With all that’s going on this weekend all over Monmouth County in preparation for the nation’s 250th, those who are in the Highlands area should take advantage of their last chance to purchase some of Mark Bergman’s incredible artistic shells and decorative work at N2S, Not Too Shabby, that wonderful gift, clothing, jewelry, everything Second Hand store at the corner of Bay Avenue and Miller Street in the heart of town.
This is the last day of Bergman’s month-long presentations of such clever use of seashells and everything else from our local beaches, giving them new life in a most decorative manner.
Mark, who is a local artist, New Jersey born and bred, has done some very ingenious art with nature, and the shelves of N2S have had them on display and for sale as their Artist of the Month. If it’s still there, his dragon fly made from shells makes you even love a dragon fly! Come next week, the July Artist of the Month will be featured, and you can learn more about that talent next week.
In the meantime, It’s the Villali women…Rose and daughters Elena Rose, Vincenza and Gabrielle, who keep their shop the popular place it is. In addition to great prices on elegant and top of the line items, the women very generously donate a portion of their profit to their Good Cause of the Quarter. June 30 also marks the end of the three months of donations to animal rescue units, and the next recipient of their kindness and generosity will be announced when the Artist of the Month is featured next week.
“It’s important to give back to community organizations,” Mama Rose says with a shrug, “it’s just the right thing to do. Everybody needs help and if we can be a part of that, well, why not?”
Rose might be a generous shopkeeper, a great friend, and a charming business women, but it doesn’t stop her from being honest, truthful and helpful to every customer in the shop.
There was the woman who came in and tried on a colorful, jacket that just didn’t look exactly right. She liked it, but asked Rose for her opinion. Rather than just tell her it looked great and she should buy it, Rose studied it, had her customer spin around, then said, “nope,, that’s not you.. You shouldn’t buy it.” Imagine a store owner not only turning down, but even encouraging a no sale. The customer listened, took a second look herself and agreed. “I trust your judgement,” she said. When questioned later, Rose shrugged and said, ”it’s not worth the sale. I wouldn’t want to see her unhappy later on.”
That customer, who Rose said frequently comes in, showed how happy she was with two or three other items she tried on, got nods of approval for, and purchased. Indeed, she not only left the store happy, but her glee in finding just the right outfit spread sheer happiness among all the other folks in the store at the time.
Not Too Shabby is open Wednesdays through Saturdays from 10:30 to 5, and Sundays from noon to 4, closed Mondays and Tuesdays for the season.
Definitely worth a visit. Whether it’s a smile, laugh, friendly face, or a youngsters toy, cocktail dress, set of dishes, or anything in-between that you need, you’re bound to find it here. And it’s at a price you can afford.
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Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle HAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? CHAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? CHAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Breakfast Breakfast Breakfast Breakfast Breakfast Breakfast Breakfast Breakfast Breakfast Car Show Car Show Car Show Car Show Car Show Car Show Car Show Car Show Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring HonorHonoringing Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle police police police police police police police police police police police police police police police police Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle HAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especi
