An Evolution to Awareness: Tent City, Lakewood, NJ.  Homelessness. And a Train to See Kobe Bryant.   By Calvin Schwartz

road into tent city

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Just thinking; I lived a big piece of my life in middle class bliss called suburban Monmouth County, New Jersey which is 40 minutes from Manhattan and an hour from Philadelphia. There are pockets (towns) in the county that have horse farms.  Mint juleps on cane benches on white wooden porches with Mercedes lined up in front of a three-car garage are common place; my way of describing subtle opulence. But I’m refreshingly middle class and damn proud. In July 2011, I even extended the energies of pride into becoming a journalist for a local county paper and a few months later, immersed into the television/internet reporting world of NJ Discover. Two years prior to that, my first novel, ‘Vichy Water’ was published. I became a writer on the late side of life’s journey but that’s OK, I’ve spiritually stopped counting years.

During these recent years, if anyone would’ve mentioned Tent City(Lakewood) and homeless people living in tents (80 of them) 27 minutes away from my electric two-car garage door and driveway, I would’ve gone on doing whatever I was doing, not paying attention because it was still too far away conceptually to grasp. Then last Easter Sunday, I was asked to cover (as a reporter for NJ Discover) a concert organized by Rosemary Conte to raise funds and awareness for the people of Tent City in Lakewood; it was still beyond my attention span and relevancy quotient; it just sounded like a cool thing to do. Rosemary Conte decided to have the concert for Tent City after being inspired by the photographic work of Sherry Rubel (friend of son, Steve Conte who lent Sherry use of his original song, “Busload of Hope” for fundraising).  Sherry was gearing towards an exhibit of her black and white images of Tent City.

Remembering how British sailors were impressed (against their will) into service in the 1600’s, I did the same exercise with my son who became cameraman for a day at the downtown Lakewood concert. The holiday cut into the attendance but the music was good. Then it was announced that Minister Steven Brigham (founder and spiritual leader) was bringing a bus filled with Tent City residents for a food and clothing buffet. When they arrived, I saw them from a distance, waiting in line for donated prepared food. That’s as close as I got to Tent City and its human residents; no faces to Tent City for me to attach to my optic nerve and compassion processing centers. Weeks later I wrote my article with some pictures I took; I focused more on the music. Life is funny. I met a few musicians from that concert and Rosemary Conte who have evolved into friends of mine. I never gave it thought that our thread of commonalty began with the Concert for Tent City.

My memories about homeless come from walking the streets of New York City and seeing people living in a cardboard box or sleeping on steps of a church after midnight. Yes, sometimes I dropped a few dollars for them. I remember Mayor Giuliani rounding-up homeless and busing them away; perhaps he thought it was a curative of the issue. One brutally cold night in New York, I walked by a homeless man sleeping in a big box. That image stayed with me a long time. It’s still there. But I thought about the notion that every human being begins life the same way by exiting the birth canal. So we all are bonded by that first journey. Then every one of us, including Tiny Tim, from ‘A Christmas Carol’ takes different pathways in life.

Homelessness was a long way from my consciousness; a distant abstraction. Life has a curious way to get you involved; reminds me of an old television show, Candid Camera; “when you least expect it”, you get hit gently in the head with a mallet of reality; a headache about the human condition. My hand is waving wildly from the back of the classroom. I yell to the teacher, Miss Crabtree, “I am human. My mother told me.” Back in December, my friend Rosemary Conte was singing in a concert in Asbury Park to raise money for Hurricane Sandy relief. Because loyalty is a gift, I went to see her and met the concert organizer, photographer and fellow human, Sherry Rubel. Chemistry and gut feelings are also gifts. I sensed great compassion and commitment when I talked to Sherry in a hallway on the second floor of McCloone’s overlooking the Atlantic Ocean during a cold rain. Three weeks later on a cold sunny morning in East Brunswick, New Jersey, Sherry and I found a vacant table in a Starbucks and talked about the world and her dreams/hopes which centered on a place called Tent City in Lakewood where 80 people live in tents because. Curiously, just outside the window at her back was a grey-bearded old man sleeping on a chair with his bike next to him. Perhaps all his worldly possessions were on that bike. He was sleeping in 25 degree air temperature. Looking back, was it a portent of things to come? I did promise Sherry, because she was so passionate, that I’d come to Tent City and do a story for NJ Discover.

