There’s no place like Holmdel

I’m an East Coast gal.

I was born and raised in Holmdel, New Jersey. I lived there until 2004. I prefer winter storms and April showers to the unchanging beauty of Northern California weather. I adore pencil-yellow school buses, ice cream trucks and snow days.

I miss the unbearable humidity of New Jersey summers, the way my shirt stuck to the back of my seat, the dig-your-way-out snowfall and the flourish of spring. I love the good and the bad. I’m an East Coast gal.

How do I describe Holmdel? To put it simply, the town is picturesque—with its Canadian geese, rolling hills, colonial-style houses and Christmas-tree farms.

Holmdel is just shy of an hour from New York City when there is no traffic, which, of course, there always is.

New York City stands in stark contrast to Holmdel, and Holmdel in stark contrast to Northern California. Yet all three are gorgeous—in their own quirky ways.

But to each gal her own, and to me, Holmdel.

Holmdel’s appeal lies in its simplicity. There is a park with a farm and a pond, and a picnic area. In summer, we would visit the farm, milk the cows and forge S-hooks at the blacksmith’s.

Beyond the park lie acres of nature, untouched by man. Life in Holmdel is the way life ought to be.

Although my family still has a house in Holmdel, we lived there for only five years. It seems much longer now, though, perhaps because my most memorable moments are packed into those years. You will understand: I will tell you.

There are miles of beauty in Holmdel, starting in my own backyard. Our house is a rusty brick-red, with a large maple tree in front and an evergreen on the left, which my older brother and I used as a hideout.

A grassy knoll in the back recedes into the rustic woods. In spring, when the deer grazed on the grass, we would put out peanuts for them to eat.

When December came by, and no deer were to be seen, we amused ourselves by sledding down our snow-covered backyard. The bitter winter winds stung our faces, and we loved it.

I grinned devilishly as I chucked a handful of snow at my brother’s back. He began to plot his sweet revenge, but not before the sweet aroma of my mom’s sweet corn soup put a halt to our shenanigans.

Good tidings came soon enough. My brother and I received a call from the “North Pole,” as was the custom in Holmdel, that Santa was a-coming.

Come Christmas morning, my brother shook me awake. We rushed to the window. ’Twas a white Christmas.

My brother sprinted down the flight of stairs as I slid down its oak bannister. We shuffled across the mocha-brown tiles of our foyer towards the warmth of our living room.

Our Christmas tree stood beside the fireplace, against the cherry-wood stained walls and next to our old leather couch.

A rather bulky Hallmark angel balanced awkwardly atop the hunter-green tree, but we didn’t notice in the least. Our eyes darted to the pile of presents beneath the tree. My big brother and I plopped ourselves down on the holly-red carpet facing the hearth, smiled, and enjoyed our last Christmas in the Garden State. Those were the days.

The following spring, my mom received a job offer from San Jose, and that summer, in 2004, our family moved out to the quiet suburbs of Saratoga. Nine years later, my hometown still holds a special place in my heart.

To me, Holmdel means tradition. It means family and warmth, love and simplicity. It is home.

I may be a bit biased.  After all, I’m an East Coast gal. Always have been, always will be.