After a recent trip to Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge, we turned westward on county roads in the hopes of finding something interesting. We soon noticed a prevalence of street signs with German names: Bremen, Cologne, Frankfurt and more, plus Havana thrown in for some reason.
We'd stumbled upon Egg Harbor City, a harbor city that lacks a waterway. Not to be confused with Egg Harbor Township a few miles to the southeast, this community owes its existence to two signature mid-19th century trends: railroad expansion and nativism.
Chartered in 1852, the Camden and Atlantic Railroad had been built from Philadelphia to the coast to transport visitors to the planned resort destination of Atlantic City. The new railroad's board, however, realized that traffic on the new route would be highly seasonal, as there wasn't much else on the shore to attract city dwellers, or anyone else, for that matter. Between the terminal points of the railroad were wide expanses of sparsely-populated land that wouldn't yield passengers, either.
At the same time, German immigrants were facing mounting discrimination, personified by rapidly growing nativist organizations like the Know-Nothing Party. Subject to random and increasing violence in cities around the country, many sought places where they could live peacefully and live the American dream so many of them had traveled here to enjoy. They'd escaped tyranny in their home country only to find further oppression when they arrived here.
Several wealthy German-Americans were on the first train sent from Philadelphia to Atlantic City on the Camden and Atlantic, and the trip through virtually untouched woods and countryside must have inspired them. They soon formed the Gloucester Town and Farm Association to purchase almost 40,000 acres of the land they'd traveled across. First planning two cities, they eventually settled on building one community consisting of an urban core surrounded by farmland.
Marketing the new town nationwide but only through German language publications and agents within predominantly German communities, the Association sold shares which represented rights to 20 acres of farmland and a building lot within the designated downtown area. A widely distributed brochure promised "a new German home in America. A refuge for all German countrymen who want to combine and enjoy American freedom with German Gemutlichkeit, sociability and happiness." (Gemutlichkeit is one of those words that doesn't really translate well; it basically means contentment and cheerfulness.) When settlers arrived, they found what must have seemed like heaven on earth: a welcoming community where they could live and raise their families in peace.
That explains the German names, but what about the harbor? Present day maps of the city give you a pretty good idea of how the best laid plans can be diverted by reality. While the founders may have envisioned that burgeoning industry would prompt the city to grow more densely outward toward its border against the Mullica River, the land between downtown and the anticipated harbor was better suited for other uses. John C. Wild soon discovered that the soil was ideal for growing grapes, attracting a host of other Germans, Italians and French immigrants experienced in wine making. In 1864, Egg Harbor City became home to Renault Winery, ushering New Jersey into a new industry which persists today. It doesn't seem likely that the bustling harbor will ever be built.
Showing posts with label railroad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label railroad. Show all posts
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
Choo choo... moo moo: the railroad at Becker Farm
A few weeks ago we were knocking around Phillipsburg when we came upon the curious sight of several weathered old train cars sitting along what looked to be an old railroad siding. We'd come upon the property of the Phillipsburg Railroad Historians, who have been working for more than 20 years to establish a rail museum for the state on land that had once been owned by the Central Railroad of New Jersey.
Among the rolling stock, we noticed a curious thing -- very narrow gauge track, some of which had been laid down, other portions of which were stacked neatly. The whole thing reminded me of the old Lionel track lengths I used in my dad's model railroad layout as a kid, only there were no rail cars of proper size to run on it.
As I later discovered, this was a case where not just a few cars, but an entire railroad is in the process of being relocated, to be enjoyed by a whole new generation. We'd found vestiges of the Centerville and Southwestern Railroad, the line that once operated on Becker Farm in Roseland.
Say "Becker Farm" to many North Jersey residents, and it conjures the image of an office park where scores of Newark businesses settled after leaving the city for suburbia. Close by Route 280, the land is home to law firms, accounting offices and other white collar businesses. You could say that cubicle farms now stand where cows once grazed.
And on that dairy farm, it seems, was a real, operating train, not for transporting freight but for fun. Farmer Eugene Becker apparently was a bit of a rail fan, and starting in 1938, he built his own miniature railroad, fashioning it after the Sussex branch of the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad on which his farm's creamery was located. He even nicknamed it "the Fresh Milk Line" and crafted a logo featuring a cow.
