South Jersey's Memorial Day Wake-Up Call

Of late, the Jersey shore has been associated with dying casinos, B-list nightlife and a sinful-to-some/entertaining-to-others reality show of the same name. The compound phrase does little to trigger images of a thriving metropolis, classy townspeople or any type of prosperity, let alone economic. I know and love a part of the Jersey shore that escaped the pop culture stigma, and it has Memorial Day to thank for that.

During my high school life my family lived in Longport, a suburb at the southernmost end of Absecon Island (the technical name for the land mass where the famous Atlantic City boardwalk lies.) During the three school time seasons, my family was one of about five permanent house dwellers on our street. Our seashore serenity would last no further than the last weekend in May. The onset of Memorial Day weekend was a shock to the heart of Absecon Island; Atlantic City and its neighboring villages were jolted to life as the long-awaited shoobies crossed over the intercoastal bridges.

Shoobies? Clarification: a shoobie, or “shoob” for short, is a seasonal dweller of the South Jersey beach locale. They fill their fancy cars with sand-proof gear and sunhats, and proceed to drive in from Pennsylvania, New York, and even the western half of the Garden State. Many of them rent out extravagant beachfront (or beach-walkable, at the most) real estate to be inhabited by friends, family and new saltwater air acquaintances from Memorial Day’s barbeques through Labor Day’s.

To the minority who calls the shore home year-round, Memorial Day is a new awakening. Ice cream stands, lifeguard perches and storefront Italian restaurants that remain boarded-up during the winter are stripped of their stifling plywood to reveal the small-town charm and food aromas that lie beneath (most commonly it’s garlic or waffle cones you’re sensing− hopefully not radiating from the same edifice.)

In the heart of the island there stands an independently-owned “marketplace” (though fully-stocked, its square footage does not earn the “super” prefix) that welcomes shoobs and summer with open carts. Over four summers I climbed the grocery hierarchy from deli counter girl to fully-vested cashier, adopting the PLUs of every piece of produce, discovering optimal bagging strategies and mentally noting that Mr. Grossman prefers paper while Mrs. Jones requires double-plastic. As messy or monotonous as the job may have felt (especially by the time all households were stocking up for the 4th of July eating extravaganzas), there was no better place to observe the full range of summer citizens, or the dramatic flip from deserted aisles to bumper-to-bumper express lanes.

The phenomenon always left me quizzical, as I watched my neighborhood fill up with screaming toddlers, their Jackie-O sunglass-donning parents and plenty of vacationing twenty-something’s to fill more than the four island suburbs. At times they seemed intrusive, coming in for only a few months and exhausting my island’s roads and soft serve ice cream supply. Reflecting on those summer sentiments, however, I realize I may have been a bit touchy. The reason my chunk of the shore has maintained its old-fashioned allure and year-round stability is due to the unwavering reliability of the shoobies, who never forget to mark Memorial Day as a grand event on their calendars.