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.

Contemplating tumult in American history: the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and Vietnam Era Educational Center

If you've driven past the Garden State Arts Center, you've most likely missed a huge opportunity to learn more about one of the most tumultuous periods in American history. You'll see small signs pointing toward the New Jersey Vietnam Veterans Memorial, but the markers do very little to alert passers-by about the impact of the place they could choose to visit.

Admittedly, I was one of those people until fairly recently. Having visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., I expected the New Jersey version to be similar, just smaller. However, what I found was much more: both a memorial and a museum that explains the Vietnam War and its lasting impact on American society.

Located steps away from the memorial, the Vietnam Era Museum and Educational Center is the country's only such facility, and when you think about it, it's something that's sorely needed. With the passage of time, the war and its impact have evolved from political hot buttons to subjects in history classes, and the brothers and sons who served and survived have aged to become grandfathers and uncles. Thankfully, veterans are treated with greater respect now, but it's still important that people continue to understand the complexity of war and the range of challenges it poses to the nation and society.

The museum's layout is simple yet effective. The main exhibit area is a large, circular room, ringed with a timeline that explains the history of Vietnam, crucial events during the war, U.S. involvement, and what was going on 'back home,' from popular culture to protest. An inner ring brings the story from history to personal experience: actual letters from soldiers and loved ones often poignantly reveal the pain of separation and the alternately mundane and terrifying aspects of war. Scattered among the letters are service medals, childrens' drawings and a shockingly pragmatic telegram notifying family of a soldier's death and the shipping process for his remains.

The center of the room has the potential to make the biggest impact on visitors. It's the testimony theater, where speakers share the impact the Vietnam War had on their lives. Whether a veteran, a war protester, or perhaps the family member of a soldier who died in the war, each offers intensely personal perspectives on abstract concepts of loss, experience or opposition.

Unfortunately, no testimonies were scheduled for the day of my visit, but I was fortunate to get a tour of the outdoor memorial from volunteer guide Dan O'Leary. While the memorial is open 24 hours a day, it's well worth going when the museum is open and Dan or one of his fellow veterans can share their own wartime experiences.

Designed by Vietnam refugee and naturalized American citizen Hien Nguyen, the memorial is rich in symbolism. As we walked toward the memorial, Dan explained that the lighting fixtures along the path were spaced at the same intervals as soldiers walked when they moved through the jungle. By allowing several steps distance in front and behind, they'd avoid mass casualties if the lead soldier set off a booby trap by disturbing a trip wire strung across the path.

Visitors enter the memorial itself through one of two concrete tunnels shaped like bunkers, representing the transition from home, or 'the world,' to 'in country' (the theater of war in Vietnam). Once inside, you're at the lowest part of a large bowl carved into the terrain, with the state tree, a red oak, in the center. A dramatic sculpture stands nearby, featuring a nine-foot tall statue of a soldier standing over another of a nurse who's tending to an injured GI. Each is a different ethnicity, reflecting the backgrounds of the Americans who served in the war. Two ramps leading upward toward the surrounding walls are meant to represent DNA, the strands of life.

The New Jersey memorial lists 1562 state residents by the day of the year on which he (or in one case, she) was killed or listed as missing in action during the war. Of the 366 panels that circle the inside of the memorial, only a few are blank, leading me to think about the randomness of death during wartime. During a war in which U.S. involvement was so lengthy, why were some days 'lucky' while others were not? And being able to see dates of loss gives visitors a chance to make a personal connection even if they didn't know anyone who was killed in the war or who lost a loved one there. On a birth date, or a wedding anniversary, while you were celebrating, had someone else made the ultimate sacrifice?

On the walk from the museum to the memorial, Dan pointed out other poignant features of the grounds, too. An inviting, shaded meditation garden is dedicated to all women veterans of the Vietnam War and offers a quiet place to contemplate. Another area features a statue memorializing dogs who serve with the troops in all wars, past, present and future.

More than 9000 students visit the memorial and museum every year to learn more about the Vietnam era, and if their experience is anything like mine, they come out enriched from the experience. Even if you're old enough to remember the war and the tumult of protest in the U.S., it's well worth getting off the Parkway and spending an hour to learn more and contemplate the sacrifice of our fellow New Jerseyans.