From 1940 until 1972, visitors to the farm could enjoy a ride on the C&S RR on weekends from early May until late October. This wasn't just a toy, though: Becker strove for authenticity, running the railroad as reliably as any full-sized operation. According to a brochure published by the family in 1955:
The C & S isn't as wide; nor as long; nor is it narrow gauge: It is a true miniature railroad, and as such, of necessity, it is operated in the same manner, as are its full size brothers. It is thought to be the only miniature railroad in the country that operates on a strict schedule; goes somewhere and comes back - not just around a loop; and runs through natural scenery, such as a trip on a full sized railroad would take you.
Visiting school groups could top off a farm tour with a ride on the railroad, and perhaps also stop by the farm stand for a cool glass of chocolate milk. Though the route was only about 7000 feet long, it had to be a real treat for rail fans, children and adults alike. Hills, curves and signalled intersections were all part of the ride, making real the fantasies of any kid who ever operated a model train set.
Like so many other great things in New Jersey, the C&S met its end with the planning of a highway. The state Department of Transportation took a large part of the Becker Farm in the construction of Route 280, denying the Beckers' request to run the Fresh Milk Line beneath the highway. Forced to reroute the track, the Beckers continued to run the railroad until 1972, when the local government changed the property's zoning from farming to commercial. Another New Jersey farm had perished, and along with it, a unique aspect of the state's railroad heritage.
Eugene Becker reportedly found a home for the railroad at the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan, but it fell into private hands ten years later, when curators decided it didn't fit the museum's mission. And, of course, we saw vestiges of it in Phillipsburg, where 1500 feet of miniature track has been laid. Unfortunately, plans for a more extensive layout were halted when the land was taken for other uses. Even if the Railroad Historians had been successful in laying a complete track bed, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to recreate the Becker Farm experience, bringing riders through pasture and countryside.
However, I'm told, if you look carefully around the Becker Farm corporate campus, you might find small remnants of the Centerville and Southwestern. A few bridges and cement abutments bear the railroad's insignia, a small reminder for those in the know that the once abundant New Jersey farms were both sources of fresh food and places for memorable experiences.
 |
| Tiny tracks, as laid out in Phillipsburg |
As I later discovered, this was a case where not just a few cars, but an entire railroad is in the process of being relocated, to be enjoyed by a whole new generation. We'd found vestiges of the Centerville and Southwestern Railroad, the line that once operated on Becker Farm in Roseland.
Say "Becker Farm" to many North Jersey residents, and it conjures the image of an office park where scores of Newark businesses settled after leaving the city for suburbia. Close by Route 280, the land is home to law firms, accounting offices and other white collar businesses. You could say that cubicle farms now stand where cows once grazed.
And on that dairy farm, it seems, was a real, operating train, not for transporting freight but for fun. Farmer Eugene Becker apparently was a bit of a rail fan, and starting in 1938, he built his own miniature railroad, fashioning it after the Sussex branch of the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad on which his farm's creamery was located. He even nicknamed it "the Fresh Milk Line" and crafted a logo featuring a cow.
From 1940 until 1972, visitors to the farm could enjoy a ride on the C&S RR on weekends from early May until late October. This wasn't just a toy, though: Becker strove for authenticity, running the railroad as reliably as any full-sized operation. According to a brochure published by the family in 1955:
The C & S isn't as wide; nor as long; nor is it narrow gauge: It is a true miniature railroad, and as such, of necessity, it is operated in the same manner, as are its full size brothers. It is thought to be the only miniature railroad in the country that operates on a strict schedule; goes somewhere and comes back - not just around a loop; and runs through natural scenery, such as a trip on a full sized railroad would take you.
Visiting school groups could top off a farm tour with a ride on the railroad, and perhaps also stop by the farm stand for a cool glass of chocolate milk. Though the route was only about 7000 feet long, it had to be a real treat for rail fans, children and adults alike. Hills, curves and signalled intersections were all part of the ride, making real the fantasies of any kid who ever operated a model train set.
Like so many other great things in New Jersey, the C&S met its end with the planning of a highway. The state Department of Transportation took a large part of the Becker Farm in the construction of Route 280, denying the Beckers' request to run the Fresh Milk Line beneath the highway. Forced to reroute the track, the Beckers continued to run the railroad until 1972, when the local government changed the property's zoning from farming to commercial. Another New Jersey farm had perished, and along with it, a unique aspect of the state's railroad heritage.
