Growing Up by the Highway

As far back as Junior High School, I remember riding my bike to the top of a hill a few blocks from my house. From there, I could hear the distant drone of I-295 and the New Jersey Turnpike that skirted the edge of town beyond the fairways of Tavistock Country Club that separated Haddonfield from the less glamorous boroughs of Lawnside and Barrington. Flowing southward into Delaware and northward to New York City, the sound was like the steady murmur of fast flowing water. Sitting on my bike from the security of my neighborhood I would close my eyes and feel the pull of things outside of my little world.

Haddonfield was skirted by highways. Most of the state of New Jersey feels like someplace that you pass through on your way to somewhere else. The town sat like a secure island in the middle of all this motion, and while I loved the stability and security I could also feel the motion all around.

My father's family came from New York City. Several times each year we would pile the family in the car, ride out of Haddonfield, and get on the New Jersey Turnpike going north. Each time I would get on the highway in the back seat of my parent's car I would feel a rush of both peace and exhilaration in coming up to speed with the traffic. I felt very much at home on the highway. I loved falling into the trance of watching the land fly past, and in looking into the backyards of so many people's lives. I understood from a young age the magic of that place between here and there, where life seems both detached and illuminated.