The hidden Parkway exit

Travel along the Garden State Parkway, and you'll see a number of outlets that look like exits but aren't. Usually, they're at the far ends of rest areas or on the side of the road adjoining a neighborhood, and they have big warning signs that promise huge fines, several thousand points on the transgressor's drivers license, and certain death. (Okay, I'm exaggerating about the points and kidding about the death part, though the insurance surcharge from the points would likely bring about a fatal heart attack.) They're generally there so that the State Police and emergency vehicles can easily move between the highway and local streets when the road is congested or otherwise difficult to access.

I know of one un-numbered exit that's totally legal. If you find it, you can drive right through it and onto local roads.

I promised I wouldn't divulge the exact location, but it's accessible from one of the southern rest areas. Ivan showed me once, when we were on a birding expedition. If memory serves, there's even a traffic light at the end of the access road. And there's no toll booth. That should give you a hint to its whereabouts, because if it was anyplace really popular, you can be sure the Highway Authority would be collecting its share of revenue from it.

Any idea where it is?

First football, then the constitution, all on College Ave.

Today marks the 142nd anniversary of the first intercollegiate football game between Rutgers and Princeton, played in New Brunswick. As any college football aficionado or proud son or daughter of Rutgers knows, the men in scarlet won the game six goals to four.

But did you know that the game was played at the same location where New Jersey's 1947 state constitution was drafted? And it's the same place the Scarlet Knights' mens basketball team played its home games en route to its storied 1975-76 NCAA Final Four appearance? That's some lucky real estate there, though some may have argument with the constitution.

Many Rutgers students pass the College Avenue Gym without ever realizing the history lurking within and beneath the building. There's a plaque by the front door, memorializing the constitutional convention, but the football connection is missing. Indeed, fans going to present day games couldn't be faulted for thinking the first game was held at the current stadium in Piscataway, given the bronze statue at the north entrance and the large "BIRTHPLACE OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL" painted on the wall inside.

The historic November 6, 1869 game was played in much humbler surroundings, but student spirit was just as intense as it is today. Few know it, but the rivalry between the two New Jersey schools had been fueled by a dispute over who owned a particular Revolutionary War cannon, but that's a story for another day. That, plus a drubbing of the Rutgers baseball team by the Princeton nine, led to the first football game. About 100 spectators came to see the two teams of 25 men playing a game closer to soccer than today's football. Three games were to be played over the course of a few weeks, but only two were held. Seems that the faculties of both schools were concerned that athletic pursuits were getting in the way of academics. Imagine that!

The Barn, as the gym is known, was built in 1931 to replace the fire-ravaged Ballantine Gym which had been located near present day Zimmerli Gallery. While the mens' and womens' basketball teams now play at the Rutgers Athletic Center across the river, the Barn still hosts volleyball and wrestling matches. One wonders if the ghosts of 1869 ever come out to cheer for them. Perhaps when Princeton visits.

With this many spoons, there should be plenty of ice cream

Did you know that Paterson is home to the world's largest collection of spoons?

You read that right: the world's largest assembly of collectible spoons is housed in Paterson. I know! I had no idea, either, until Ivan and I visited Lambert Castle on Garret Mountain. We were there to check out the Civil War exhibit and while orienting us, the front desk volunteer happened to mention it. How could I have not known about this?

Just a small bit of the world's largest
spoon collection

How does the world's largest collection of spoons end up in Paterson? Pretty simple -- its original owner, Bertha Schaefer Koempel, started the hobby during her childhood in the city. Born in 1882, she'd amassed more than 5400 spoons (and a few matching forks) before she died in 1966. Friends and family members would give her souvenir spoons from their travels, and she knew some well-traveled folks. By the time she died, every state in the Union was represented in the collection, as well as a majority of of the world's nations.

Definitely nothing like the cheesy tin commemorative utensils I remember seeing at souvenir stands in my youth, these spoons are amazingly detailed and beautiful in their own right. Most of those on display right now are lovely silver with nice designs and paintings on them, representing local scenes or noted personalities. Some are even enameled in jewel tones. Others have interesting add-ons like the mummy 'entombed' in a compartment in an Egyptian spoon.

Mrs. Koempel donated the spoons to the Passaic County Historical Society in 1967, and with the exception of a few years during Lambert Castle's renovation, they've been on display there ever since. Only about 250 of the spoons are out at any given time, but the museum plans to rotate the collection occasionally so that all are eventually available for public viewing.

Solving a Revolutionary mystery in Cranford

This weekend we took our own sage advice and visited Morristown National Historical Park, not just for the reading of the Declaration of Independence, but for a chat with the Revolutionary War soldier who fought with the Second New Jersey Regiment at the Battles of Connecticut Farms and Springfield. I was thoroughly impressed by the discussion - though challenged to speak as if it were July 1780 - and had the chance to get a few small but important questions answered.

