Spotted this photo on my Facebook feed. It sparked a vivid memory. I know exactly where this photo was taken because I had passed it so many times in my youth.
I apologize in advance for this fit of nostalgia.
Memories have been flooding my mind as of late and will continue to as I move through the next month. I'm moving. Downsizing but not downgrading. From the house I raised a family in, to a smaller more manageable abode in the Foothills/Pasadena area. If you watch the TV show Shrinking, you'll know why. More on that at a later date.
For now let's concentrate on the Route 17 (pictured above) and the many, many bungalow colonies in the Monticello area.
We stayed at a place called Kolomer's Korner, which later became Freed's Bungalow Colony. Don't bother looking for listed among the signs, because it isn't up there. Indicating the very low position it had amongst the plethora of ritzier shacks held together with rubber bands and rusty nails recycled from the 19th century.
My parents could not afford the one bedroom abode we rented for the summer, so they went in on it together with my uncle Sam and his two kids. Three adults --although the men stayed in the city to work midweek -- and 5 kids, ages 2-10.
Did I mention the one tiny shared bathroom?
Sounds miserable, right? But as a kid who had known nothing but cement, honking horns, fatal hot dog water, low level mafioso characters/neighbors, and 8 million ornery New York City dwellers, it was heaven.
There was a pool. There was an ice cream truck that came around late afternoon. There was a pack of bratty but-too-poor-to-be-spoiled kids.
And there was a camp.
There's no point to this hazy walk down memory lane. But then again, as Buddha teaches us, what's the point of anything. Oh wait, that's Nietzsche.
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