Cape May, New Jersey is the beach resort for those who loathe Eastern beachy decay, a geosocial absurdity buried at the southern tip of the state, about a three-hour drive from the northern Philadelphia suburbs. Cape May is the celebrity recluse of Jersey shore locales, a latter day Victorian oasis that defies all Joisey stereotypes. It succeeds in the most delicate of high-wire acts, as it struggles to reconcile a notoriously reserved culture with the crashing waves of mid-Atlantic tourist humanity, for whom protocol is often an unexplored dimension of personal growth.
Cape May boasts a “promenade” rather than a mere boardwalk -- those inclined to cotton candy, funnel cakes and uninspected carnival rides operated by disinterested teenagers with hangovers must look elsewhere on the Jersey coast. If your tastes lean to Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts, you too are out of luck. Such mass-market barbarism finds its manifest destiny outside the city limits, along the dingy chrome wheeled corridor of Highway 9. It remains foreign to the core of this neo-Victorian stronghold.
One of the few shreds of evidence that Cape May deigns to acknowledge the outside world, with its tasteless, boorish customs, is the Wawa at the northeastern edge of town. Wawa is the refined and stylish outlier of convenience store chains in the Philadelphia area, with shelves that feature loaves of bread and a few canned goods …in addition to the customary potato chips and Slim Jims. Even Princeton, a hundred miles to the north, allowed a Wawa on its eastern flank decades ago. Such is the privileged estate that Wawa occupies in the taxonomy of Mid Atlantic sandwich and vape shops.
Cape May also features hundreds -- maybe thousands -- of spectacular gardens, offering bucolic settings for many Sunday brunches at tasteful bed & breakfasts, which are the accommodation of choice in this fair town. The gardening spectacle alone justifies the trip. Glorious hydrangeas abound, always eager to bloom. Almost every Victorian masterpiece offers a unique, personal landscape that demands admiration and jealousy. I could easily re-engineer this chapter’s lesson to be “If You’re a Gardener, Visit Cape May Sometime”. That would be a worthwhile lesson all by itself.
In the early years, our annual, four-hour sojourn to Cape May seemed like an inconvenience, a lamentable step that I would trade for a helicopter ride in a heartbeat if I had the resources. So many kids, so much stuff to pack; at some point we decided that it was just easier to pack two minivans casually than to stuff ourselves into one, with visual abominations strapped awkwardly to the roof. Walkie-talkies in both vans offered some pre-teen togetherness for a number of years, before their tedium gave way to the smartphone era. Older kids made CDs for the ride, curating song lists for the anticipated passengers in each vehicle – the politics of which were matters of delicate diplomacy.
Packing a large family whose needs range from toddler to teen to parent is no simple matter. Multiple lists are involved, each carefully cross-checked prior to departure. But, finally, with all bathroom inquiries answered and the house locked up, it was time to go. A scenic drive through historic countryside would soon give way to the highways of New Jersey, and, within an hour, the first stop: Allentown. Not to be confused with its Pennsylvania namesake, Allentown, New Jersey is a tiny town in the heart of the state, a confluence of main roads where people have built a strangely serene and pleasant community. Our route to Cape May involved very few towns at all, let alone pleasant little ones like this. Thus, the ritual of late breakfast / early lunch in Allentown emerged very early in the Cape May years. There are two restaurants to choose from; over the years we gravitated to the folksier one with street seating, servers who call you “Hon”, and, yes, donut burgers.
A father’s understanding of stops like this emerges innocently: a utilitarian solution to basic life challenges. The kids have to eat. This is a decent place. It’s on the way. Done. But age and experience emit wisdom, and, over time, the wisdom generator informs you that the stop at the restaurant is a significant, anticipated part of the vacation experience. You don’t mess with such ritual. It is a fundamental comfort, a psychological safe place, a reassuring marker that the good memories in life are part of an ongoing reality. Being there is great. But getting there is equally important.
After lunch, the trip would continue. A quick left onto Route 539. Some windy, bendy turns. A brief stretch where busy convenience stores offer the last chance for a cup of coffee, or an emergency bathroom break. And then you settle in for a long drive through the Pine Barrens, a time when the walkie-talkies would emerge to alleviate inter-auto tween boredom, eventually to be silenced when pre-school silliness finally exceeded the annoyance threshold.
After some signage tease about Cape May County, you descend into Cape May proper at the abrupt end of the Garden State Parkway, a jarring event that easily confuses the brain not spiritually prepared. Roads of this magnitude, which take such a toll, should not simply “end”. They have a life, a journey, an existence unto themselves. Ascribing a purpose, mission or end to such things seems decidedly unromantic. But, of course, it must come to an end so that a vacation may begin. Or perhaps “continue” would be a better word. Of course, even the road itself continues in spirit, albeit reincarnated as a ferry.
Gardening teaches and demands patience. Gardens and landscapes are never “done”. From planning and seed selection in the frozen days of January, to those late winter expeditions to assess the state of the garden, to seed starting operations in March and April, to those first, glorious salads made from spring lettuce, to green beans, to the indescribable pleasure of vine-ripened heirloom tomatoes – all of these things are part of a grand process, an ongoing experience that never really ends. The arbitrary “end” of one season simply marks the beginning of the next. Gardening is a never-ending amusement ride, full of unexpected drops, turns and thrills. Each day summons new experiences, new challenges, new triumphs.
It can take some time for new gardeners to appreciate this. Gardening and farming might seem like identical cousins, but the relationship is more cordial and distant. If you grow things to sell, you’re a farmer – and thank God for farmers. Farmers are interested in the end. Any process that reaches the desired end point reliably and cost-effectively is a desirable process. After all, livelihoods are on the line. True gardeners are more interested in process. Oh, sure, gardeners love to enjoy the fruits of their labors -- who doesn’t tremble when slicing open the first home grown watermelon of one’s life? The rush of adrenalin over a watermelon is fun. But it is a point in time. They come. They go. We commit them to the happy memory bin. We also tremble at that supreme act of faith when we place a flat brown seed into the ground. We savor the moment when those cute little cotyledons emerge from the soil. We smile in amazement as the plant explodes with the true warm weather of June. We brim with excitement when it pushes out the first female flower with a tiny melon-to-be attached. And we stalk with parental expectation as it grows into something recognizable.
Being there is a great snapshot, a tease for the magazine cover. But getting there is the true full length film that wins Best Picture. Do savor the memories occasionally …the snapshots …the highlight reels ...the two pound tomatoes. But live the movie. That’s where life happens and gardens grow.
The waiting is the hardest part -- but only if you let it be.