During the summers of my childhood in South Jersey, when the sun was bright and high, there

were only a few ways to escape the heat.

There was the ice cream man, but that was just a momentary fix.

And of course, there was the log flume at Clementin Park, our rinky little budget amusement

park, which was pure, unadulterated, chaotic bliss, but could be a bit pricey for all of

us.

But the one place I remember most fondly was Addson Lake.

Tucked in the pine barons, it was a lake filled with dark, teacolored water, with mushy

patches and sharp sticks beneath your toes, which you couldn't even see.

Going to Addson Lake was a treat for those of us who didn't have money for plane rides

or rich relatives to send for us.

At Addson, you didn't even pay per person to get in.

You paid per car.

So we'd pile in, drive the 20 minutes, listening to WDS, the local So-In-R and B station on

the radio.

Hand over a few bucks when we arrived, and the day was hours.

Sandwiches and baggies, sour cream and onion chips, cheap soda from Acemi and the cooler.

You'd see your neighbors, your cousins, kids from school, and most of us, waiting in that

cool, ugly, amazing water until the sun went down, were black, and it was beautiful.

In some ways, looking back, I can't help but think we were escaping more than the summer

sun.

We were finding the freedom to just be.

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