Eugene Becker reportedly found a home for the railroad at the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan, but it fell into private hands ten years later, when curators decided it didn't fit the museum's mission. And, of course, we saw vestiges of it in Phillipsburg, where 1500 feet of miniature track has been laid. Unfortunately, plans for a more extensive layout were halted when the land was taken for other uses. Even if the Railroad Historians had been successful in laying a complete track bed, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to recreate the Becker Farm experience, bringing riders through pasture and countryside.
However, I'm told, if you look carefully around the Becker Farm corporate campus, you might find small remnants of the Centerville and Southwestern. A few bridges and cement abutments bear the railroad's insignia, a small reminder for those in the know that the once abundant New Jersey farms were both sources of fresh food and places for memorable experiences.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Ghosts of Turnpike service areas, silent on the Newark Bay Extension
Drive eastbound on the Turnpike's Newark Bay extension, and as you approach Exit 14B for Liberty State Park, you might notice the road widens somewhat briefly on both sides. It's almost as if the road's a big snake that's swallowed a mouse but hasn't yet digested it. In recent years, the widenings have been filled with construction equipment and materials for the construction work being done on the Vincent Casciano Bridge over Newark Bay. Every time I pass them, I get this nagging feeling that the spots were once small service areas many, many years ago.
Turns out they were.
Details are rather scant, but it seems that the pair were named for John Stevens (eastbound) and Peter Stuyvesant (westbound), two personalities with connections to the Hudson County area.
Stevens, of course, is the name of a notable early New Jersey family with roots in Perth Amboy. The first famous John Stevens was born in 1715 and served in the Continental Congress. His son John was as an officer in the Continental Army and later did duty as state treasurer. The younger man's greater fame, however, came through his contributions to transportation, particularly using steam power. His craft Phoenix became the first steamship to sail the open ocean when it traveled from Hoboken to Philadelphia in 1809. More famously, he established the first steam ferry service between Hoboken and New York City in 1811.
A few years later, Stevens and several partners were awarded the nation's first railroad charter, establishing the New Jersey Railroad. Predictably, he experimented with steam-driven trains at his Castle Point estate in Hoboken. After his death, the property passed to his son Edwin, who later bequeathed the land and a million dollars for establishment of an institution of learning, now Stevens Institute of Technology.
Peter Stuyvesant, well, he's probably a bit better known, but more commonly associated with New York. In the days when the Dutch West Indies Company ran Manhattan and surrounding areas as a business, Stuyvesant was sent to essentially clean house as director general of New Netherlands. His immediate predecessors had both mismanaged the colony and turned a blind eye toward some rather, well, permissive behavior.
Stuyvesant's tenure was a mixed bag. On the positive side, he negotiated disputes with the Lenape, fostered education and is credited with many reforms that encouraged a more family-oriented environment in the colony. Unfortunately, he also squelched religious freedom in a community that had long advocated tolerance; his actions against houses of worship other than the Dutch Reformed Church were ultimately rescinded by Dutch West Indies Company directors.
I was a bit confused as to why he warranted a Turnpike service area, until I read that he opened the land west of Manhattan for settlement. Some consider him to be a founder of Jersey City, crediting him with overseeing the formation of the village of Bergen, now the location of the city's Bergen Square.
Back on the Turnpike, the Stevens and Stuyvesant service areas were closed in the early 1970s. I haven't uncovered a reason why, but I'd conjecture that they were either too small or too disruptive to the flow of traffic rushing toward or from the Holland Tunnel. Drivers can get their last (or first) taste of lower-priced New Jersey gasoline closer to the Tunnel, so perhaps the Turnpike options were priced out of existence in during the oil crisis of 1973. Your guess is as good as mine.
Turns out they were.
Details are rather scant, but it seems that the pair were named for John Stevens (eastbound) and Peter Stuyvesant (westbound), two personalities with connections to the Hudson County area.
