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My faith in America, restored
Miracle on the Boardwalk
Bob Ingram
My opinion of my fellow citizens has probably been unduly influenced by the continuing stupidities that pass for popular culture in America. TV, of course, is the major culprit in this moronizing process; and whoever came up with "reality TV" is the evil Einstein of that particular wasteland. Cell phones and to some extent social media don't help either.
Texting is creating a generation of heads-down zombies shuffling along like the Living Dead. The computer and social networking have made far too many people far too aware of and runny-mouthed about the ongoing saga of their mainly sanguinary lives. If you can't make it to America's Next Idol, there's always Facebook and YouTube.
But on Thursday, July 7, 2011, near the end of the Boardwalk in North Wildwood, N.J., my faith in my fellow man was revived and restored. Let me tell the story while it still moves me.
Jerry Blavat's poster
On a glorious welkin seashore morning, my pal Bobalew and I were off on our customary bike ride, the heart of which is on the Wildwoods Boardwalk. We had gone only a short distance when Bobalew called, "Hey, did you see that picture of Jerry Blavat dressed up as Captain America back there?"
I hadn't, and turned back to take a look at one of the tramcar kiosks that line the boards.
There were three reasons I wanted to see it: first, I think that the Geator— the legendary deejay who has managed to prolong his adolescence for more than half a century— is a stone one-of-a-kind original; second, my poem about Blavat had just been published in the cool local paper, the Wildwood Sun-By-the-Sea; and, third, I've always loved the Captain America costume.
Well, I turned to glimpse he poster in question and found that that Bobalew was guilty of some Boardwalk hyperbole: Blavat was wearing an American flag shirt"“ no Captain America outfit— in an advertisement for Gary Barbera, the car guy.
I thought to myself: Back in the '60s they'd lock you up for wearing a shirt like that. And I made a turn"“ without looking— to share that gem of wisdom with Bobalew.
Sideswiped
Ka-bam! A surrey carrying four people sideswiped me and down I went, my bike landing, undamaged, on top of me. It all happened in that slow motion that accompanies crashes.
I was wearing a helmet, but my head never hit anything; in fact, my sunglasses were still on, totally intact. At first, I thought my leg was going to break, but it was only a severe wrench of my left knee.
Then I found myself looking up at a circle of concerned faces. I told them I thought I was OK, and would someone get the bike off me?
The bike was gently lifted, and I stayed down until my head cleared, then slowly sat up and examined the damage: cut big toe, a gash on my left leg, a bunch of scrapes on my right arm, my left little finger jammed (or so I thought)"“ and my 73-year-old pride severely wounded.
The first thing I did was find out if anybody else was hurt"“ there weren't, thank God. Then I told the folks in the surrey that I was totally at fault and glad that I was the only casualty.
Good Samaritans
Then came the blessing in the whole deal. Within minutes, the same crowd who had been looking down at me produced a box of bandages, a bunch of paper napkins and a big cup of water from the pizza stand across the way, and a bunch of alcohol swabs. With Bobalew as a kind of major domo of my misery, pointing out my damages, I was washed, swabbed, bandaged and good to go in five minutes. I also received plenty of good advice on after-care.
These Samaritans were so seriously solicitous that Bobalew and I had to almost shoo them off before we could pedal on. They were not texting or phoning or fiddling with iPods or iPads. They gave us proud thumbs-up, as if I'd done something great rather than the bone-headed bike gaff I'd pulled"“ and paid for.
It subsequently turned out that my left little finger wasn't broken, but my hand was, and so badly that it required surgery. But I'm already on the mend"“ probably due to a residue of healing vibes from those true Americans who took my welfare as part of their own and acted accordingly.
From the Boardwalk, you can still catch a glimpse of the dream, even in the eyes of strangers.
Texting is creating a generation of heads-down zombies shuffling along like the Living Dead. The computer and social networking have made far too many people far too aware of and runny-mouthed about the ongoing saga of their mainly sanguinary lives. If you can't make it to America's Next Idol, there's always Facebook and YouTube.
But on Thursday, July 7, 2011, near the end of the Boardwalk in North Wildwood, N.J., my faith in my fellow man was revived and restored. Let me tell the story while it still moves me.
Jerry Blavat's poster
On a glorious welkin seashore morning, my pal Bobalew and I were off on our customary bike ride, the heart of which is on the Wildwoods Boardwalk. We had gone only a short distance when Bobalew called, "Hey, did you see that picture of Jerry Blavat dressed up as Captain America back there?"
I hadn't, and turned back to take a look at one of the tramcar kiosks that line the boards.
There were three reasons I wanted to see it: first, I think that the Geator— the legendary deejay who has managed to prolong his adolescence for more than half a century— is a stone one-of-a-kind original; second, my poem about Blavat had just been published in the cool local paper, the Wildwood Sun-By-the-Sea; and, third, I've always loved the Captain America costume.
Well, I turned to glimpse he poster in question and found that that Bobalew was guilty of some Boardwalk hyperbole: Blavat was wearing an American flag shirt"“ no Captain America outfit— in an advertisement for Gary Barbera, the car guy.
I thought to myself: Back in the '60s they'd lock you up for wearing a shirt like that. And I made a turn"“ without looking— to share that gem of wisdom with Bobalew.
Sideswiped
Ka-bam! A surrey carrying four people sideswiped me and down I went, my bike landing, undamaged, on top of me. It all happened in that slow motion that accompanies crashes.
I was wearing a helmet, but my head never hit anything; in fact, my sunglasses were still on, totally intact. At first, I thought my leg was going to break, but it was only a severe wrench of my left knee.
Then I found myself looking up at a circle of concerned faces. I told them I thought I was OK, and would someone get the bike off me?
The bike was gently lifted, and I stayed down until my head cleared, then slowly sat up and examined the damage: cut big toe, a gash on my left leg, a bunch of scrapes on my right arm, my left little finger jammed (or so I thought)"“ and my 73-year-old pride severely wounded.
The first thing I did was find out if anybody else was hurt"“ there weren't, thank God. Then I told the folks in the surrey that I was totally at fault and glad that I was the only casualty.
Good Samaritans
Then came the blessing in the whole deal. Within minutes, the same crowd who had been looking down at me produced a box of bandages, a bunch of paper napkins and a big cup of water from the pizza stand across the way, and a bunch of alcohol swabs. With Bobalew as a kind of major domo of my misery, pointing out my damages, I was washed, swabbed, bandaged and good to go in five minutes. I also received plenty of good advice on after-care.
These Samaritans were so seriously solicitous that Bobalew and I had to almost shoo them off before we could pedal on. They were not texting or phoning or fiddling with iPods or iPads. They gave us proud thumbs-up, as if I'd done something great rather than the bone-headed bike gaff I'd pulled"“ and paid for.
It subsequently turned out that my left little finger wasn't broken, but my hand was, and so badly that it required surgery. But I'm already on the mend"“ probably due to a residue of healing vibes from those true Americans who took my welfare as part of their own and acted accordingly.
From the Boardwalk, you can still catch a glimpse of the dream, even in the eyes of strangers.
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