The Brass Ring

Asbury Park, New Jersey – Ocean Grove, New Jersey –  Summer, 1958

To a ten year old living in New Jersey, summer meant only one thing – the Jersey Shore.  Every one in New Jersey had their favorite beach.  When I was ten, there was nothing better than Asbury Park, the boardwalk and the carousel.

I rode a horse much like the one pictured above.  The thrill, the test of one’s courage and athleticism, as anyone who has ridden a carousel can attest, is to catch the brass ring.  Not the tarnished silver ring but the brass ring.  For a ten year old, this was a big deal because, at least in my case, to get my hand near the ring holder meant hanging on precariously to the horse with one hand, leaning as far to the right as possible without falling off the horse as it pitched up and down and, just as the ring holder came into view, to throw my whole body out into space in order to grab for a ring.  This took courage and complete abandon (10 year old context).

My parents, overprotective as ever, always discouraged me from riding the carousel and from lunging into the abyss for the much desired brass ring.  In an effort to throw me off my game, my parents spun horror stories telling of little boys who fell off the carousel and were ground into the cement pavement under the spinning carousel.  They also warned me away from ever looking into the mirrors at the center of the carousel because those mirrors were meant to hypnotize unsuspecting kids.  I was never clear what would happen if I was ever hypnotized, but I am certain it would have been  worse than clucking like a chicken each time I heard a bell ring.  I think my parents meant me to believe  that in my altered state, I would be kidnapped by the carousel owner and sold to the next travelling carnival that came through town.

But to a ten year old in summer, all I wanted to do was ride the carousel, swim in the ocean and grab some salt water taffy.  Truth be known, I also secretly longed to play SkiBall at the arcade so I could win enough tickets to claim a significant prize – usually some furry animal that smelled like mold and mildew and salt air.

This was the Jersey Shore in summer.  My parents would take me and my sister to the Shore four or five times during summer break.  The frequency of our visits was in direct proportion to the amount of chores we completed as well as our general overall adherence to house rules.  This was my first lesson in the power of parental manipulation.

So imagine my surprise when one Friday, just a week after our last trip to the Shore, my parents announced that we were going  back to the Shore for the whole weekend.  We were going to stay overnight in a vacation bungalow.  Two whole days at the Jersey Shore – two more attempts to grab the brass ring.  My sister and I were already planning and plotting how we would escape from our parents just long enough to hitch a ride on the carousel.  We even had our own money for the carousel.  We were ready.  By the way, this was about the only time I can recall being in league with my sister to outwit our parents.

Within sight of the Ferris Wheel and Carousel at Asbury Park was another little village – Ocean Grove.  My family had never been to Ocean Grove before.  What marvels did it hold?  What rides, what was its arcade like – questions for my sister and me to ponder on the 45 minute trip from our home in north central Morris County to the mysterious village of Ocean Grove.  There is nothing more creative than the mind of a kid with time and incomplete facts to ponder.

As we got closer to our destination and before we could hit the beach and boardwalk, my parents wanted to check into our bungalow.  Our vacation bungalow was made from wood, painted white with a green door.  It was close enough to the ocean that we could hear the waves breaking on the beach even though we had absolutely no view of the ocean itself.  I learned later on in life, that the closer one is to the beach, the more the bungalows cost to rent.  Our bungalow, just like all the other bungalows on the street, was not air conditioned – this was 1958 after all.  Everything in the bungalow was slightly damp and smelled like salt water.  My sister and I had to share a bedroom with two single beds.  My parents had the other  bedroom, also equipped with two single beds.  The only other furniture in our bedroom was a small chest of drawers and a rattan chair.  There was one bathroom with a tub and sink.  The living room, kitchen, and dining area were clumped together in one non-descript space.  The floor was incompletely covered with some sort of weaved rugs that slid under one’s feet.  There was one floor lamp and one desk lamp that rested on a small wooden end table.  One sofa, one chair, and one table with four mismatched table chairs on which to eat completed the vacation bungalow’s offerings.  This was not luxury living, but it could be tolerated because two blocks away was the carousel.  And still to be explored was the whole new village of Ocean Grove.  What secrets would it give up?

It was just about noon when a bell sounded from down the street.  Soon everyone in the village was heading in the direction of the clanging bell.  Being good citizens of our newly adopted village, we marched right along with the rest of the folks.

Our short trip ended when we entered a huge brown shingled building.  People were going inside just as orderly as cows going to be milked.  It was a big open space with seats beginning at floor level and ending in massive balconies.  The seats faced a stage.  At noon on the first day of our surprise vacation trip, my sister and I found ourselves at a church service with hundreds of other people, including my parents who did not look surprised at what was unfolding.  They already knew what my sister and I were to find out soon – Ocean Grove was no Asbury Park.

There would be no carousel riding or brass ring escapades, no SkiBall, no salt water taffy – just two days of church services, hymn singing, and multiple calls to holiness.  I didn’t know then what holiness was, but I was definitely in the minority about this. I would leave the auditorium that day with a real sense that something weird was happening all around me.  I was not amused.

This was my first lesson introducing the idea that having hope could possibly end in disappointment.  I believed there was no greater purpose than having fun.  Being hijacked to a big brown auditorium with people preaching to me about sin and hell fire wasn’t my idea of what one did at the Jersey Shore.  Where was the whirlwind, the brass ring?  Instead I found myself sitting, surrounded by hundreds of folks, in a cavern filled full of self-righteousness.

While listening to sermons about right living and obedience to God a new promise of hope began to take shape.  Here’s what my ten year old mind figured out.

Get on the carousel, be overwhelmed with the lights, the sounds, the smells, the temptations, the danger.  Ride with reckless abandon straining for that elusive prize – the brass ring.  Ride as long as you can and leave exhausted and exhilarated.  Go around as many times as possible.  Find new hope in the fact that if you stay at this ride long enough, you will catch the brass ring – the object of your desire.  Once you finally grab the ring, realize the ride will never be the same again.  Hope realized, leads to bigger hope.  Catching the brass ring had been my purpose, now I needed something new.  The only way to find new adventures is to go where you wouldn’t think of going on your own.  Listening to a speech on how to be a good person is never as good as just being a good person.  That comes easily and naturally, especially for young kids.  And one way of becoming a good person is to live with hope in greater opportunities to help others as they experience their own journey of exploration and adventure – their own quest for their brass ring.  Never hijack someone else’s hope.

Finally, learn to “boast in your suffering, knowing that suffering produces endurance and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us…”  Be sure you our worthy of the things for which you hope.  Be certain what you hope for will produce a life with a noble purpose.

Author: Jon

Aspiring Writer and Blogger. Former Banker, Teacher, Headmaster and Pastor. View all posts by Jon