A Tale of Two Counties
by Jay Dubya 
I have always lived on the cusp. I don’t mean that I was born between two astrological zodiac signs. I mean I live on the edge, and this makes others (especially educational bureaucrats) “edgy.” I have always enjoyed the maverick and the iconoclast role. I always root for the underdog. I despise bureaucracy. I like unusual things and topics, and I am not a politician or a businessman. I don’t have to “kiss-up” to anybody. As Popeye would say, “I am what I am, and that’s all that I am.”
Being a true-blooded cusper has its rewards. My teacher pension is secure. This affords me unique privileges. I can write controversial Hammonton Gazette opinion columns, author adult novels, and have the opportunity to share my singularity with separate newspaper and book’ readerships. I don’t have to worry about losing my job, because I have no job to lose.
I not only figuratively live on the cusp. I actually literally reside on the cusp. My house physically exists in two counties. I like it that way. It is consistent with my personality and with my life. This is how the entire phenomenon developed.
My wife and I got tired of living in apartments. First we lived in Hammonton Arms on Valley Avenue when that project was new in the late ‘60s, and then we lived several years in Della Court Apartments on Park Avenue. It was time to build a house, but Joanne and I wanted our children to attend Hammonton Public Schools.
Chris Rehmann did a survey of my father-in-law’s (Joe Battaglia) farm’ property and discovered that Joe owned a hundred feet of land in Atlantic County that he never knew about. Joanne and I acquired additional land in Winslow Township. Then we had subdivisions approved in both Atlantic and Camden Counties to form a standard-size building lot, and the tax assessors agreed that the Town of Hammonton would tax the home and the additional land would be taxed by Winslow Township.
The green “Entering Town of Hammonton” highway’ sign on the White Horse Pike is not the true Atlantic/Camden County-Line. Look at my house across the street from the highway’ sign. The middle of my porch is the real county division, so when I pensively pace around inside my porch, I keep moving from county to county.
Whenever a traffic accident happens on “the Pike,” I dial 911 not thinking that someone hit a pole in Winslow Township, Camden County. My 911 street’ address is hooked-up with Hammonton, and I must commend the Hammonton Police Department because they will promptly respond to the emergency in Winslow Township, direct traffic and attend to the accident victims until the Winslow Township Police arrive to take over.
Late last summer I was about to trim a yew bush on the side of my driveway. I thought I saw a big white bag stuck inside the yew so I reached in to grab the object. I soon discovered that the large white bag was a hornets’ nest. Several nasty warrior wasps flew out and persistently buzzed around my head. I scampered rather frantically one hundred feet to the safety of my home’s laundry room, slamming the door behind me. I soon realized that I had received a painful sting from one of the angry neurotic insects.
After applying a generous application of rubbing alcohol to my left shoulder, I decided to wage battle against the ornery wasp colony. I hopped into my Buick LeSabre, made sure the power windows were up, and slowly drove the vehicle forward toward the White Horse Pike. I gently rammed the yew bush, disturbing the hornet’ colony. I delighted watching the agitated wasps swarm in a wild frenzy around my windshield. I felt protected and insulated from imminent danger. Feeling entirely safe, I gleefully laughed at the insects’ futility and general incompetence. I crashed into the wasp-hive nine consecutive times while I amply was savoring the annoyance I was administering to the buzzing and confused nervous critters. I knew that superior human intellect had successfully transcended primitive bug’ instinct.
Finally, I determined that I had executed sufficient retribution for my still throbbing shoulder sting. I skillfully backed up my auto to the front of my driveway. When I halted my reverse movement, I quickly perceived that a guard’ wasp had somehow managed to wriggle its way inside the car. My nonchalance suddenly converted to panic. My confidence soon changed to a “fight or flight” mode. I discreetly chose “flight.”
I instantly exited my blue Buick in a hurry and then sprinted westward. All the while, the furious wasp buzzed around my head, madder than a hornet. I dashed toward White Horse Farm Market and scurried down the dirt road a full six hundred feet until the incensed hornet abandoned its pursuit. I stopped, exhausted and out of breath. Then I realized something rather significant. ‘I am lucky,’ I thought, ‘because that hornet was so angry that he had chased me clear into another county.”
, (Jay Dubya)
Copyright-2003
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