For one, I've long been curious about markers like this one in Sperry Park in Cranford:

I knew, of course, that Washington's troops wintered in Morristown in 1779-80, but what were these others doing in Cranford? With the arrival of the army in Jockey Hollow, Morristown had become one of the most populated (if not the most) areas in the States, so was it that there wasn't room for Irvine's men? Why in heck were they stationed on the Rahway River, roughly 20 miles southeast of Washington's headquarters? Naturally, I couldn't tell the reenactor about the monument in the park; instead I had to tell him there had been troops in Crane's Ford recently, but I didn't know why.

The reason for the encampment becomes clear when you look at a map, particularly the hand-drawn one the reenactor had helpfully drawn of the area around Springfield, Union and points east. The British were stationed in Staten Island and made regular forays into New Jersey for food and other supplies, along with the occasional thwarted attempt to kidnap Washington. Troops like Irvine's (possibly the Second Pennsylvania, which he'd led at the Battle of Monmouth in '78) were stationed at various points between New York and Morristown to stop the Brits from coming any farther inland. Besides being defensive mechanisms, these troops also served as an early warning system, letting Washington and his subordinates know about enemy troop movements.

No doubt, the Continentals established dozens of these camps near the logical entry points from New York, meaning that there could be an equal number of small memorials around like the one in the picture above. So many of us in New Jersey could be living and working on top of former Revolutionary War camps without even realizing it. Perhaps blood was not shed there, but each of these spots played a strategic role in protecting Washington, his army and the people of New Jersey from raids and worse. I, for one, am going to open my eyes a bit wider and keep an eye out for them, and I'd love to get a list going. Do you know of any memorials like these anywhere else in the state?

Fall for America's industrial history in Paterson

Another ‘hidden in plain sight’ New Jersey notable is America’s first planned industrial community. Combine one of the state’s grittiest cities with the second largest waterfall in the eastern United States, and you’ve got a fascinating story with roots in the American Revolution. We talked about it a little in an earlier post on Garret Mountain, but the city deserves a post all its own.

Alexander Hamilton first conceived the city while accompanying General George Washington through New Jersey during the war. As legend has it, the pair stopped for lunch at the base of a magnificent waterfall, where Hamilton saw the possibilities for hydropower to run machinery. Counter to Thomas Jefferson, who saw America's future as largely agrarian, Hamilton believed that the country's best chance for economic independence was through industry. If we could manufacture our own products, from our own resources, we'd have little need for imports from our former European rulers. With others who felt likewise, he was instrumental in the creation of the Society for the Establishment of Useful Manufactures, or SUM, which then built Paterson's industry starting in 1792.

Through a clever system of raceways, the Great Falls of the nearby Passaic River provided hydropower to run mills and factory turbines. Eventually, the city became home to the Colt gunworks, the Rogers Locomotive works, and a variety of textile mills. In fact, Paterson was known for a long time as Silk City due to the strength of that industry within the city. Thomas Edison located one of his Illuminating factories there, as did the Wright-Curtiss operation that built the engine for Lindbergh’s storied aircraft, the Spirit of St. Louis.

Over time, the series of water raceways was replaced by a more efficient hydroelectric plant near the falls that continues to serve the local power grid. And as suburbanization populated the area upstream of Paterson, a good portion of the Passaic's water was shunted off for other purposes. Now on most days, the Falls, while still impressive, are but a trickle of what they were over 100 years ago. Check them out after a good rain, especially after Wayne has flooded, and you’ll get a good sense of their full might.

Paterson itself continues as a gritty, working-class city, though much of the industry has left the same as it has in many US cities. A productive artists' colony now makes its home in some of the mill buildings, and there's been some effort to preserve the history that's all around. In fact, Congress voted to fund a management plan for the area, which earlier was designated a National Historical Park. With any luck, that will bring much-needed attention - and tourist dollars - to the city. There are a lot of National Park geeks who would visit a phone booth in a remote corner of Nebraska if it were on the Parks list (I should know… I’m one of them.).

It's really pretty astounding that Paterson hasn't gotten more attention, given its location, Hamilton's involvement, and the impact of its founding on America's economic history. Perhaps the industrial aspect was what held it back as a tourist attraction: how many people make it a point to visit gritty, working-class cities? In an upwardly-mobile, striving culture like ours, how many people want to be reminded that there are people still pushing their way up the ladder? Paterson has long been home to recent immigrants -- people who don't necessarily speak the language, and have different traditions. We all know how that makes some people nervous. Most of all, though, I think people just don't know it's there.