On the morning of February 4^th Tara-Jean Vitale (NJ Discover producer) and I headed down Route 9 to Lakewood’s Tent City. I did my Google due diligence and read about the politics and exigencies of Tent City; about homeless humans living there. But you never grasp or know what to expect unless you drove an ambulance in World War I; my reference to Hemingway, ‘A Farewell to Arms’ and my having to live a story visually to really feel emotions as a writer/journalist. I was clueless about this foreign world I was entering and it was brutally cold outside. The night before, Sherry briefed me on the politics and current events on how the county of Ocean (which has no homeless shelters) and the city of Lakewood want Tent City closed and bulldozed. A brave lawyer defends Tent City; he wins stays of execution; a human judge decries that you cannot throw humans out into a nowhere land. Minister Steven Brigham has devoted his life to the dream of dignity for homeless. At some point this day, we’d get a chance to meet this amazing man; Sherry promised.

Perpendicular to Tent City main entrance is a small street where we parked; across this street were low income apartments. Sherry met us as I hoisted the tri-pod and cameras out of the trunk. We jumped back into the car and fogged-up the windows while she talked about the protocol and etiquettes of our visit. On our way, I suddenly stopped. I’m a writer collecting my emotions, trying to glimpse tents through dense forest. A strange feeling came over me. Do I really want this because I sensed a queasiness in my intestinal lining; butterflies evacuating in a panic. I felt like coughing resignation; get away while the going is good. “John Wayne, where’s your horse?”  I sensed something; I’d never be quite the same again by the time the sun rose a little higher in a perfectly majestic dark blue sky; how poetic; I was grasping. Then I ran back to the car trunk and opened it and yelled to Tara-Jean and a bewildered Sherry. “I want you both to see this ceremony. I’m taking this huge weighted box of symbolic politics off my back and shoulder so that when I walk into Tent City there is absolutely nothing political about me; I’m just a human being with eyes, ears and a working cardiac chamber.”

Two Lakewood police cars blocked the frozen bumpy dirt road; they were leaving. I was dizzy (too much strange foreign visual input) and cold as I glanced at the first tent on the right; a barking dog was tied with a rope to a tree. I wondered if the dog knew about Tent City. As if a magic wand from Glenda (that Northern witch) passed over us, tents were suddenly everywhere with musty smoke from wood burning stoves coming out of make-shift chimneys; a strange smell(suffering?) wafted in the air we breathe. The ground was covered with patchy snow; why wasn’t I here during the summer? We were now in the middle of the city; as far as the eye could see through thick trees, tents lined a bumpy dirt road. Just then a tall young man approached; Sherry greeted him and then introduced us to Angelo. He was near his tent. We shook hands; he had worn gloves (bare fingers exposed) and invited us into his tent. He was a charming, outgoing eloquent man. Something (a perfect word here) struck my extant dizziness; he was absolutely proud to show us his home; a bed, a wood burning stove (he excused himself to run out and chop a log for more wood) and a few shelves of clothing. But it was his home; the bed was made like it was ready for army inspection. I was faint and still dizzy; it was all real and beyond my imagination; but everyone here was human. Sherry whispered there are all kinds of people here from different walks.

