Mendham: George Washington perked here

I have to admit to being a bit confused when I discovered that George Washington lived in Mendham. 

I stumbled on this fact during yet another aimless drive through Morris County, accompanied by the WPA Guide to 1930s New Jersey. Finding myself in Mendham I flipped through a few pages of the manual to discover that somewhere along County Road 510, the Old Route 24, "An overgrowth of tall trees and thickets... hides from the road the Estate of George Washington, coffee manufacturer." Or at least it did in 1938.

That certainly got me curious. Thing is, the connection between the Father of our Country, coffee and Mendham wasn't that clear to me. While wintering in Morristown, did General Washington have a little hideaway, just a few miles distant, where he discovered the secrets of a good cuppa joe in his spare time? The Ford Mansion may have been the Pentagon of the Revolution, but I'd never heard Mendham referred to as the Coffee Pot of the Revolution.

Okay, I'm having a bit of fun, but there indeed was a George Washington who lived in New Jersey in the 20th century and ran an eponymous coffee company in Morris Plains.

The java-loving Washington was an Anglo-Belgian chemist who immigrated to the United States with his wife in the 1890s. An unsuccessful businessman -- he tried selling kerosene lamp mantles and cameras for a time -- he eventually attempted cattle ranching in Guatemala. It was there that inspiration struck.

As the story goes, one day as he was waiting for his coffee to brew, he noticed a residue forming on the spout of the pot. Curious about the substance, he began experimenting and eventually found a way to make a form of soluble coffee that could be brewed instantly. 

Other inventors had already developed similar products, but Washington's work was the first to lead to a commercial venture. The G. Washington Coffee Refining Company was formed in 1910, with production facilities in Brooklyn. 

By the start of World War I, Washington was ready to meet the demand for a coffee that could be made quickly in the field to keep troops awake and alert. The taste of the instant variety was far inferior to the traditionally brewed coffee, but it could be manufactured double-strength and even be drunk cold, perfect for the trenches. Used first by the Canadian Expeditionary Forces at the start of the war, it was adopted by the American military once the U.S. entered the conflict in 1917. Some say that at a point during the war, the U.S. Army requisitioned Washington's entire coffee output to ensure that doughboys would always be able to count on a cup of George.

Washington relocated the company from Brooklyn to Morris Plains in 1927, also purchasing a home for his wife and himself, a 200 acre Mendham estate which once belonged to Governor Franklin Murphy. The grounds were soon filled with a menagerie of exotic animals the coffee magnate had assembled while living on Long Island; reportedly he eventually expanded his collection to include zebras, llamas and deer in addition to many rare birds.

George Washington retired from the coffee business in 1943, at the age of 75, selling the company to American Home Products. He died three years later. While the coffee line was terminated in 1961, a spin-off brand of seasonings and broth developed in 1938 continues to this day. 

PTs and phragmites: Naval history and nature mix in Bayonne

When you're both a curious avocational historian and an early-stage birder, you tend to end up in places that might not seem useful to either interest. That's not such a bad thing. The basic premise is that you don't know what you don't know. If you're not sure a location is historic, or if the habitat might be a little off, you can't automatically discount it for being barren of a good story or a good bird. If you take a look around and keep an open mind, you might be rewarded with a real treat.

That was my rationale for a recent visit to Bayonne. From a geographic perspective, it looks great: located at the southern tip of the peninsula separating Newark Bay from the lower Hudson River, the city's borders are mostly shoreline. However, this advantage, combined with proximity to New York and Newark, made it the perfect place for industry. Starting with the construction of the city's first oil refinery in 1875, Bayonne became heavily industrialized, resulting in a gritty image and negative environmental implications. So much for the birds, right?

Not so fast. From the Meadowlands to Linden, we've seen some incredible wildlife in areas that are bouncing back from years of neglect or abuse. As for Bayonne, local birders have reported interesting species in and around the waterfront parks, so I decided to take a look. A quick check of the map showed a nice bit of marshy open space right on the bay, accessible directly from Route 440. Granted, you can't expect much from visiting a marsh in the midst of an extended period of sub-freezing weather -- it's highly unlikely you'll find anything but ice -- but I figured the bay might reveal some interesting ducks. And who knows? I might run into a few historical markers along the way.