There's a great little welcome center near the Falls, and when I visited, I was welcomed by a city resident who was a wealth of information. He spent about an hour with me, outlining history of Paterson's founding, interesting facts about Alexander Hamilton (i.e. had things gone differently, he might have been our first African American president. Yes, you read that right. His mom was Creole.), the best local restaurants, and American traditions that have their roots in the city. It’s amazing what you can find out, just by running into the right person.

The history and romance of Newark Airport (yes, you read that right)

For some cockeyed reason, I still enjoy flying. Even when I'm crammed in like a sardine on one of those huge buses with wings, the little kid in me can't help but grin when I look down from the skies and see the earth in miniature. Taxi-ing around the tarmac, I'm drawn to the most mundane inner workings of a busy airport. I wonder whether those guys who guide the planes to the jetways get a secret thrill at edging huge aircraft into their parking spots just minutes after they've crossed the continent or the Atlantic.

That's not to say I enjoy the process of getting to the plane, or dealing with nasty people or any of that. I love the concept of flight, and the romance of it. When I can block out the garbage, I can mentally drift away to a time and place when air travel was still kind of exotic and people wore nice clothes to get on the plane. Don't get me started about prop planes -- make me climb up into the cabin on a drop-down staircase, and I know I'm itching for an adventure.Despite myself, I get nostalgic at some of the older airports. Lindbergh Field (a.k.a. SAN, San Diego) looks nothing like its past but was the home field, of sorts, to the Spirit of St. Louis. The couple of times I flew into Washington National (DCA, now Reagan) I half expected to see Jimmy Stewart as Mr. Smith, striding purposefully down the corridor.

Now, Newark (EWR) that was a glamorous airport. Once the East Coast terminus of the Air Mail, it was the busiest landing strip in the United States for a time in the late '20s and early '30s. It eventually had a beautiful WPA-style terminal and administration building with an observation deck where you could watch the planes take off and land. And it was a regular stop for the pioneers of aviation as they traveled to other places. Names of fallen flyers like Earhart and Post are memorialized by some of the access roads within the airport fences.

Needless to say, the airport's gotten a lot bigger over the years, and virtually all of the vestiges of its early glory have been obscured. Unless you know where to look, that is. Nestled in the north corner of the airport, not far from Route 1, that 1930's style terminal still stands, having been moved from its original spot and restored to most of its former glory. It now houses the Port Authority Police and some other security, but interestingly enough, it's still open to visitation. Step inside, and marvel at the art deco style architecture and trim that brings the early age of passenger flight to life. You can very easily imagine checking in for your flight and then walking directly outside to the moveable stairs to your airplane.

And, there's more. Years ago, as my plane taxied to its gate at Terminal A, I gazed down at the tarmac to see the word LINDY in bold yellow letters outlined in black. Charles Lindbergh had taken off and landed at Newark many times, so I assumed that history-minded airport workers had painted his name on the pavement. For whatever reason, perhaps the tradition still persists. In airport parlance, these markers are known as hard stops.

What I never noticed was the other tribute. If you take a close look at this photo, pulling the image up so you can see what's beyond the bottom edge of the original frame, you'll see two lighter strips of pavement, with planes parked on them. On the right one, you'll see "LINDY," clear as day; another is obscured by the plane parked above it. On the left, you'll see the name "AMELIA" painted twice, for Amelia Earhart. While her aviation skills are still in dispute, it's pretty neat to think that someone's keeping the faith.

Ellis Island: The Jersey side (no fooling!)

Though Ellis Island is right in the middle of New York Harbor and hosts more than two million visitors a year, it qualifies as a hidden New Jersey story.

That's not an April Fools joke -- the Island of Hope and Tears has a legitimate Garden State connection. Few people know that Ellis Island is in two states: New York and New Jersey.

Both Ellis Island and Liberty Island are on the New Jersey side of the state boundary that tracks down the Hudson River and through New York Harbor. Way back in 1834, the states entered into a compact that put the islands under New York jurisdiction, and both states agreed that the surrounding waters were New Jersey territory. In any case, the islands are federal property and were hosts to forts defending the harbor before becoming home to the Statue of Liberty and the immigration station.

Over the years, as immigration boomed and more space was needed for medical facilities to handle thousands of sick newcomers, the US government enlarged Ellis Island and built more than 30 buildings there. What was once about 3.5 acres became 27.5, consisting of fill taken from Manhattan and Brooklyn during the excavation of the New York City subway system.

