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| The beach where Mom grew up. |
I've been resting my writing chops while Mom took herself, and her computer, off to the Jersey shore to visit Great-Grandma. Locals, of course, never call it "The Shore." To them, it's simply the beach, and all one has to do is head east a bit to get there. All roads lead to the beach, and it's take your pick for miles and miles. Thanks to the generosity of the U.S. of A., tons of sand have been added to the once-eroded strand, and it's quite lovely. The jetties are remnants of a long-ago experiment to keep sand from shifting north toward Sandy Hook.
After a long run from Spring Lake to Asbury Park and back, along a glorious stretch of boardwalk and ocean, Mom warmed up at a family friend's sublime Belmar coffee shop,
Turnstile. I doubt Mike and co. would allow dogs in there, but I'll bet he could be persuaded to put a water bowl outside. Just the thing one would need after too much salt water. Or too much "Jersey Shore."
