Ah, 1968. A year of cultural upheaval, moon missions, and…me. That’s right, I made my grand entrance into the world in Jersey City, NJ, a place where the bagels are chewy, the accents are thick, and the people are even thicker-skinned. But don’t worry—this isn’t some gritty urban tale. My life would soon take me down the Parkway to a quieter corner of the Garden State.
By the time I was old enough to spell “exit,” my family had moved to Toms River, NJ. Cue the childhood montage: Silver Bay Elementary School, Toms River Intermediate East, and summers so quintessentially Jersey Shore you could practically hear Bruce Springsteen playing in the background. Seaside Heights was our playground, a land of crabbing adventures by day and thrill rides by night. The log flume? A classic. It was the perfect mix of terror and triumph as you hurtled down that final drop, water splashing everywhere, your screams mingling with the scent of funnel cake wafting from the boardwalk.
But life isn’t all cotton candy and bumper cars. Change came calling, and by high school, I found myself in Bayonne, NJ. Bayonne High School was my new stomping ground, and let me tell you, it was a far cry from the sandy shores of Seaside Heights. Bayonne had its own charm—gritty, industrial, and unapologetically Jersey. If Toms River was a postcard, Bayonne was a Polaroid: real, raw, and slightly out of focus.
Fast-forward to 1990: I packed up my life (and probably a box of Taylor ham) and headed south to Barnegat, NJ. This sleepy little town became my home base for nearly a decade. By day I worked my regular full time job. By night and on my days off, I was an Emergency Medical Technician with the Barnegat First Aid Squad, racing ambulances and saving lives like some kind of small-town superhero. Whenever I wasn’t on call or working—you could find me fishing off the jetty in Barnegat Light or hopping on a boat to chase bass. There’s something about reeling in a big catch that makes you feel like you’ve conquered the world—or at least dinner.
Looking back, my life has been a whirlwind tour of New Jersey’s finest quirks: from boardwalk thrills to emergency drills, from crabbing to catching bass. Each chapter has added its own flavor to my story—a little saltwater here, a little diesel fuel there. And through it all, one thing remains true: you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t take Jersey out of the girl.