Not much was said about Ellis Island's provenance until the immigration station was restored and opened as a museum in 1990. In stark contrast, the many buildings on the island's south side remained in disarray, and questions came up about what would come of them. Would they be torn down in favor of new construction, perhaps a shiny new hotel or casino? Given that the island is just a half mile from Jersey City, the state of New Jersey wanted a strong voice in any decision about the island's future. And certainly, monetary issues came into play, too. As it stood, visitors paid New York sales tax on anything they bought at the souvenir stands and snack bars on Ellis and Liberty Islands. Who would get the tax revenue from any additional profit making enterprises on the island?

One of the Ellis Island hospital buildings,
on the New Jersey side of the island.

The issue was settled in the time honored American tradition: a law suit that reached the US Supreme Court. In their infinite wisdom, the Justices looked back to the 1834 compact for guidance. Noting that the states had agreed that the naturally-occurring islands were New York land in New Jersey territory, they carefully drew the state boundary to include the original land within the larger, man-made landmass we know today. While the vast majority of the immigration museum rests within the footprint of the original island, tiny bits rest within New Jersey. And more than 80 percent of the total island, including the entire south side hospital complex, is part of the Garden State.

And the status of the south side buildings? Of course, as always, we get the fixer-upper. The non-profit Save Ellis Island is working with the National Park Service to raise funds for restoration of the hospital complex, with an eye toward opening an institute on world migration and health. All of the buildings are stabilized to prevent further decay, and one, the Ferry Building, is already open for guided tours.

I'm a volunteer docent for the Park Service and SEI, so I've made more than a couple of trips to the south side of the island. I've also done dozens of tours to the Ferry Building to talk with visitors about the Ellis Island Hospital.  More on that to come...

The Wizard hidden in plain sight: Thomas Edison’s West Orange labs

Okay, this one is hidden in plain sight: new things to be seen at Thomas Edison National Historical Park in West Orange. A brief disclaimer here: Edison is one of my personal heroes, and I volunteer time at the labs a few times a month.  That’s why I brought Ivan there for a look-see, even though there’s not a birding component to the destination.

If you grew up in New Jersey, you probably took a school trip to see Edison’s library, storeroom and machine shop, and then maybe his chemistry lab. Now, all three floors of Edison’s main laboratory building are accessible to visitors for the first time in the park’s history, thanks to a six-year restoration project that was completed in October 2009.

Edison called the multi-building complex his invention factory, and it’s the successor to his Menlo Park lab, where he perfected the lightbulb. Opened in 1887, it was the world’s first state-of-the art corporate research and development laboratory, and operated till his death in 1931. The concept was simple: rather than working alone, the boss would come up with an idea and then assemble a team of experimenters to work on it, providing the tools and materials needed for the job. About half of Edison’s 1093 inventions came out of the West Orange lab, showing just what you could do with smart people and the right resources.

While the first floor offers the grand library and a storeroom that held a dizzying array of raw materials, the second and third floors give you a whole new perspective on the man and the business of inventing. Check out the sparse Room 12, Edison’s private thinking area and chemistry lab. Across the hall there’s a drafting room where workers drew plans of the machines that would mass produce inventions for market. Upstairs, the photography studio and darkroom show another part of Edison’s genius: he was one of the first to recognize the importance of images in marketing and advertising, even going as far as trademarking his signature and portrait.

If you’re a music fan, you can’t miss the highlight of the third floor: the world’s first recording studio. Edison’s favorite invention (and the one that worked on the first try!) was the phonograph, and a chronological exhibit shows its development over time. You’ll probably be surprised by the lack of acoustical material in the studio, but the equipment was so basic at the time that it didn’t really make a difference. Park Rangers and volunteers demonstrate the technology twice a day, showing kids how their great-grandparents listened to music way before the advent of the iPod.

We didn’t make the trip on the day I brought Ivan, but visitors can also get tickets to visit Edison’s home, Glenmont, just a mile or so away. The grand Queen Anne mansion is open only by guided tour, and if you time your visit well, your guide might actually be me! More on that to come.

(Incidentally, if you're on Twitter, you can follow the park at ThomasEdisonNHP .  Besides posts on breaking events, they're posting daily Tweets echoing activities in Edison's life in 1911.  And one of my fellow volunteers works closely with the curators and keeps a fascinating blog on Edison artifacts and marginalia. Talk about Hidden New Jersey!)