Stevens, of course, is the name of a notable early New Jersey family with roots in Perth Amboy. The first famous John Stevens was born in 1715 and served in the Continental Congress. His son John was as an officer in the Continental Army and later did duty as state treasurer. The younger man's greater fame, however, came through his contributions to transportation, particularly using steam power. His craft Phoenix became the first steamship to sail the open ocean when it traveled from Hoboken to Philadelphia in 1809. More famously, he established the first steam ferry service between Hoboken and New York City in 1811.
A few years later, Stevens and several partners were awarded the nation's first railroad charter, establishing the New Jersey Railroad. Predictably, he experimented with steam-driven trains at his Castle Point estate in Hoboken. After his death, the property passed to his son Edwin, who later bequeathed the land and a million dollars for establishment of an institution of learning, now Stevens Institute of Technology.
Peter Stuyvesant, well, he's probably a bit better known, but more commonly associated with New York. In the days when the Dutch West Indies Company ran Manhattan and surrounding areas as a business, Stuyvesant was sent to essentially clean house as director general of New Netherlands. His immediate predecessors had both mismanaged the colony and turned a blind eye toward some rather, well, permissive behavior.
Stuyvesant's tenure was a mixed bag. On the positive side, he negotiated disputes with the Lenape, fostered education and is credited with many reforms that encouraged a more family-oriented environment in the colony. Unfortunately, he also squelched religious freedom in a community that had long advocated tolerance; his actions against houses of worship other than the Dutch Reformed Church were ultimately rescinded by Dutch West Indies Company directors.
I was a bit confused as to why he warranted a Turnpike service area, until I read that he opened the land west of Manhattan for settlement. Some consider him to be a founder of Jersey City, crediting him with overseeing the formation of the village of Bergen, now the location of the city's Bergen Square.
Back on the Turnpike, the Stevens and Stuyvesant service areas were closed in the early 1970s. I haven't uncovered a reason why, but I'd conjecture that they were either too small or too disruptive to the flow of traffic rushing toward or from the Holland Tunnel. Drivers can get their last (or first) taste of lower-priced New Jersey gasoline closer to the Tunnel, so perhaps the Turnpike options were priced out of existence in during the oil crisis of 1973. Your guess is as good as mine.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Edison and the electric railroad
Today marks the 166th anniversary of the birth of Thomas Edison, the Wizard of Menlo Park and the most interesting of Jersey guys. Bring a kid to the Thomas Edison State Park off Route 27 and ask him or her to name a few inventions developed on the site, and I'll bet you that "light bulb" will be the first answer. Ask the kid about the trains, and I'll bet that all you'll get is a quizzical stare.
Most people don't realize this, but Edison was one of many innovators whose work and patents influenced the electric railways we know today. In fact, he built Menlo Park's first electric train system back in 1880, long before the Pennsylvania Railroad erected the catenary wires that power the trains that now stop at the nearby Metropark Station.
Edison's connection with railroads stretches back to his childhood, when he sold sundries on the Grand Trunk lines in his native Michigan. His interest in using electricity as a power source for trains, however, seems to have come more from his desire to make electric distribution economical. With the perfection of the light bulb came the need for electricity to power it, and by extension, a distribution system to bring electricity from a central generator to the customer. Lighting would be used mostly at night, meaning that generation and distribution equipment would go mostly unused during the day.
As a canny businessman, Edison realized he needed to explore ways to balance the demand, or load, on the electrical system. Years earlier, he'd theorized that electric trains could serve well in bringing grain to market, and in fact, other innovators had already shown that battery- and dynamo-powered railroads could work at short distances. Surely he could create a more efficient system. Edison had one of his Menlo Park muckers oversee the construction of a half-mile long U-shaped track across Christie Street from the lab, capitalizing on the topography to test the locomotive's uphill pulling strength. The rails were electrified by direct current, one positive and one negatively charged.
The maiden run of the Edison railroad took place on May 13, 1880, when the Old Man himself took control of the locomotive. As Francis Jehl, one of Edison's assistants, later recalled in Menlo Park Reminiscences, many of the muckers gathered onto the bench-laden open-air passenger car to be part of the history-making trip.