Some tents were perfectly appointed. How strange I thought; could I be in the Catskill Mountains at a tent colony for the summer; Woodstock just up the road. It’s 1969 and soon a big concert. No, this was a real world of homeless humans waiting for a Springsteen song to be written about them. I whispered to myself, “My God.” Angelo’s tent was so cold. How do humans sleep? Yet as we walked past tents and people; something was (that word again) hard to describe which grabbed me in disbelief. Was this an exciting way of life?  A woman walked over to Tara-Jean; “Come let me show you my tent.”  They were proud of their homes. It was theirs; a belonging. I felt it. Next we saw a tent where there was a warm shower and another set up as a chapel and finally a kitchen of sorts with stacks of empty pizza boxes. Local pizza restaurants frequently drop off pizza. Overcome with dizziness now; I knew it was a manifestation of shock and disbelief; how and why. We’re all humans that passed through birth canals dressed the same way.

I keep saying ‘humans.’ Reason; two of the letters in the word are U and S; spells us. ‘Us’ works in a democracy but when we start using the word ‘them,’ democracy weakens. I’ve heard and read people near Tent City (the humans who want them out) refer to the people here as them. “Get them out of here.” How sad. From a distance, Sherry saw Tent City leader Minister Steven Brigham approaching. Eye to eye we stood shaking hands; he was almost as tall as me. Eyes were intense and filled; easy to see. And here’s where I save words. Minister Steve would let us interview and film him so you can watch the video. I’m not sure if anyone else has ever spent such quality time with this amazing man of peace and compassion.

I’ve decided not to describe any more physicality of Tent City now. I would be some kind of dizzy (light headed, heart-broken, sad) all week and beyond while on this journey to self-awareness. What did I learn from this day of my intestinal excavation? Both Sherry and Minister Steve talked about Destiny’s Bridge which is both a new acclaimed documentary movie by filmmaker (storyteller) Jack Ballo and a concept dream for a future community of homeless people who one day might live together in dignity, productivity and self-reliance. Conceptual dignity is a common thread. Homeless people today are rounded up and thrown into distant shelter’s calloused halls with cots and no privacy; warehoused and usually kicked out in the morning for another day without borders and wandering streets; no human dignity or productivity. Destiny’s Bridge is a dream and a hope for belonging, community, ownership, training and human services. Minister Steven Brigham has given the last 12 years of his life to see that dream come to life. Tent City is soulful energy which fuels this dream every day.

Sherry Rubel has spent the last year of her life being involved, caring, documenting and photographing; she’s there relentlessly and compassionately. Jack Ballo has been at Tent City three days a week for the past year creating a documentary film legacy depicting the hope of Destiny’s Bridge. As I write this, Jack is considering several New Jersey film festival premieres over the upcoming spring and summer including the Garden State Film Festival in April. For me, a journalist, this film is about humans, homelessness, New Jersey and dignity; the film’s issues are a no-brainer and should be on New Jersey film festival radar. I remember leaving my political notions in the trunk of my car for the good of honest human reporting. I wonder who wrote the Book of Love when Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space. President Kennedy promised we’d be first on the moon. I wonder about the homeless.

Mine eyes had seen the coming and so much more that day. Tara-Jean and I asked permission to come back. While we were readying to leave, four residents were talking near a tent; a dog was barking in the distance. On a nearby table were packages of hamburger buns stacked three high. Minister Steve had disappeared down the dirt road. Our drive back to suburbia and gas heat, electricity, bathrooms, two door refrigerators and other banal comforts was relatively quiet and pensive yet Tara-Jean and I had differing views of the world. But that’s OK, Mah.

My awareness journey was not over. The next night I picked-up extraordinary singer/songwriter Arlan Feiles and headed for a NJ Transit train into New York City. Wonder where this is going?  One of his songs (a favorite of mine), ‘Viola,’ is about this courageous woman Viola Liuzzo who was a Unitarian Universalist civil rights activist from Michigan who was murdered by Ku Klux Klan members after the 1965 Selma to Montgomery marches in Alabama. While on the train heading into Penn Station and eventually Brooklyn’s Barclays Center to see the Nets play Kobe Bryant and the Lakers, I told Arlan about Tent City.  Subconsciously I hoped.

