Occasionally someone will ask me where I'm from, anticipating a short answer like "Boston," "Denver," or "over by the Dairy Queen."
I wish it were that simple.
To truly understand where I’m from you have to picture a time in America where small towns were everywhere. In the 1960s and 70s, you didn’t have to go too far out of your way to be in the middle of nowhere.
Welcome to West Milford
West Milford, the rural town I grew up in, sits in the heart of the New Jersey Highlands region, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. It’s home to over 100 miles of hiking trails, nearly 40 lakes, four state parks, and our house on an unpaved, off-the-beaten path Burnt Meadow Road.
My brothers Bob and Jim and I lived on a mountain surrounded by woods and played outside every day from dawn to dusk. It was like we were The Waltons, only without all the sisters and homemade clothes. Despite our remote location, we managed to have a relatively normal childhood consuming seven boxes of cereal a day, playing backyard whiffle ball in the presence of ball-eating horses, and calling each other nonsensical names like “Dinglehiemer” and “Herk-A-Merk."
Hoops On The Rocks
We would shoot hoops for hours on end in our gravel driveway, stopping only when the ball would carom wildly past the house, down a hill, and into a muddy swamp 50 yards away.
“It’s your turn to get it,” one brother would say to the other, hoping he would embrace the opportunity to take a romp in the swamp.
“I quit,” was the other brother’s top comeback. Game called because of ricochet.
For the record, if the NBA played its games on gravel we probably could have turned pro, but hardwood floors ended our hopes of having a Larry Bird-like rise from Hicksville to Hall of Fame.
Whiffle World
When my brothers and I weren’t shooting hoops, we were playing whiffle ball. My dad kept horses in a backyard barn and anything over the corral fence was a homerun. Coincidentally, anything over the corral fence was also our cue to go buy another whiffle ball.
My brother Jim was the big homerun hitter, earning the nickname “Jumbo Jimbo.” If there was a Whiffle Ball Hall of Fame, he would undoubtedly be enshrined and featured in an exhibit wing entitled “Backyard Fence Busters.” I, on the other hand, took pride in my defensive game, patiently waiting out balls that Jim would hit into trees, eventually catching them before they hit the ground.
Bob, for his part, was always the designated pitcher, cleverly absolving himself from any share of victory or defeat. His final childhood won-lost record was a perfect 0-0, an incredible achievement considering he pitched in over 400 games.
Story Time
Growing up in a rural town that offered minimal distractions, I was pretty much destined to become a writer. I spent a substantial portion of my adolescence in my room crafting stories of profound insight and starling originality. Just kidding. I mainly directed my efforts at writing stuff goofy enough to get one of my brothers to blow milk out of their nose. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, I knew I was fulfilling my purpose.
While I was busy playing with words, Bob and Jim pursued other passions, from music to motorcycles to the kind of mischief that leaves no serious scars but makes for good stories later. We live different lives in different parts of the country now, but one thing never changes: Whenever we get together we tell the same tales from our childhood and alter certain details to make our respective roles look more attractive.
Who set fire to the woods behind our house? It depends on who you ask.
Who broke mom’s jewelry box and tried to cover it up with a clumsy rearranging of the pieces? Round up the usual suspects.
Who kept putting food in our dog Winky’s dish even after he disappeared for two weeks? There are competing narratives.
Who kept sneaking into the kitchen at night for a snack and leaving only one cookie in the bottom of the bag? Okay, that was me.
Boyhood Unplugged
Looking back, I cherish the way my brothers and I grew up in that simpler, low-tech time. Boyhood was filled to the brim, running and biking and bouncing along, connected to the natural world, each other, and our friends and family. No digital distractions in sight.
Though I've gone on to each new home away from home, part of me will always be that country boy living on Burnt Meadow Road, shooting baskets in the gravel driveway, scribbling ideas and jokes on pads, and wondering where life would take me.
Today it takes me back, to that time, that town, and the Burnt Meadow boys that I’m glad to call my brothers.
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