Once the system was shown to work reliably, Edison put his legendary promotional skills to work to attract attention from the press. Reporters, investors and executives flocked to Menlo Park to see his latest invention, some even riding the rails themselves and getting a bit more then they bargained for. The narrow-gauged U-shaped track had been designed on an incline with sharp curves, a dangerous combination once the locomotive gained its top speed of 40 miles an hour. Add to that the natural curiosity and mischievousness of Edison and many of his muckers, and you can imagine how many accidents the little train suffered. While no one was seriously injured, Edison's personal secretary Samuel Insull later recalled that his first trip "about scared the life out of me."
Brilliant though Edison was, his railroad was yet another example of where he neglected to explore other possible applications of his ideas. He was so focused on his original concept -- moving freight -- that it took a long time before he saw the benefits of applying electric power to passenger transportation like streetcars. While we can't look on Edison as the father of the electric railway, his improvements led to several patents and innovations like an electrified third rail to power underground systems.
The tracks of Edison's Menlo Park railway are long gone, but an informative wayside display across from the Christie Street museum and memorial tower offers perspective on the events that took place there. The trucks (or wheels) of the second electric locomotive are on view on the Main Street side of the Thomas Edison National Historical Park in West Orange.
Most people don't realize this, but Edison was one of many innovators whose work and patents influenced the electric railways we know today. In fact, he built Menlo Park's first electric train system back in 1880, long before the Pennsylvania Railroad erected the catenary wires that power the trains that now stop at the nearby Metropark Station.
Edison's connection with railroads stretches back to his childhood, when he sold sundries on the Grand Trunk lines in his native Michigan. His interest in using electricity as a power source for trains, however, seems to have come more from his desire to make electric distribution economical. With the perfection of the light bulb came the need for electricity to power it, and by extension, a distribution system to bring electricity from a central generator to the customer. Lighting would be used mostly at night, meaning that generation and distribution equipment would go mostly unused during the day.
 |
| The route of Edison's Menlo Park railroad |
The maiden run of the Edison railroad took place on May 13, 1880, when the Old Man himself took control of the locomotive. As Francis Jehl, one of Edison's assistants, later recalled in Menlo Park Reminiscences, many of the muckers gathered onto the bench-laden open-air passenger car to be part of the history-making trip.
"... [A]s many of the 'boys' as could find foothold crowded on -- about twenty in all... The current was switched on, and amid cheers, hurrahs and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, the little train started up.... The locomotive picked up speed and we all glided along to the end of the line with excitement and buoyant hopes."The locomotive ran well in drive but the return trip faced some glitches. "When the order 'all aboard' was given for the return trip," Jehl recounted, "Batchelor applied the lever so violently that one of the friction wheels burst and disabled the locomotive." Edison ordered design adjustments to the transmission and the team began work anew. By the time the second run took place, the train included two additional cars to carry freight and a newly-patented braking system. The train's generator was the first of its kind to work at 90 percent efficiency.
 |
| The railroad 'right of way' in 2013, now the site of homes, lawns and woods. |
Brilliant though Edison was, his railroad was yet another example of where he neglected to explore other possible applications of his ideas. He was so focused on his original concept -- moving freight -- that it took a long time before he saw the benefits of applying electric power to passenger transportation like streetcars. While we can't look on Edison as the father of the electric railway, his improvements led to several patents and innovations like an electrified third rail to power underground systems.
The tracks of Edison's Menlo Park railway are long gone, but an informative wayside display across from the Christie Street museum and memorial tower offers perspective on the events that took place there. The trucks (or wheels) of the second electric locomotive are on view on the Main Street side of the Thomas Edison National Historical Park in West Orange.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
A white pelican in the Meadowlands? You bet!
You might recall that a few weeks ago, we were a bit surprised to see a brown pelican flying past us at Barnegat Light. They're not an extraordinarily rare sight in New Jersey, but they're not common, either, especially in January.
I thought that was pretty cool, until I heard there was a white pelican sighted in the marshes of Kearny. I'd been fortunate to see one in the Everglades last spring, and while they're occasional visitors to New Jersey, I'd missed the ones reported at Brig in the past. If there was a chance to see one, in January, no less, I was going to give it a shot.
Regular readers know that Ivan has introduced me to several interesting spots and showed me a new side of other places I thought I already knew well. That said, contributors to the online birding bulletin boards sometimes give cryptic descriptions for where they've seen interesting birds. If I'm seeking them with Ivan, no problem. If I decide to explore on my own, well, it can be an adventure.