In the fourth quarter we saw Kobe take off from the foul line and sail over two Nets defenders and jam the ball; poetry in motion. Then Arlan got a text message; there was an open mic on Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn; Arlan did four songs and blew the place away. Next a slice of ethereally tasting Brooklyn pizza and by the next blink of my tied left eye, it was 11:44 PM inside the New Jersey Transit waiting room inside Penn Station. Remember; it was very cold outside. Two dozen human beings were spread out sitting in chairs, sleeping, ostensibly waiting for a train. Then an Amtrak cop appeared; he pulled out a ‘Billy club’ and pounded on the walls behind the sleeping humans. He yelled, “Let me see your ticket. If you don’t have one, you have to leave.” He was throwing homeless humans out into the cold night. He was also profiling. I never took out my ticket. He never asked to see it; thus the second day in a row seeing homeless humans without dignity or warmth. The cop never saw my camera flash. On the meandering slow train back to suburbia, I felt that feeling again.

Cut to Friday night; a few days later. I don’t understand everything in the universe which pretends I’m modeling clay. Recently something made me order the DVD ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ with Henry Fonda.  I’d never seen it before and shame on me. Universal energies abound and it was time. After knee braces pulled tightly in place, I jumped on the exercise bike and pedaled full throttle into a dizzying oblivion while I watched this 1940 black and white movie about an Oklahoma family forced off their land. The Joad family travels to California, suffering the plight of the homeless during the Great Depression. I was back at Tent City; nothing had changed from Lakewood, New Jersey to Steinbeck’s novel in 1939. Time froze. So did I on the bike.

Tom Joad (Henry Fonda) is talking to his mother near the end. The sweat is dripping from me; 924 calories burned so far. “How am I going to know about you Tommy?” Tom replied to his mother, “A fellow don’t have a soul of his own. Maybe just a piece of a big soul. Then it don’t matter. I’ll be all around in the dark. I’ll be everywhere. Where ever you look. Where ever there’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there.”  I closed my eyes; suddenly it’s last Monday and I’m sitting in the Tent City chapel talking/interviewing Minister Steven Brigham, a 12^th generation American. I’m black and white and talking to John Steinbeck.

Then I just sat motionless on the bike and watched the movie credits fade to black. Of course I was dizzy again; a different kind of dizzy with resolution and substance.  I remembered that Sherry Rubel wrote a fascinating blog about a Tent City resident, Kevin, who’s been in and out of county jail and Tent City. Kevin is Tom Joad. Synchronicity, personal journey, Tent City, Sherry Rubel, Minister Steven Brigham, Tara-Jean Vitale (NJ Discover producer) and being an apolitical human being enhance my cerebral spiritual synapses.(conscience) Homelessness is on my mind; sounds like a song title. We could use a fresh song.

What I noticed these past weeks are so few humans around these parts (New Jersey and beyond) know (care) what’s going on in Tent City. I’m saddened but not surprised; still dizzy after all these weeks. I’m heading somewhere. There’s a last scene in a movie, ‘Here Comes Mr. Jordan’ when Robert Montgomery stops and realizes he’s going somewhere but he’s not sure. He can’t explain it but he gets up and leaves his boxing dressing room. I worry about a next court date in March for the humans of Tent City; what if?  I need to get back there. I just looked out a window behind me and saw children dancing around a May Pole; why are they dancing in slow motion? They’re human children; a few years removed from the birth canal. There is no real window; a mirage? And the Atlantic City hotel, Revel just went bankrupt ($2.4 billion). A few hours ago someone close to me asked why I’m writing about Tent City when I usually write about musicians, artists or environmentalists. I didn’t answer. That was my answer.