After navigating the heavy truck traffic of US 1 and 9 and then 440, I made the quick turn into a small parking lot for Rutkowski Park. As promised, it's on the waterfront, easily accessible by car if you have good reflexes and no 18-wheelers are barreling down your neck. The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a utility van.

The park itself seems rather unassuming from the highway approach -- a somewhat hilly field with paved paths -- one headed toward the water's edge and another headed straight back to the marsh. Walking along the bay, I soon found the men responsible for the van, braving the chill with rod and reel despite signs warning the dangers of eating locally-caught crabs. A little farther along, I saw a few mallards and buffleheads drifting not far from shore.

The ELCO crane, with the NJ 

Turnpike extension in the background.

As I continued my stroll, a strange yellow contraption came into view, looking way too well-maintained to be something the park's designers left because they couldn't move it. A detailed historical plaque dismissed all doubt: this thing wasn't just there intentionally, it had been moved from another waterfront location in Bayonne specifically because of its significance.

This contraption was a crane which once stood within the boatyard of the Electric Launch Company, better known as Elco. Now replaced by the Boatworks condo development, Elco operated at its Avenue A and 8th Street location from 1892 to 1949.

The company's roots were in pleasure and utility craft, building electric-powered boats (equipped with Edison storage batteries, if my research proves correct) for clients including Charles Lindbergh and Henry Ford. However, its real claim to fame was as a defense contractor, constructing fast boats for the United States and its allies during both World Wars. Specifically, Elco built the 80-foot Patrol Torpedo (PT) boat, the primary motor torpedo boats used by the Navy during World War II. The men and women of Elco built 170 PTs at Bayonne, and the crane at Rutkowski Park once lowered the newly completed vessels into Newark Bay.

Known as mosquito boats for their ability to reach a target almost silently, the wooden-hulled, gas powered PT boats carried crews of 12 to 14 men and performed multiple duties, from laying mines to rescuing stranded aviators. Some even participated in the D-Day invasion at Normandy. The most famous of the Bayonne alumni was PT-109, which, under the command of Lt. (j.g.) and future present John Kennedy, was rammed and sunk by a Japanese destroyer in August 1943.

Unfortunately, Bayonne's Elco crane is likely one of the few large and authentic relics of the PT. Only one of the boats still exists, according to the U.S. Navy's Naval History and Heritage Command, the rest having been disposed of shortly after V-J Day. Elco itself merged with Electric Boat of Groton, Connecticut in 1949 to form General Dynamics; entrepreneurs revived the Elco name in 1983 to manufacture electric boat motors and pleasure craft in Athens, New York.

As for the rest of Rutkowski Park, I've vowed to return once the weather warms and the marsh thaws a bit. Having found some unexpected history, I can't wait to see what might be lurking in the tall grass along the boardwalk.

Many thanks to Jodi Jameson of Hackensack Riverkeeper for the heads up on Rutkowski Park! 

Exploring the Joyce Kilmer house

To many people, the name Joyce Kilmer means one of three things: the poet who wrote Trees, a rest area on the New Jersey Turnpike, or an army base that once operated in Edison. If you've lived or gone to school in New Brunswick, a certain street might come to mind, too. And if you've walked down Joyce Kilmer Avenue, you might have noticed a small cream-colored house with a plaque saying, simply, "Kilmer House." Its first floor now the home of the city's Dial-a-Ride program, the upper portion of the house quietly remains a shrine to the poet and World War I hero.

The Kilmer birthplace

The facade of the house is a puzzle, with no indication of whether any aspects of the family's life there have been preserved, or when one might be able to return to learn more. A bit of sleuthing revealed contact data for New Brunswick Historian George Dawson, who kindly agreed to meet me there and share some insights on the family and the house.