The Kearny pelican situation was one of those times. I had the day off, Ivan didn't, so I decided to check it out on my own. The bulletin board post said the bird was observable from the abandoned railroad tracks at the edge of the marsh. Great. What tracks, and where on the tracks? Another post said the bird was seen flying over Gunnar Oval, off Schuyler Avenue. Okay, that I can work with. I headed over to check it out.
When I got to the Oval, I saw something I can only describe as a cross between Field of Dreams and The Sopranos. The parking area was fronted by a wall of phragmites marsh grass, with a barely-discernible path into the mass of tall, light tan growth. It looked as if one of two things could happen any moment: Ray Liotta could come walking out wearing a vintage White Sox uniform, or Michael Imperioli would stomp out as Christopher Moltisanti, complaining he lost a Gucci loafer in the muck.
Seriously, though: what could happen? I peered into the reeds and found nothing but more reeds, and a small inlet off to the distance. Walking in, I felt the way the birds must feel when they nestle themselves away from humans. Some trash was mixed among the muck, but mostly the path was either mud or fallen phrags. An abandoned railroad track offered up a mostly unimpeded path, but I had to stop and turn back when the ties were overcome with swamp water. Any alternate route there might have been was blocked by fallen trees. Sadly, the rest of the marsh was obscured by walls of phragmites. Obviously I was in the wrong place.
I drove up and down Belleville Turnpike to see if there was an alternative, but while you can see the marsh really clearly, the bird was nowhere to be seen. Taking the Turnpike back home, I drove above another set of tracks that just might have been the right ones, if they were at all accessible. There had to be a secret that experienced birders know that I don't.
Turned out I was really close. Another set of tracks, this one elevated and perpendicular to my set, was just a hundred or so feet away from where I'd started out, at the end of the next street. Ivan and I drove over and instantly knew we were in the right place: two cars with personalized Conserve Wildlife plates were parked in the cul-de-sac. Oh, and there was a very steep dirt trail up to an elevated railroad track.
I'm not a big fan of climbing dirt trails, and this one was especially challenging, with very few embedded rocks or tree roots to provide a foothold. As I scrambled up, I considered all the times we'd chased a notable bird, only to find nothing when we got to its reported spot. The pelican, at least, was large enough to see even if it was a distance away. Still, it had better be there, I thought to myself.
Once we were topside, we saw other birders gathered several hundred feet down the tracks, one looking through a spotting scope. This could be a good sign. Walking down the train ties, another movie came to mind: Stand By Me. It took all I had not to start singing "Lollipop, lollipop mmm lolli-lollipop..." The tracks were a straight shot across the marsh, and definitely a good place to check for aquatic birds.
And... our climb paid off. My big fear was that the pelican would be obscured by phragmites or so distant that it would look like a big white blob at the far edge of the marsh, but it couldn't have been more cooperative. Perched on a small clump of something in the water, it was easily seen through a pair of binoculars, though a spotting scope gave a nice detailed look. It shifted around a bit to give us a good view and then rose up to fly above its surroundings, giving us a nice look at the black patches on the trailing edges of its wings. As large as they are, pelicans are very graceful flyers, soaring almost effortlessly, and I kept my bins trained on our bird to marvel at its glide through the cold air. What an amazing sight, with the skyscrapers of Newark on the distant horizon behind it.
Once we got back to Hidden New Jersey base, I did some quick research to determine just how rare it is to see a white pelican in these parts in the early months of the year. New Jersey Audubon's sightings archive shows very few in the northern part of the state, and those were seen in spring and summer months. It could be that the pelicans have been regular visitors to Kearny and haven't been spotted, or this individual is an explorer checking out new territory. In any case, he's been hanging around for several days, which says a lot about the overall health of the marsh. White pelicans eat about four pounds of freshwater fish a day, and this guy appeared pretty well fed.
I thought that was pretty cool, until I heard there was a white pelican sighted in the marshes of Kearny. I'd been fortunate to see one in the Everglades last spring, and while they're occasional visitors to New Jersey, I'd missed the ones reported at Brig in the past. If there was a chance to see one, in January, no less, I was going to give it a shot.