Here are some links:

Tent City Project:  https://www.facebook.com/TheTentCityProject?fref=ts

Tent City website: http://tentcitynj.org/index.html

Facebook: Destiny’s Bridge the movie:  https://www.facebook.com/DestinysBridge?fref=ts

Jack Ballo film maker:  http://www.ultravisionfilms.com

Sherry Rubel Photography: www.sherryrubelphotography.com

Calvin Schwartz:  vichywater.net

Facebook: Cal Schwartz   and Calvin Schwartz-Cerebral Writer

Twitter: @ earthood

earthood@gmail.com

SONGWRITERS BY THE SEA: A Back Stage View. The Strand Theater. Lakewood, NJ.  By Calvin Schwartz

Author’s Note:  I was so overwhelmed by the electricity and intimacy of this special musical event, that the following words/descriptions you are about to read are designed to make you feel what I felt being there. Of course the words should also move you to find the next ‘Songwriters by the Sea’ yourselves.

I was picturing something new, filling with anticipation and even uncertainty and whispering words of a long forgotten gut wrenching song, “What’s it all About, Alfie?” Why am I whispering words and not singing? Because I can’t sing and I wish I could since the time my Newark elementary school put on a musical play in the auditorium. A picture of then President Eisenhower hung just to the right of the flag. Kids who could sing got special attention and privileges. I wish I could sing.

This night was special. I was driving down foggy misty Route Nine from Springsteen’s Freehold, New Jersey, toward Lakewood’s Strand Theatre for my first indoctrination into a wondrous backstage event. Alas, I can’t sing but I can write visually and sail through streams of consciousness and imagination. I was picturing things as my right hand negotiated a steering wheel. It was ‘conjure-up things’ city on a strangely empty highway.  Suddenly I was at Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands (I still call it that). Seventy thousand fans were yelling “Bruce.”  My seats were humble and I was without binoculars. Just to see his face up close would’ve been everything. All of a sudden, as I passed a diner and barren parking lot, I was in a small Vermont town where a veterinarian’s assistant was the mayor.  A group of 44 people were gathered on her green lawn in front of a porch that circumnavigated the house built by relatives of Ben Franklin. A musical porchfest was going on. I parked my car, walked over; everybody greeted me and I saw the lips of the singers moving and felt the exhaled breath of each word.  And I heard every word. They were singing just to me.  Relevance was my new favorite buzz word. The fog was thick; I couldn’t see the porch anymore.

A sign on the roadside welcomed me to Lakewood. Now back in Jersey and about to enter the world of a porchfest on a backstage of an historic theatre. Slip me into the world of art deco and put me next to a radio to hear President Roosevelt or Mayor LaGuardia.  My anticipation was as thick as ketchup; the French banned this red food stuff in their schools; I remembered and smiled about the quirky randomness of my thinking. I was cylinder firing away because of my extreme excitement to be at a backstage event.  I was following maze like theater corridors and magic marker signs leading to back stage at the Strand Theatre. I was really there.

I’m a native Jersey guy who likes history. The Strand opened in 1922 when Lakewood was actually popular with the rich and famous of the day like Rockefeller. The theater was built with a sense of acoustics as many performances of the day were solo acts. And here I was, about to walk onto the stage of the Strand for a magical acoustics evening. The Strand was signed into the National Register of Historical Places in 1982. My tripod, mono-pod and TV camera were gently deposited on the floor as ‘Songwriters by the Sea’ co-founder Joe Rapolla greeted me within my first few steps on stage. In 2008, Joe Rapolla and Joe D’Urso created the concept of ‘Songwriters’ who performed then in Asbury Park at America’s Cup Coffee on Cookman Avenue.  After a year in Asbury Park, the concept grew in popularity with audiences and they expanded to Backstage at the Strand in March, 2009.

I need to qualify my writing style; strictly from the gut and reflective how songwriter performers emote while the surroundings add ambience to my writing soul. Joe Rapolla’s poignant life and musical journey has already hyper sensitized my words and observations. Therefore, this is not a review.

For the first half, I decided to plant my TV camera in the back of the stage which was several rows away from the songwriters. I wanted to feel songwriter intimacy and connections being part of the real audience.  I flicked the camera on auto and spiritually drifted. The old renovated theater was dark and empty; light from the stage managed to illuminate the first few rows of seats.  Dimly lit chandeliers added to surrealism; for me a silence you could see. Silence was part of the history in the walls; Burns and Allen once performed here; so did the Scarecrow, Ray Bolger. I heard Gracie’s shrill voice.