As advertised, the entire first floor is the domain of city employees, yet there are still nice touches befitting a 19th century home. I climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, walked down a slightly wider corridor and found myself in the room where Kilmer was born. It's uncertain whether any of the furnishings in the room belonged to the family, but the bed, rattan chaise, mantlepiece decorations and wallpaper were all reminiscent of the era when the Kilmers lived there. The rooms farther back contain memorabilia like a chunk of the aged Kilmer tree, the mighty oak on Rutgers' Douglass/Cook campus that was considered by some to be the inspiration for his famed poem. (The tree succumbed to age and disease and was cut down in 1963.)

Alfred Joyce Kilmer was born in the front bedroom of the house in 1886 and was baptized at Christ Church, his first name taken in honor of the parish curate and his middle name from the Episcopal rector, Rev. Elisha Brooks Joyce. His parents, Frederick and Annie, had moved to the house at 17 Codwise Avenue a few years earlier, and Fred operated a pharmacy downtown until 1889, when he joined a new company called Johnson & Johnson as its first scientific director.

Taking the job at J&J appears to have been a wise move for Fred; when Joyce was just five years old, the family moved to a larger house on College Avenue. (Regrettably, that house was demolished in 1960 to make room for the uninspired architecture of Brower Commons.) Fred went on to develop the company's iconic baby powder and contribute to several other advancements; check out J&J's informative Kilmer House blog for more on his fascinating career.

After completing his primary and secondary studies at Rutgers Preparatory School, the younger Kilmer attended Rutgers College, where he was an associate editor of the Daily Targum and a member of Delta Upsilon. Writing came easily to him, math not so much. At the time, college regulations required that students pass all of their subjects before being allowed to move to the next year's studies, and poor grades in sophomore mathematics meant he'd have to retake all of that year's classes before advancing. Instead, he chose to complete his studies at Columbia University, where, it might be presumed, the policies were a little less rigorous.

From his earliest years, Kilmer was deeply spiritual and eventually converted to Catholicism, prompted by his interest in Irish heritage and nationalism. He's also said to have told friends that Catholics write the best poetry. He married Aline Murray in her home Episcopal parish in Metuchen in 1908, but by 1913, the couple were members of New York's Roman Catholic Church of St. Paul the Apostle.

Kilmer graduated from Columbia in 1908 and taught English and Latin at Morristown High School while working to make his mark in New York's literary community as a reviewer. Stints at publishers eventually brought him to the New York Times Sunday magazine, even as he published several volumes of poetry. He and Aline moved to Mahwah, where they welcomed a son and daughter, and where he's said to have written Trees.

This representation of Kilmer
hangs on the wall in the room
where he was born.

Having joined the New York National Guard's 69th Regiment in 1914, Kilmer became part of the regular army after the United States entered World War I. His feelings about war were evident in his poem The White Ships and The Red, published by the Times after the sinking of the Lusitania. Despite his college education, he chose not to pursue an officers' commission and went in as a private. He shipped out to France in October 1917 and was promoted to sergeant five months later. On July 30, 1918, he was killed in action, shot in the head by a sniper. Only 31 years old at the time of his death, he was buried in a military cemetery at Fere-en-Tardenois and remembered by his commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel William Donovan, as "a cool-headed solider... full of eagerness at all time to give his full measure of service." The French awarded him the Croix de Guerre posthumously in recognition of his valor.

Back in New Brunswick, the local American Legion post wanted to honor Kilmer, the local enlisted man who'd served so honorably. The Codwise Avenue house had passed through several owners since Fred and Annie sold it in 1903, and the Legionnaires felt it would be an ideal home for their post. They bought the property in 1929, dedicating it the next year with a blessing on the birthplace room from a Christ Church rector. It was henceforth known as the Joyce Kilmer Shrine.

Declining membership, vandalism and rising maintenance costs forced the Joyce Kilmer Post 25 to sell the building to the state as a historic site in 1969, and local historians created the Joyce Kilmer Birthplace Association to drive restoration. The city of New Brunswick took possession in 1983, with the stipulation that the second floor shrine be maintained.

Few people visit the house, as evidenced by the number of signatures in the guest book. You'd hope that local schools would arrange field trips so kids could learn a bit about a local writer and war hero, or that Rutgers might encourage English or Journalism students to stop by. In any case, if your curiosity is piqued, mark December 6 on your calendar. The house is open every year on Kilmer's birthday, and you're more than welcome to stop by and learn more about this hidden but not really hidden New Jersey notable.

