Hilary and Theresa's Road to Nowhere: Ba-Da-Bingville

Is it my imagination or is New Jersey becoming cool? It seems that people are more interested, impressed even, with our connection to the Garden State these days. What's up with that?

Let's face it, New Jersey has gotten a bad rap over the years. And certainly much of it is well deserved. New Jersey is, after all, the car theft capital of the world. Camden was recently voted the nation's most dangerous city. Jimmy Hoffa is reportedly buried under either Giants Stadium or the New Jersey Turnpike. And the Garden State has more toxic waste dumps than anywhere else in the world. I suppose all of those pharmaceutical companies decorating the corridors of Hwy 22 have to do something with their trash. In fact, New Jersey's trash problem is legendary. Abundant garbage dumps and a long history of industrial pollution are responsible for the nickname "The Garbage State." How much garbage are we talking about? Well, enough to warrant a Trash Museum.

Still, New Jersey has consistently produced far more than massive amounts of garbage. Some of America's most popular artists and performers hail from New Jersey: Bruce Springsteen, of course, Bon Jovi, Patti Smith, Simon and Garfunkel, Jack Nicholson, Alan Ginsburg and Jon Stewart, to name just a few. And every Italian restaurant in the state has that booking photo of native son Frank Sinatra on it's wall. New Jersey is also lush and green and very beautiful; it is called the Garden State for good reason. It is home to the United States Equestrian Team and many of New York's most affluent suburbs. It boasts the nation's most liberal State Supreme Court and the governor of New Jersey eliminated the death penalty in 2007. Wow.

There is a mystique to New Jersey as well. It is one of the original 13 colonies and there are some reports that it is ... haunted. It was dubbed the "Crossroads of the Revolution" because of the many important battles that took place during the American Revolution and, according to some, casualties still roam their burial grounds. My husband has been telling me the ghost stories for years. One of them goes something like this: Hilary and his friend, Little Dee Pasquale were alone in the study one night when they heard the sounds of breakfast being cooked in the kitchen. They saw the lights go on under the kitchen door and they heard cupboards opening and closing and the sound of bacon sizzling in a frying pan. They could hear the sounds of footsteps and voices. When they walked toward the kitchen, the lights went out and the noises stopped. They opened the door and there was... no-one there. Recently, I was told this story for the fiftieth time and I still got shivers.

And then there is the legend of the Jersey Devil. The offspring of someone called the "Leeds Witch," the Jersey Devil is reported to live in the Southern Pine forests where it sports wings and cloven hooves and kills animals and small children. Pretty interesting stuff.

Yet I suspect America's new found fascination with all things Jersey has more to do with the success of a couple of television shows that are set here in this state. "The Sopranos," of course, is the HBO masterpiece about lovable and not so lovable mobsters from Jersey who plot their dirty deeds from the backrooms of a strip club called the Ba-Da-Bing. "Don't disrespect the Bing!" And "Jersey Shore," is the MTV (definitely not a masterpiece) reality phenom about idiots with big muscles and bigger hair who run around calling each other "guidos" and "guidettes." Leave it to offensive stereotyping to capture the perverse fascination of the American public. In any event, New Jersey has much to offer and you would do well to follow the Official State Slogan and "Come See For Yourself."

We have been here for almost two weeks now, staying with our friends on their farm in Oldwick, a township (they don't have towns here) in northern New Jersey. This is a real farm, with sheep and chickens and my favorite, a Mediterranean Donkey, like the one Mary rode into Nazareth on. There are rolling hills, a creek that meanders through a black walnut forest and pastures where the animals wander around looking like paintings. Our friends, Ana and Henry, have given us a beautiful apartment in the loft of their refurbished barn and they tell us they don't ever want us to leave. They have been incredibly gracious. Their dog, Nika, however, may be the Jersey Devil.

Nika introduced herself to our dog, Layla, by promptly lunging at her neck. She continued with these "special hellos" during the course of our stay. I pretended not to freak out as Hilary and Henry tried to convince each other that the girls would "work it out." Nika wasn't having any of it. We took to planning our comings and going with military strategy. "You watch the door and I'll cover her on the way to the car. Go, now!" Layla began dragging on her leash as we walked toward the house and at times she refused to leave the barn at all. I didn't blame her and we thought we might have to cut our visit short.

Nika would back off for brief periods of time, only to attack again when least expected. Like when Layla was rolling in the hay (she was such a cheap fighter) or when we were leaving the main house for the barn (we were leaving for Christ's sake.) Henry finally kicked at Nika during one of the attacks (frankly, this is something I wish he'd done a lot sooner) and she slunk off and hid under the bed for a few hours. "Good," I thought. "Maybe that will do it." Wrong. The next morning, she went for Layla's neck again as I turned to take a picture of the donkey. Okay, that was it. I lost it. "Don't you fucking touch her" I was shaking as I screamed at the top of my lungs." And don't you EVER fucking touch her again. EVER! Do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME?" Henry and Hilary just stared at me. But Nika rolled over on her back and submitted for the first time since we arrived. From that point on, Nika cringed and withdrew a little whenever she saw me coming. But things began to improve and there were moments when the girls actually played together. They had worked it out after all and when it was time for us to leave, Layla didn't want to get in the car.

Ana is an artist who can turn walls into things of beauty with gold-leafing, glaze and venetian plaster. I tagged along on one of her jobs and learned all about venetian plaster. "That's great," said my mother, "You're finally learning a trade." Uh, I was a nurse and a lawyer, but okay." Ana has lived in Jersey most of her life, but she was raised in the Dominican Republic and this combination gives her a very unique and entertaining spin on the world. Willing to give her opinion on almost everything, she is particularly ruthless, and often hilarious, when the subject turns to corporate corruption. Or genetically engineered food. Or western medicine. I am the choir, of course, and completely agree with her assessment that the world is in big trouble because a bunch of "Dooosh Bags" are running the show.

While Ana and I made things beautiful, Hilary played farmer with Henry. According to Ana, much of the work on a farm entails moving things from one pile to another and Henry's farm does look a bit like an antique shop. When I told Henry about New Jersey's Trash Museum, he asked me where it was. Ana already knew: "It's on your farm Henry." One of Hilary's jobs was collecting the fresh eggs every morning. Which are, by the way, incredibly delicious. It turns out that eggs taste better when they come from chickens who run around with their beaks intact. So you might want to find out where your eggs come from. Or where your chickens come from (whichever is first.)

Hilary's farm instincts turned out to be a lot better than Layla's. She continued to try and engage the sheep and the donkey as if they were big dogs. The first time she ran up behind the donkey, I was relieved when it turned around; I thought it was going to walk away. Not so, according to Henry. Apparently the donkey was getting ready to kick Layla's head into New York City. "Laaaaylaaaaaaa."

And then there was the unfortunate incident with the chicken. The gate was left open one morning and somehow Layla found her way into the chicken coop. The corpse was found later in the afternoon - the chalk outline is still in the straw. There were no witnesses to the crime. None that can talk, that is. But the circumstantial evidence pointed to Layla. "Great," I thought. "Farm living has turned Layla into homicidal sociopath." I knew from my experience as a criminal defense attorney that most inmates on death row 1) had been victims of domestic violence and 2) had tortured and abused animals. Layla was certainly a victim of domestic violence (thank you again Nika) and now she'd killed a chicken. Was she in danger of becoming a serial killer next? We considered staying on in Jersey. "They've abolished the death penalty," I thought, "At least we'd be able to visit her on weekends." But nowhere was calling again, and it was time to hit the road.