D’Urso (remember we’re dealing with two Joe’s) introduced the first group of songwriters.  Cat Cosentino (from Oceanport and proud of it) and Bobby Mahoney (only 17 and therefore couldn’t avail himself of a real drinking bar in the rear) were the youngest rising stars. Tom Breiding lives in West Virginia while Bill Toms is near Pittsburgh. Bill talked to us like we’re in his living room back home. “The hardest person to get to know is yourself.”  Then the song words , “I’ve made peace now with a stranger in me.” Backstage means stark silence except for voice echoes. He sang to me. Three rows in front, a man on the aisle rubbed his cuticles. Why write about that; because of the intimacy of backstage; sensitivity and in tune with the immediate world. I pinched myself; purist joy what I was part of; affluent, audible, flowing, meaningful words. I was back in the Meadowlands briefly, starved for wordy echoes.

Cat’s first song was dedicated to her parents; her voice melodiously electric. Bobby sang “A Delicate Fall from Grace;” which reminded of a whip ride back in Newark; that sudden acceleration.   Tom Brieding sang about finding one another as we drift between stars. What meant everything to me being backstage is I heard every resonating word. The singers told stories. “You talking to me,” then I told the taxi driver to let me be. I love backstage.  A man on the left, two rows down took a swig of beer; the bottle level was half-way.  Then I saw a leg wearing cargo shorts stretch out in the aisle, moving to the beat of the music; the calf muscle flexed visibly. Gosh, I was in an electronic hyper state. The Strand environment worked magic.  Then I whispered to myself (I do that in states of elation), “Thank you Rapolla and D’Urso.”

Intermission and time to position the camera on the side of the stage; different absorption I imagined. Both Joe’s would sing. And Garland Jeffreys, a living legend; I was a few feet away. Guy Davis; unbridled energy and blues.  Jerzy Jung;( her real name) with keyboard inches away from me. Joe D’Urso, a Bronx native, sang, “I’ll prove it won’t be dark, all the stars will be out tonight.”  While singing ‘Chocolate Man,’ Davis touched the audience.(proximity and sensation). And to hear every breath Garland Jeffreys took while singing ‘Coney Island Winter,’ was nirvana. “Hey Mah,” I was in that place of magic. I don’t know where James Cagney came from. Maybe I do know. I’m backstage clicking my heels.

Then Do-Wop from D’Urso and the gang. He really corralled me all the way back to Newark, New Jersey, with the words, “Why must I be a teenager in love.” The power of backstage music, I thought. The Good-Humor man was selling this new ‘Toasted Almond’ bar.  Jerzy spoke about any woman or girl who ever felt unsure of herself. Soon, I was sitting around a fire place with a few fraternity brothers; Harvey had a guitar and was singing a folk song; ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.’  I tried to sing along. They told me to stop.  I heard Rapolla’s wooden stool scrape along the stage. I was back on stage in awe, amazed at the clarity of the stool scraping noise.

Every word from Garland Jeffreys was heard while he was way down in Spanish town.  And when he wasn’t singing, I watched him tap his feet to the beat. How many singers have I seen do that; certainly not from the running track in Madison Square Garden or standing chest to shoulder in a bar or in a park with a makeshift bandstand and hundreds of beach chairs as forward motion impediments.

Joe Rapolla talked about giving kids advice on love. “Don’t be afraid to throw your heart on the wind.” You’ll never know feelings of songwriters unless you are backstage.  All of a sudden Bill Murray pounded a clock radio alarm at 6:00 AM.  ‘Groundhog Day’ flashed. I didn’t want this night to end. Later Jerzy said that uncertainty wasn’t a bad thing. And the harmonica playing by Davis was riveting.  Jeffreys walked into the audience while singing ‘New York skyline.’ Everybody was singing now. Disbelief; I noticed the shadow that the microphone wire cast on the stage floor. It was a giant shadow.  Jeffreys’ voice was a giant voice.  ‘Wild in the Streets’ with all the cast closed this backstage event. When the show was over, I mingled with the singers. Accessibility was in the theater air ducts.  I thanked both Joe’s for their remarkable vision. And I marveled again about noticing the shadow of Jeffrey’s microphone wire. But that’s this incredible backstage world; heightened awareness and sensitivity beyond imagination.