Anchors aweigh in Brooklawn: the hidden naval history of Noreg Village

Wrong turns can lead you into some puzzling places, as was reconfirmed to me recently. I was driving along Broadway in Gloucester City, looking for the waterfront and Proprietors' Park, when I overshot and ended up driving through a very compact housing area. Uniformly-designed, smallish stucco houses, both attached and unattached, stood on postage stamp-sized lots along narrow streets barely wide enough to accommodate two cars across.

The neighborhood put me in the mind of company housing, arranged on a modified grid. One road wound against the Delaware River and a small inlet, marking the outside border of the neighborhood. Other roads branched from a central Paris Avenue like veins on a leaf, with names evoking the local geography (Pennsylvania, New Jersey) and World War I (Pershing, Marne). It all seemed to have been planned to get the maximum density of housing into a peninsula hemmed in by river and creek. Might this might have been a quickly-built village for workers at the Gloucester City and Camden shipyards?

A recent look at Noreg Village housing

That, as I discovered later, was exactly the case. Shortly after the United States entered the war in April 1917, the Navy ordered 30 destroyers and other ship components from the New York Shipbuilding Corporation, prompting the company to ramp up work at its Camden shipyard. Additional workers poured into the region to supply labor, but they needed places to live and house their families.

In a strategy that would later be echoed in World War II developments like Winfield Park and Victory Gardens, the federal government financed the construction of homes for about 6500 shipyard workers in a riverside portion of what was then known as Centre Township. Built by the U.S. Shipping Board Emergency Fleet Corporation, the middle-income community was completed in 1917. New residents surged into the neighborhood, which was then called Noreg Village.

In 1923, well after the end of hostilities in Europe, the government held a massive auction of the 450 properties, including some commercial buildings and undeveloped lots. Home prices ranged from $1875 to $4000 for two- and three-bedroom properties described in promotional materials as the "ideal place of residence" for "the highest type of men and their families."

Brooklawn was officially formed as a borough in 1924 when it joined a growing number of hamlets separating from Centre Township by referendum. (Lawnside did the same two years later, rendering its parent township defunct.) Now home to about 2000 residents, its residential stock includes additional homes built to the east of Broadway, the road I'd taken to discover this little-known evidence of New Jersey's contribution to America's World War history.

Saluting New Jersey's military heritage: the National Guard Militia Museum

You know you're heading for a really hidden New Jersey gem when you have to stop at a guard shack to get in. I found myself doing just that the other day as I approached the entrance to the New Jersey National Guard Training Center in Sea Girt. My mission? To check out the National Guard Militia Museum of New Jersey. Assistant Curator Joe Bilby had graciously agreed to give me a tour of the museum and its impressive collection of military artifacts.

Truth be told, this was a visit I'd been anticipating for a long time, but Mother Nature had other plans. Hurricane Sandy's storm surges flooded the museum with over five feet of ocean water, affecting about 85 percent of the collection and decimating the public displays. Through the persistence of staff, volunteers and visiting specialists, the museum was ready for an official reopening in April, even as restoration and preservation work continues.

Ever see a Revolutionary-era
Loyalist soldier uniform? This is
what they wore in New Jersey.

As you walk in the door, you're addressed by a sight you'll see in no other museum in the state: an authentic Civil War cannon mounted on a sturdy carriage. Along the surrounding walls are displays that explain New Jersey's military history in chronological order, using historically-accurate uniforms and weaponry (some reproduction, some authentic). Circle the room slowly, and you'll get a new understanding of the contributions our predecessors and present-day neighbors have made to preserve our shared freedoms. You'll also get a perspective on the colonization and growth of the state that you're not likely to get at any other museum.

The exhibits cover all the big wars you learned about in high school, as well as many you might not remember as well. Whether you're a history buff or just a casual visitor, you're bound to make a few new discoveries. Want to know about what our forebears did during the Whiskey Rebellion, the War of 1812 or the Mexican War? You'll find out at the museum. I was especially impressed that the timeline starts with a discussion of the original New Jerseyans, the Lenape. Did you know that the first non-native battle casualty on soil within present-day state borders was one of Henry Hudson's Half Moon crew? To my knowledge, there isn't another museum in the state that brings that fact to light.

