By Rob Ascough, Treasurer
Much has been said of the recent passing of Jack Morey, and rightfully so. Even if one never worked up the bravery to sample one of the many rides on one of his family’s amusement piers, every resident and vacationer of The Wildwoods in recent decades had somehow been touched by his passion, vision, and — borrowing a word he liked to use to describe his father — gumption. All “Wildwoodians” hold something that can be traced back to him, whether it be a moonlit ride on the Giant Wheel, a family photo at the now-famous sign at the boardwalk terminus of Rio Grande Avenue, or simply interacting with him while he was spending time with his beloved Weimaraners or posing in an impromptu handstand.
Everyone has a place held near and dear to the heart, and if places outside of The Wildwoods had a champion like Jack Morey, most would be much better for it. We Wildwoodians were the lucky ones, because we had him.
However, the island lost another giant recently, and to assign titles to Al Brannen would mean making this article far too long for comfortable reading. If you knew Al, you know he was as multi-faceted as the glass inside a lighthouse; if you didn’t, you’re about to learn.
My first encounter with Al was documented in an article in this newsletter a while back, and it wasn’t anything truly noteworthy. That’s not to say it was good or bad, but simply not the moment when our paths were meant to cross. When my good friend Al Alven and I were researching and writing what would become Images of America: Hunt’s Pier at the George F. Boyer Museum, there was a particular winter Saturday when unexpected snow started to fall. Bob Bright, Jr., who was assigned to let us into the building and keep us company (and presumably keep an eye on us with the assistance of his dog Zoey) became intimidated by the prospect of having to drive home with snow on the roads. To ensure our three hour commute wasn’t for nothing, he summoned Al Brannen to the museum to allow us to continue our work. We did, though not for long, because it was obvious Al was engulfed by a restlessness making it clear the last thing he wanted to do on a Saturday afternoon was babysit the two of us. It didn’t take us long to stop, pack up for the day, and relieve him of his duty.
Having joined the Wildwood Historical Society’s Board of Directors years later, I was granted many opportunities to interact with Al, and I quickly became captivated by his stories, energy, and love for The Wildwoods. His opinions weren’t always popular with everyone, but he genuinely wanted what was best for the island, whether it be something simple like wanting funding for flowers in the median of Route 47, or a strong plan for the revitalization of Pacific Avenue. It was clear Al never approached anything with less than full force. This was evident in all of the loves of his life — his family, his friends, and the museum, which he treated as a combination of the two. To give selflessly to the museum was to find one’s way into Al’s enormous heart, and a tour of his private collection of passions in a nondescript Wildwood warehouse was to understand having made a positive impression on him. It was his way of showing a brand of friendship very specific to him.
Over the years, I constructed a collection of fond memories of the man. He told tales of his days in the Coast Guard, as a motel proprietor, a short stint in city government, and longtime caretaker of history through his involvement with the museum — he loved boasting of how, when the collection was moved from City Hall to its current location on Pacific Avenue, he organized hundreds of people to form a line across the city from one building to the other, so everything could be handed off to the next person, because Al was the kind of guy who knew hundreds of people who would agree to that sort of thing when he made his calls. He hosted fantastic holiday parties and recounted how he and his amazing wife Diane didn’t have to pack away one single plate in the kitchen cabinets when their house was relocated down the street on rollers. He’d reach out to me when something regarding the museum was on his mind — always starting with his own firm convictions before settling down and providing the space in which I was able to say what I had to say — Al could never be accused of not listening and considering other’s thoughts and feelings. When I helped him hang signs on the fence in the museum parking lot, he insisted that the screws all be turned to a perfectly horizontal position. Because, why not?.
In a conversation with someone about Al a few years back, I was told that he had mellowed over time, but I struggled to validate that viewpoint because while there was a grandfatherly soft-spoken-ness in his words, there was also a fire that still burned deep within. It was not too long ago that, while spending time at the museum, Al called me outside for one of his many tasks — he wanted to relocate the boardwalk planks used to make museum souvenirs from one area behind the building to another. Because, why not? I masked my enthusiasm for the work — it was a warm, sunny day, so why wouldn’t I want to forego pizza on the boardwalk so I could instead get dirty and sweaty? However, it gave me an hour with Al to talk about whatever was on our minds, and that was always a good thing. In fact, it was an even better thing that day, because it ended up being the last memory we created together. Soon after, I was heartbroken by news of his illness, just like everyone else. It took everyone by surprise.
A few years back, Al stepped down from the historical society’s Board of Directors for the final time, affirming comfort in knowing it was in good hands and that he didn’t need to be involved as he once was. Of course, this hands-off mindset lasted all of a few hours and the next day he was back to doing everything he used to do, albeit in a much less official capacity. Even Al couldn’t buy into the fact that he had mellowed — it wasn’t in his nature. His idea of “taking it easy with small jobs” was to recondition a portion of the bar rescued from The Shamrock, which involved cleaning it of years of spilled beer, fabricating a new wooden base, and affixing wheels so it could be easily rolled around. Because, why not?
As we all take this opportunity to reflect on our interactions, encounters, and experiences with Al Brannen, let us remember never to mellow, because the things we believe in the most are the things that most make us who we are. Al showed us that we are best when we treat our loved ones well, remain unwavering in our convictions, and make sure the screws are always turned perfectly horizontal.
Because, why not?
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