Regular readers know that Ivan has introduced me to several interesting spots and showed me a new side of other places I thought I already knew well. That said, contributors to the online birding bulletin boards sometimes give cryptic descriptions for where they've seen interesting birds. If I'm seeking them with Ivan, no problem. If I decide to explore on my own, well, it can be an adventure.
The Kearny pelican situation was one of those times. I had the day off, Ivan didn't, so I decided to check it out on my own. The bulletin board post said the bird was observable from the abandoned railroad tracks at the edge of the marsh. Great. What tracks, and where on the tracks? Another post said the bird was seen flying over Gunnar Oval, off Schuyler Avenue. Okay, that I can work with. I headed over to check it out.
When I got to the Oval, I saw something I can only describe as a cross between Field of Dreams and The Sopranos. The parking area was fronted by a wall of phragmites marsh grass, with a barely-discernible path into the mass of tall, light tan growth. It looked as if one of two things could happen any moment: Ray Liotta could come walking out wearing a vintage White Sox uniform, or Michael Imperioli would stomp out as Christopher Moltisanti, complaining he lost a Gucci loafer in the muck.
Seriously, though: what could happen? I peered into the reeds and found nothing but more reeds, and a small inlet off to the distance. Walking in, I felt the way the birds must feel when they nestle themselves away from humans. Some trash was mixed among the muck, but mostly the path was either mud or fallen phrags. An abandoned railroad track offered up a mostly unimpeded path, but I had to stop and turn back when the ties were overcome with swamp water. Any alternate route there might have been was blocked by fallen trees. Sadly, the rest of the marsh was obscured by walls of phragmites. Obviously I was in the wrong place.
I drove up and down Belleville Turnpike to see if there was an alternative, but while you can see the marsh really clearly, the bird was nowhere to be seen. Taking the Turnpike back home, I drove above another set of tracks that just might have been the right ones, if they were at all accessible. There had to be a secret that experienced birders know that I don't.
Turned out I was really close. Another set of tracks, this one elevated and perpendicular to my set, was just a hundred or so feet away from where I'd started out, at the end of the next street. Ivan and I drove over and instantly knew we were in the right place: two cars with personalized Conserve Wildlife plates were parked in the cul-de-sac. Oh, and there was a very steep dirt trail up to an elevated railroad track.
 |
| Track across the Kearny Marsh. |
Once we were topside, we saw other birders gathered several hundred feet down the tracks, one looking through a spotting scope. This could be a good sign. Walking down the train ties, another movie came to mind: Stand By Me. It took all I had not to start singing "Lollipop, lollipop mmm lolli-lollipop..." The tracks were a straight shot across the marsh, and definitely a good place to check for aquatic birds.
And... our climb paid off. My big fear was that the pelican would be obscured by phragmites or so distant that it would look like a big white blob at the far edge of the marsh, but it couldn't have been more cooperative. Perched on a small clump of something in the water, it was easily seen through a pair of binoculars, though a spotting scope gave a nice detailed look. It shifted around a bit to give us a good view and then rose up to fly above its surroundings, giving us a nice look at the black patches on the trailing edges of its wings. As large as they are, pelicans are very graceful flyers, soaring almost effortlessly, and I kept my bins trained on our bird to marvel at its glide through the cold air. What an amazing sight, with the skyscrapers of Newark on the distant horizon behind it.
Once we got back to Hidden New Jersey base, I did some quick research to determine just how rare it is to see a white pelican in these parts in the early months of the year. New Jersey Audubon's sightings archive shows very few in the northern part of the state, and those were seen in spring and summer months. It could be that the pelicans have been regular visitors to Kearny and haven't been spotted, or this individual is an explorer checking out new territory. In any case, he's been hanging around for several days, which says a lot about the overall health of the marsh. White pelicans eat about four pounds of freshwater fish a day, and this guy appeared pretty well fed.Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Art and history below the streets of Newark
Below Newark's Raymond Boulevard and University Heights, there's a step back in time that many people outside of the city don't know is there. I recently took a few hours to check it out, and as with most of our jaunts, I found more than I expected.
I wasn't just there for the vintage stuff: there's more contemporary art to be found, too. As you enter the system at Penn Station, you're met by life-sized bronze commuters sculpted by Russian-born Jersey City artist Grigory Gurevich. A metal clerk stands inside a sizeable booth, presumably offering change for the turnstiles that once marked entry below.