One of the things I really liked about the displays overall was that they include the diversity of the people who have represented New Jersey in our nation's conflicts, and the commitment of our citizen soldiers. The voices of our present-day soldiers are represented in post-September 11, 2001 timeline, complete with video footage and recollections from those who've served in Iraq and Afghanistan. Considerable space is also given to the story of the first African-American battalion, which was organized in 1930 as a militia in order to circumvent the federal military segregation orders that were then in force. Ultimately, New Jersey became the first state to fully integrate its National Guard.

The artifacts currently on display at the National Guard Militia Museum represent only a small portion of the overall collection. Other exhibits await the further preservation of artifacts affected by the flood. As we walked toward the museum's Civil War-era submarine, the Intelligent Whale, Joe ushered me past several tables were covered with artifacts in various stages of restoration, ranging from a portable organ to uniform boots and canteens. Another room is dedicated to several racks of vintage uniforms in the process of being reconditioned, while a documents area is stacked with archival boxes full of maps, letters and other ephemera. In fact, the museum holds the nation's largest collection of New Jersey-related Civil War research material. Joe noted that as staff members and volunteers were piecing through the the collection to assess storm damage, they'd come across interesting items they'd forgotten they'd even had. For a military historian, it had to be a dream come true.

Besides the physical artifacts and documents, the museum is amassing an impressive collection of oral histories from surviving veterans. The full interviews are available for researchers, but excerpts are also available to the public online.

While the museum is making progress on getting back to its pre-storm status, there's a lot of work to be done. Its non-profit foundation continues to accept monetary donations to fund improvements and ongoing programs. 

The National Guard Militia Museum of New Jersey is open every day from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., except for state holidays. Whether you're a military buff, a New Jersey history enthusiast or simply looking for an interesting field trip on a rainy day at the shore, it's well worth your time to check it out!

Hidden names bridging the Turnpike

I expected that a quick stop at the Turnpike's Alexander Hamilton Service Area might elicit a brief lesson on our first Secretary of the Treasury, but I found something I didn't anticipate. Walking to the building from my parked car, I saw not one, but five large plaques arranged in a semicircle, ringing an accompanying brass map. They're dedicated to a valorous group of New Jerseyans: six war heroes plus two individuals who distinguished themselves in service to the Turnpike.

A little research revealed that most if not all of the plaques were once affixed to Turnpike bridges that were named for each of the honorees, as noted on the brass map. Each bridge is nearest the pike gets to the honoree's hometown, more or less.

Given the history of the Turnpike, it's entirely fitting that several bridges are named for those who died during wartime. The highway was constructed not long after the conclusion of World War II, and several of its executives and employees were veterans.

• The Wallberg-Lovely Bridge crossing the Rahway River above Exit 12 is dedicated to the first two New Jerseyans to die in World War I. Martin Wallberg of Westfield was a Private with the Canadian Expeditionary Forces when he died on November 10, 1917, while Private Luke Lovely of South Amboy died 20 days later, while serving with the American forces.
• The Lewandowski Bridge is named for three brothers from Lyndhurst - Army Private Alexander, Marine Sergeant Walter and Air Force Lieutenant William - who perished within 18 months of each other during World War II. Their bridge is better known as the Eastern Spur, which soars over the Meadowlands, hugging Laurel Hill.
• The Chaplain Washington Bridge honors Rev. John Washington of Newark, one of four heroic chaplains who gave their own life jackets to sailors during the sinking of the Troopship Dorchester during World War II. His bridge spans the Passaic River north of Exit 14.
• An additional bridge honors Marine Sergeant and Medal of Honor winner John Basilone of Raritan, yet it's not represented at the Hamilton Service Area. Basilone's bridge spans the Raritan River north of New Brunswick.*  

Two more bridges honor civilians:

• The Laderman Bridge crosses the Hackensack and honors toll collector Harry Laderman of Fair Lawn. The first Turnpike employee to die on the job, Laderman was killed when a truck rammed his booth. His death also spurred the Turnpike Authority to protect the booths with cement blocks to prevent additional accidents. 
• The Vincent Casciano Bridge recognizes the State Assemblyman from Bayonne who advocated the construction of the Newark Bay Extension. Linking the Turnpike to the Holland Tunnel, the Extension was designed to ease congestion on the Pulaski Skyway. Appropriately, his bridge is the cantilever structure on the Extension over Newark Bay.

