I was born and raised in New Jersey in the fifties and sixties. Again, if forced to tell you just one thing about myself, it would be this: I would not trade where and when I grew up with anyone else on this planet.

The people I know best from Jersey share this same sentiment. The strength of this belief connects those who know their good fortune to have grown up in the Garden State. How folks feel about where they live gives a heartbeat and an identity—a vibe and vibrancy—to a place. From living elsewhere, I know that Jersey, despite being the nation's fourth smallest state, is one damn spirited place filled with eccentric characters.

My Jersey friends are passionate and opinionated about our state. They are passionate about passion—seldom leaving doubt about how they feel. Few shrinking violets among the Jersey natives I know. Our honesty comes at you directly, with no sugarcoating. Not in-your-face but firmly—an effective way to transmit sincerity.

No phoniness, unless the perp is engaging in the Jersey pastimes of BS-ing or bustin' balls. Sit for an hour in Jersey taverns I frequent—you'll witness these Jersey skills. Joe Pesci (a Jersey guy) masterfully busted the balls of Ray Liota (another Jersey guy) in Goodfellas. That scene helped Pesci win an academy award.

We are a sarcastic bunch, quick to feign being insulted—and to exaggerate the severity of the affront. Again, consider Pesci—how he reacts to Marissa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny. When she stomps her foot to complain about her biological clock ticking away while he's desperately trying to save his cousin from a murder wrap.

Our sarcasm is driven more by humor than anything else. A sense of humor runs deep in my friends from NJ. We seldom take ourselves seriously. Self-deprecating humor is the type most displayed and enjoyed.

I grew up in Hamilton Square, a suburb five miles east of Trenton, the capital—we don't pronounce the second "t." Trenton sits on the Delaware just south of where Washington crossed in the Revolutionary War to defeat the Hessians. About a century and a half later, the iconic "Trenton Makes The World Takes" bridge opened to auto traffic between Pennsylvania and New Jersey.

My hometown sits where Jersey's waist is most pinched. Its narrow width means we get down the shore in an hour—faster than anywhere else in the state. Travel time down the shore is a vital statistic for many Jersey residents.

We are passionate and opinionated about our food: the choice of pork roll—Taylor vs. Case; a favorite diner; cheese steaks cooked with Delmonicos—not chopped up Philly style; Casino dogs—no onions, just peppers and potatoes; clams casino—no breading, please; and the best tomato pie joint (a pizza with toppings laid on the dough in reverse order.) Proud to say, I can distinguish between a pizza and tomato pie in a blind taste test.

I'm also proud Hamilton Square is the home of John Taylor who invented Taylor pork roll in 1856. Pork roll is the state's most famous and controversial food. Those in North Jersey incorrectly call it Taylor ham. Pork roll is a tangy breakfast meat, less hammy and smoky than Canadian bacon but saltier than bacon. It can be cooked crispy or less well done, prolonging the enjoyment of its flavorful texture. A Miss Pork Roll is crowned every year at the annual festival.

Beyond pork roll festivals, the people and their elected officials celebrate food and other odd things. State lawmakers proclaimed the state's official breakfast sandwich to be egg, cheese, and pork roll on a Kaiser roll. In 2004, the state passed a joint legislative resolution honoring Trenton's Italian hot dog—along with its creator, Tony Canio (aka Tony Goes), and his Casino restaurant.

Here’s one of Jersey’s most widespread urban legends: In 1938, the state legislature designated the Jersey Devil to be the official state demon. What other state has its own demon?

Jersey is the most misunderstood state. I hear way-off-the-mark impressions that always amuse. Chief of which is that Jersey is nothing but the roads, refineries, and factories that travelers see along the turnpike and parkway, especially to the north. I liken this swath of concrete, iron, grime, and smokestacks to the state's shrimp vein

A great scrum of roadways happens where the turnpike converges with the parkway in Middlesex county. Not far from there, the Jon Bon Jovi rest stop sits at mile marker 124 on the Garden State Parkway. To the southeast, mile marker 102 leads to Asbury Park and the Stone Pony, music venue where Bruce Springsteen launched his career. Besides Bon Jovi, Pesci, and Springsteen, these are a few other celebrities born in Jersey: Alexander, DeVito, Dinklage, Douglas, Gandolfini, Houston, Lane, Nicholson, Sinatra, Streep, Travolta, Willis.

People who wrongly judge Jersey by its transportation corridors, miss the delicious reality of the Garden State's silver queen corn, peaches, and tomatoes. I've never tasted better anywhere. Then there's the New Jersey Pinelands—the Pine Barrens. This mysterious—and protected—rural expanse of trees, pygmy pines, sugar sand, bays, and rivers gobbles up nearly twenty-five percent of the country's most densely populated state. It boasts the world's purest water. How's that for a state most would guess is the country's most polluted?

Although often uninformed, people are genuinely curious about Jersey. They are more fascinated and entertained by Jersey than most other states. They like to hear what it's like growing up here.

They enjoy my accent—how I say tawk, wooder, cawfee, or: "How you doin'?" or when I exaggerate "Youse guys gotta a problem wid dat?" They love bada-bing and all things Tony Soprano. Younger ones laugh about Snookie, the Jersey Shore, and Jersey Housewives. When Pesci mangles "youths" into "yutes" in My Cousin Vinny, he creates a cinematic gem.

I contend that the milestones of yutes fly by sooner in Jersey than in other states. My milestones and other notable events sure did. Wide-eyed folks shake their heads and mutter "only in New Jersey" when I share the following facts about my youth.

• At the age of six, I turned playing doctor into a threesome.

• At nine, I was traded in Little League.

• At eleven, I quit smoking.

• At seventeen, police tried to arrest me for stealing my own car on Long Beach Island.

With those full disclosures revealed, this Jersey guy signs off by promising plenty of Jersey flavor in the short stories of REPLAYS.

Gary Hawthorn (aka Hawth)
Cape May, NJ (Mile marker 0—Exit 0 on the Garden State Parkway)