‘Songwriters by the Sea’ series is a musical atom; protons, electrons, neutrons firing away. My mind fired away and still does. It moves me to write impassioned commentary for people to escape from sedentary sofas. But what would happen to intimacy and interaction?  I thought of the word ‘secret.’ I also knew I was in a special place with special people for several hours and my atoms were musically innervated like never before.  Then I thought about my not ever being able to sing but it didn’t make a difference anymore. I was part of singing for every millisecond I was backstage.

Here is an old fashioned PS to this article. I went home and found Joe Rapolla’s cover of Elton John’s ‘Daniel.’ I listened several times in a row because I read his bio and I was still in that heightened electronic sensitized state from being backstage all night. So here’s a link:  Joe Rapolla ‘Daniel’

And I’m still listening.

Calvin Schwartz  6-1-2012

“If you’d like to get out of a pessimistic mood yourself, I’ve got one sure remedy for you. Go help those people down in Birmingham; in Mississippi or Alabama……Maybe we’ll see this song come true….” Pete Seeger said these words a long time ago (1960’s) when he was introducing a song at a concert; ‘We Shall Overcome.’ When I heard what amazing things Rosemary Conte, noted Jazz singer from Monmouth County was doing to organize a concert to raise awareness and donations for the people who live in a tent city in Lakewood, I didn’t hesitate a moment in calling Rosemary and asking if NJ Discover TV could be there. It was Easter Sunday and hard to round up a TV crew. Then I thought about how sailors in times of Christopher Columbus were impressed into service, so I called my prodigal son and impressed him into service with a camera and smile.

It was a perfect Easter Sunday for a meaningful concert for the homeless; Blue sky. Spring warmth. Gentle breezes. 3 PM. Town Square in Lakewood. With the help of her musician sons, Steve (lead guitar with New York Dolls) and John (who has performed with Bon Jovi and Southside Johnny), Rosemary Conte put together an impressive ‘Tent City Band’ featuring Jersey artists Marc Ribler (guitar), Daniel Gonzalez(drums), Tommy Labella(sax), Danny Petroni(guitar), Brad Mandigo, Lisa Desimone(vocals), Joe Mosello(trumpet) and more.

What an amazing band. Personally, I like to drift when music moves me; their powerful sounds took me far away but never far enough away to realize that there are no homeless shelters in Ocean County; that’s why there’s a tent city in the middle of Lakewood and that’s the awareness message Rosemary’s efforts delivered. Rosemary’s jazz vocals anchored her caring and concern. What a voice. Often I wonder why more citizens don’t extricate themselves from the sedentary couch and explore the world of New Jersey, with all its talent and poignant causes.

Rev. Steve Brigham, Tent City’s founder and a tireless advocate for the homeless in Ocean County spoke to the audience. The cause is so powerful. People are homeless in our midst, right here in Central Jersey, the second richest state in America. The band sang a Dylan song. I really closed my eyes. It was 1968. Pete Seeger was singing with the ‘Tent City Band.’  Rosemary Conte and her sons were really singing. I drifted. And now I thank her for an amazing day. And like Pete Seeger said a long time ago, maybe we’ll see that song come true for our citizens in Tent City in Lakewood.

PLEASE donate to Tent City Homeless Encampment:    the direct link to donate to our 501c3 account via PayPal is    http://TentCityNJ.org/PayPal

Or http://TentCityNJ.org/Donate   which also contains info on other online donation options.

OR, Lakewood Outreach Ministry Church, PO Box 326, Lakewood, NJ 08701