There are a few ironies attached to these plaques and their original placement. For safety reasons, the Turnpike was designed to create as few distractions to the motorist as possible. It's utilitarian, curves are virtually non-existent on the main road, and elevations are generally gradual to reduce the need for acceleration. Bridges were expressly designed to be virtually undetectable to the motorist - consider that a good percentage of the Eastern Spur is elevated, but just about nobody would equate it to the nearby Pulaski Skyway. If you define a bridge by the metalwork or wire rope seen on the George Washington or Goethals, you could say the Turnpike has precious few bridges. And if people did consider the bridges at all, they wouldn't have time to read a commemorative plaque at highway speed.

So, perhaps it's a good thing those plaques are posted at Alexander Hamilton, where motorists can pause for a few moments to appreciate the honorees. Now if the Turnpike would just put more effort into sprucing up the markers that memorialize the folks the service areas are named for...


* I later discovered a similar plaque for the Basilone bridge at the nearby Joyce Kilmer Service Area.

Want fries with that treaty? World War I ends in Somerville.

The Somerville Circle has long been known for historically challenging traffic, where wars have nearly broken out over proper rights of way and who should yield to whom. Even since it was improved with a flyover bridge for Route 202, I'm sure it's been the site of more than one fender-bending conflict that's had to be resolved with police intervention.

Not far away, the actual World War I ended for the United States.

In 1921. Yup. Fighting ended and the armistice was signed in 1918, but the U.S. didn't formally end hostilities with Germany and Austria-Hungary for almost another three years. And it happened in Raritan, not far from where you can now pick up some tasty onion rings and a 60 inch plasma TV.

Politics played a huge role in the delay, and for the sake of simplicity, I'm only hitting the points relevant to our story. Despite President Woodrow Wilson's active support, the U.S. Senate twice refused to ratify the Treaty of Versailles which had effectively ended the war in Europe. At stake was the nation's participation in the League of Nations, which, as you might remember, was Wilson's baby and the proposed international body that would prevent future wars. The League concept was unpopular with voters, yet the establishment of peace was tied up in Wilson's dream that the US would take a key role in the organization.

Wilson completed his second term in early 1921, succeeded by Warren G. Harding, former Senator from Ohio who had opposed the treaty and the League. With the unresolved business of Germany and Austria-Hungary on the table, the new president implored Congress to deliver a resolution for peace that would not commit the U.S. to membership in the League. Long story short, Senator Philander Knox and Representative Stephen Porter introduced resolutions in their respective houses of Congress, both passed and were reconciled, and the document was ready for Harding's signature on July 2.

Thing was, Harding wasn't in Washington. He was in Raritan, playing golf with Senator John Frelinghuysen at the country club near the Senator's estate. According to tradition, when the papers arrived from the Capitol, Harding left the course just long enough to sign the resolution, a brief interruption to his game. The Frelinghuysen family later commemorated the event with an oil painting of the scene, plus a plaque to mark the site within the house.

Unfortunately the house is no longer there, a victim to what's loosely termed as progress. The Frelinghuysens left their estate in 1927, realizing that the traffic on Route 28 and 202 would only increase over time. It was a good move: not long after they left, the state built the Somerville Circle practically in their old front yard. The house sat vacant for nearly 20 years before being sold, and it burned to the ground sometime in the 1950s.

The only remnants of the Frelinghuysens' time on the Easton Turnpike (Route 28) are two stone columns flanking a commemorative plaque. Nicely landscaped, they're a bit of an anomaly compared to the broad expanse of parking lot and the P.C. Richards and Burger King that now occupy the property. Haggle all you want with the salesguy at the appliance store; it'll still be easier than ending the War to End All Wars.

