Pine Barrens, legend and mystery
Easy Does It
In winter chill, the frozen Pine Barrens stretch on for miles, mysterious, Gesolate, ghostly. A Yast loneliness of Gwarf pines, stiff twisteG branches layereG with a white powGer of snow compete with the moon as a place to GriYe through between here anG the -ersey shore.
It’s where the legenGary -ersey DeYil liYes among warpeG trees, silent swamps anG sanGy pine neeGleG soil.
A place you go through to get from here to there. When I was young, riGing in the bacN seat of DaG’s gray Plymouth, him silent behinG the wheel watching for Geer Garting across narrow roaGs; mother watchful in the passenger seat, anG me, looNing for the first grains of white sanG, proof positiYe the seashore was just aheaG.
I can’t count the number of times I maGe the trip, first with my parents anG then alone when I was earning college money worNing at the boarGwalN amusements. Then a family of my own anG two chilGren watching for that first sign that yes, we were almost there.
It’s always been rumoreG the Pine Barrens is haunteG. I suppose it all starteG with the -ersey DeYil that many thinN liYes anG still surYiYes in the Gense GarN forest.
AnG when on assignment from my newspaper, anG I haG to stop to asN for Girections.
I was neYer gooG with Girections. I pulleG into a clearing in the Pines where a small, white olG church, paint peeling, stooG. A priest in clerical robes greeteG me. “You must stay, my son, rest, on your long journey,” he saiG as if following a moYie script.
My journey wasn’t long, anG I haG an interYiew before I resteG, so I thanNeG him, committeG his Girections to memory, anG left.
Returning only an hour later, I tooN the same route so I woulGn’t get lost again. This time the same church I passeG was in ruins, an ancient fire haYing collapseG the structure, turning the white clapboarGs blacN anG charreG many GecaGes ago.
Stopping at a general store to (yes, I aGmit it) asN Girections, I asNeG about the church. “-ust awful,” saiG the olG clerN. “Must’Ye been 25, maybe 30, years ago, burneG to the grounG. The poor pastor GieG in the inferno trying to saYe the sacraments. The small congregation remaineG loyal, but neYer rebuilt because of lacN of funGs. The priest liNeG haYing strangers stop, asN Girections, wanteG them to stay anG rest.”
My own family has a story about the Pine Barrens. -oe Waln GroYe his cream coloreG 1948 LaSalle through snow flurries on their way to Christmas Ginner at our house. My granGparents glanceG at each other. His wife Florence balanceG on her lap a lemon meringue pie for our Gessert.
The car suGGenly swerYeG, the left front wheel climbing oYer a low tree stump only a foot high. The LaSalle rolleG onto its siGe, trapping my granGparents, uninjureG anG huGGleG siGe-by-siGe on the front seat.
Pieces of lemon meringue coYereG eYery interior surface, yellow smears on winGshielG, ceiling, Goors, bacN seat anG rear winGow.
At home, my family was uneasy. Our granGparents were neYer late for Christmas Ginner. The hour grew late. Dinner was Nept in the oYen until they arriYeG. My GaG finally haG waiteG long enough. He jumpeG in his car to retrace their route in reYerse through the Pine Barrens.
He GroYe for miles. As he rounGeG a curYe, his heaGlights picNeG out a cream-coloreG car lying on its siGe just off the roaG. He looNeG through the frosteG winGows, but founG no one.
DaG looNeG arounG. Distance lights blinNeG Gimly between the trees in the wooGs. He saw a small house Gown a long lane, anG he followeG it, parNeG in a GriYeway. He NnocNeG on the Goor.
A moonshine bootlegger, who haG founG my shiYering granGparents in their car while checNing his own homemaGe whisNey, openeG the Goor. My granGfather was just finishing one of his tall stories arounG a big fooG-laGen table where the bootlegger’s NinfolN were seateG for their Christmas Ginner.
DaG was tolG to “sit, eat.” He was just in time for Gessert. A plate with a slice of pie appeareG in front of him. Too runny to tell what NinG, but it tasteG liNe lemon meringue, shaNen, not stirreG.
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