PART 1

I offer advice to many people, and most of it is accurate and understandable. So, I usually live by the motto in regards to Silverton, my once home. Silverton: It is more than a place to live, it's a lifestyle! This is held true in many ways. For those of you who are reading from out of town, Silverton is a tiny, unincorporated section of Dover Township in the Northeast corner, bordering with Brick Township. Its' Western boundaries fall short somewhere past the H. George Buckwald drive, and Southern boundaries include South Shore Drive, even though those residents do not want to be associated with the mess of Silverton. Yes, Green Island, you scumbags are Silverton to the core also! Green Island is just a fancy name for your development, you are as much Silverton as Westwood Drive is. I grew up on the mean street of Arkansas Avenue, which lies off Brand Road (once named 9th street). Actually, all the cutesy flower streets off Maine Street were numbered at one point, (if you count, Jonquil becomes 1st Street). They were later changed to cater to a more upscale clientele, which failed miserably. Silverton was a nice place to live when my parents purchased their first home in the mid 1970's. Nobody saw the unfolding of events which lead to the largest collection of scumbags per square mile the town would ever see.

Silverton is a long neglected section of Toms River, and rightfully so! There was once a time when mischief night was celebrated more than Christmas in Silverton. I would stock pile eggs from the Gay & P and let them rot in the woods for weeks. You had to outsmart the old ladies at the registers, because they would stop selling eggs to anyone under 14 a few days prior to the big night. I would also stock up on ass wipe, shaving cream, soap, silly string, spray paint, and bricks. For some reason, all the parents in Silverton let their kids "go for a walk" on mischief night without questioning. We spent hours egging cars, which were stupid enough to drive past the woods on Alabama Avenue that night. Any parked car would feel the wrath of a penis or racial slur soaped on their window. Imagine waking up next to a wife you hate, dealing with kids that were one condom away from not happening, for another day at a job you hate, only to get into your Toyota Celica and find a huge soap cock on your windshield. Now, it is too late to get the hose and clean it off, so you head for work and see how good the windshield washers can do. Of course they are no match for soap genitals that spent the whole night settling in. Once you get to work, your co-workers laugh and ask why there is a cock on your windshield. At this point, you hope someone will offer you a noose and a desk to stand on. You would get some tough guys to stop and back up once they realize their cars were egged. This action would lead to Silverton arms (kids throw arms up as if they were tough), only to run away when the car really backed up, not just teased you with the reverse lamps. Toilet paper was lit on fire, and sent up power lines. Black and white spray paint was used to decorate road signs. I do not think using white paint to turn a speed limit 25 sign into "PEE LIMIT" or black paint to make it SPEED LIMIT 250 would ever get old. You know, someone in a Ferarri would just happen to travel down 13th street doing 260, realizing he was going a tad over the limit. Cops gave up on Silverton mischief night a long time ago. There were just too many woods to run into, and cops were not chasing kids through Silverton woods. I mean, the Anderson gang could be hiding out wearing flannel hoodies.

Some nights were spent stealing street signs, or playing tackle football in the street. I cannot remember how many times Old lady Harris's front door was nigger knocked. I also lost count on how many glass bottles were smashed by Grandpa Charlie's driveway so he would get a flat every day. In Silverton, you didn't hang out at people's houses, you stood on a street corner. You may have rode your bike, but in a circle around others without bikes. Still, you would try to get the dot head in Quick Check to sell you Newport Lights, and insist you were buying them for your mother. Not a day went by when you didn't wish for a fight at Silverton Park. You know, 300 people would gather only to watch 2 losers slap each other once in the head until the cops came. Even the fattest of kids ran their asses off into the woods behind the park to weave their way to Silver Bay. We were really scared that watching a fight would get our parents called. While at the park, you always wondered if those bathrooms in the blue building would ever open. Next off, is there any reason why Mr. "I" would be drinking cans of Meister Brau on a Sunday morning at 9AM in the street? Forget alone that Meister Brau hasn't been brewed since the 1970's, but he would be tanked by 9AM on a Sunday. Rumor was, he heard they were discontinuing it, so he stockpiled the garage full. Meister Brau keeps the man alive, and once the stock is finished, his life might be also.

Everyone swam in a lagoon in Silverton, or you went to the point in Green Island. You would stare across the Kettle Creek and wonder what people were doing in Brick Town, as if it was another country. When you got into intermediate school, you would hear rumors of someone who made out with a Brick broad, and you learned early how easy they really are. Laying boards with nails in them to give cars flat tires was a regular occurance to pass the time. And, in true tradition, you would throw up Silverton arms when the car stopped, but once you actually saw it backing up, you ran for your life. The coolest thing in the world was to hide in the woods off that path that connected Silver Bay School with Jonquil Lane. Looking back today, what a perfect spot for a pedophile! I mean, a small path through the woods where school children walk through daily. Plus, there are cement posts at either end so cars can't get back there. You can rape more kids than the Catholic church and not get caught back there. We still don't understand how Mr. Pizza (not like the food) riding a donkey during the school day made kids want to read. You actually waited in a line to go down the new bumpy slide on the playground. Sometimes, you took the dare to ride that springy-horse thing which was nicknamed the ball breaker. Anyone who could make it to the top of the spider on the playground was a legend, and when it was my turn in the treehouse, I did not allow any girls. My minions looked up to me for this ruling.

True Silverton trash will remember when it was all woods from 13th street to Green Island. When you learned they were putting houses on Blue Sea and Atsion Way you were furious because your good dirt bike trails would be ruined. Also, you remember when Dave Wright rode his dirtbike through a sliding glass door in rebellion. Sorry Ricardo, I think that was your house before you moved in. Anyone who owned a dirtbike was god, and it was cool to rev the engine in your driveway. After a good hour of revving, you would ride it on the street to the nearest woods. If a cop came, you would do the Silverton hop-off, and explain to the cop you were pushing your bike to the woods, and some other kids are riding them on the street.

Silverton is home to all things scumbag, and all scumbags. I could spend hours listing names here, but if you know a douche bag, scum bag, loser, or just total asshole, chances are they are from Silverton. Here are a few just to keep you in check: Dave Lansing, Forrest Wolf, Bill "Douchebag" Butrymoticz, Neil Corso, Scott Duff, Matt Welsher, Fat Coleman, Nick Blyer, and Meghan Burger. Today, Silverton is a verb, not just a proper noun. You can use Silverton as a verb when someone does you "dirty." If someone cuts you off, you can ask why that asshole just "Silvertoned" you. Remember, you can take the kid out of Silverton, but you can never take the Silverton out of the kid!

RIP 263 Arkansas Avenue, 1980-1996

Originally Posted: 23 March 2006