Sabotage and bravery at Lyndhurst: the 1917 Kingsland explosion

One of the best pieces of exploring advice I ever got was to stop and turn around once in a while. The idea was that while you'd seen where you'd been, it was from one direction. Reversing course occasionally will give you a whole new perspective.

I was reminded of this advice on a recent roam around the Meadowlands. After finding DeKorte Park was closed, I headed back toward Route 3, making a quick detour down Clay Avenue in Lyndhurst to check one of Ivan's little birding spots. There's a small marshy pond amid the office buildings and warehouses, with some of the usual detritus you expect in an area that's gone between natural and industrialized (and sometimes even dumped on) over the past two centuries. While it rarely seems to produce much in terms of avian life, I was in the area, so what the heck.

Usually we approach from the north and pull into an adjoining parking lot. This time I was coming from the south and found something I hadn't noticed before. Next to the small viewing platform was a plaque on a rock, or as it's known to us, potential Hidden New Jersey gold. Even better, there was lots of text on it, and a line drawing of a woman. Was she the person who'd fought for the preservation of this little oasis of wetland among the macadam and brick?

No, she wasn't, but as it turns out, she'd preserved much more than that. Tessie McNamara was the heroine of the 1917 Kingsland Explosion, and our little bird spot was once the site of the Canadian Car and Foundry munitions plant. As the plaque tells it, Tessie was the company's first female employee and the plant's switchboard operator. When a fire broke out in the factory on January 11, 1917, the 25 year old bravely stayed on duty, alerting employees in all 40 buildings in the complex as well as the fire and police departments. "My first thought was to save the lives of the 1700 men in the buildings," the plaque quotes her as saying. "While making my calls, the first shell struck the building and passed about five feet from where I was sitting. About a dozen buildings were now on fire, and I had completed all calls. I started to leave the building without a coat, but I couldn't walk. My courage left me and the arriving firemen picked me up, wrapped a big coat around me and rushed for the gate."

What the plaque doesn't say is that the Kingsland Explosion was most likely an act of sabotage perpetrated by German spies. The United States hadn't yet entered World War I but was, nonetheless, supplying munitions to Great Britain and Russia. Canadian Car and Foundry produced 3 million shells per month, making it a suitable target. Security was tight, so to get entry into the factory without raising suspicion, the saboteurs got jobs with the company and planned to make damage with materials they could find within the building. It wasn't exactly a difficult task, it seems: the manufacturing process used either alcohol or gasoline to clean out the shells, so several workers had flammable liquids at their workbenches.

During the incident investigation, witnesses noted that the blaze had started at the workstation of one employee who'd seemed especially nervous that day. He reportedly had more that the customary number of cleaning rags and had spilled his pan of alcohol just before the fire broke out. Before the authorities could question him, however, he disappeared.

Just above the center of this photo, you can see
a smokestack, the last visible portion of the factory.

Whatever the cause, the fire completely destroyed the 40-acre factory complex and damaged several houses up the hill, with an estimated half-million shells exploding like fireworks over a four hour period. Like the Black Tom Wharf explosion in Jersey City six months earlier, the Kingsland conflagration was a stunning sight to those in the skyscrapers of Manhattan ten miles away. It's also said that patients in the asylum on Snake Hill were deeply disturbed by the explosions, thinking them to be a sign of the end of the world.

Today, very little is left of the Canadian Car and Foundry complex -- just a portion of a smokestack sticking out of the marshy pond. Mallards and coots swam past it on my latest visit, unaware of the site's violent past. As for Tessie McNamara, she was the Captain Sully Sullenberger of her day, thrust into the public consciousness for using her vocational skills to save others. She gained momentary fame as newspapers around the country hailed her heroism and levelheadedness. The National Special Aid Society, an emergency preparedness organization founded on the eve of World War I also gave her a monetary award. Preferring a quiet life, she quickly shunned the spotlight and presumably found another office job. She later moved from Lyndhurst to East Rutherford, where she died in 1971. I wonder if she ever returned to the scene of her heroism.