, we were called the Three Stooges when we messed up - and the Three Musketeers when we did something my folks approved.

Me in the blue coat with my older and younger brothers standing in front of my Dad's parents house in Philadelphia.

My older brother in his Cub Scouts uniform, my younger brother getting squished, and me. This is inside my grandparents sitting room - The color is badly faded (I'm still wearing that blue coat!)

Both of my brothers named all their children with names starting with "K". My older brother went one step further and added middle names starting with the letter "J". So we have the "K.J.'s" My younger brother gave my niece the middle name of Edith to honor my Dad's mother.

I hope this is oh-KAY with them!