My personal favorites are found sitting unobtrusively at the Branch Brook Park station. Sculptor Tom Otterness pays tribute to Mortellito with white tile representations of two of the underground murals, attended to by small brass workmen. It's a whimsical memorial to an accomplished artist whose works also graced Rockefeller Center and the 1939 World's Fair, among others.
First, I have to confess to being somewhat of a transit enthusiast. If you've read my tribute to Newark Airport's 1935 terminal, you already know I have a fondness for vintage places where you can get from point A to point B in some sort of conveyance. Newark Penn Station is another 1930's-era Art Deco masterpiece, and when I worked in the city, I loved my twice-daily walks through the heavily-used but little appreciated gem.
My first trek on the City Subway was in 2001, prompted by the impending retirement of the old 1950's era trolley-like cars in favor of 21st century light rail. NJ Transit opened the system up one night, giving free rides to all comers who wanted a last dose of nostalgia. Yup, it was me and a bunch of foamers -- do I know how to have fun on a Friday night, or what? Despite the fact that the old cars were painted in bright NJ Transit colors, the whole experience was a throwback. It wasn't hard to imagine the times when Public Service Transport operated surface trolleys, and commuters from Bloomfield and the 'Newark suburbs' counted on the City Subway to get to their jobs at New Jersey Bell or an afternoon of shopping at Bambergers.
The Newark City Subway runs on the former bed of the Morris Canal, which originally ran through the city on its route between Phillipsburg and Jersey City. Abandoned by 1924, the canal had become a mosquito-infested trough and a barrier to the flow of increasing downtown traffic. Where barges had once transported the products of Newark's factories to points west, trains would now move people underground, allowing motor traffic on the new Raymond Boulevard above. Public Service had already built an extensive transit center on Park Place, providing a convenient transfer point to trolleys and buses going virtually anywhere in the state. Subway construction began in 1929 and was completed in 1935, with an extension to Penn Station finished a few years later. Beyond the Warren Street station that serves Rutgers and NJIT, the line goes to surface, making one grade crossing and hugging the edge of Branch Brook Park before terminating at Grove Street in Bloomfield.
As was the case with many major public works during the Great Depression, WPA artists made their mark on the City Subway. The line's four underground stations are graced with tile murals created by Newark native Domenico Mortellito, who'd grown up not far from the Morris Canal. Each depicts one of his childhood memories of the waterway, except for the Penn Station murals, which portray the transformation from barge to railway, complete with steam shovels and laborers moving iron beams into place. Together, the 10 murals represent the first instance of public art used in an underground transit system. Yup... you've got it: another New Jersey first.
I wasn't just there for the vintage stuff: there's more contemporary art to be found, too. As you enter the system at Penn Station, you're met by life-sized bronze commuters sculpted by Russian-born Jersey City artist Grigory Gurevich. A metal clerk stands inside a sizeable booth, presumably offering change for the turnstiles that once marked entry below.
My personal favorites are found sitting unobtrusively at the Branch Brook Park station. Sculptor Tom Otterness pays tribute to Mortellito with white tile representations of two of the underground murals, attended to by small brass workmen. It's a whimsical memorial to an accomplished artist whose works also graced Rockefeller Center and the 1939 World's Fair, among others.
Inadvertent as it may be, NJ Transit has done a pretty good job of maintaining a vintage feel on some aspects of the underground. They've added modern signage as necessary, but they've left the old tile signs that direct riders to surface streets and other destinations. Disembark at the Military Park station, and you might see a tile pointing in the direction of the Public Service Terminal. It's been more than 30 years since that building was demolished, but the sign will still direct you toward PSE&G's headquarters location.
Oh, and one last thing: if you're going to play tourist on the City Subway, you can do it really economically. The system works on the fare ticket system, where you validate your own ticket at your entry point, rendering the ticket useful for 60 minutes. A ride from Penn Station clear out to Bloomfield takes less than half that time, so you could potentially get off at a given stop, take a quick look around the neighborhood and pop back onto the next train without having to pay another fare. As far as I can tell, it's perfectly legal.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Way too big to misplace (but we did): hunting for the Paulinskill Viaduct
Sometimes it pays to keep old stuff in the car. You never know when you'll need it.
Longtime Hidden New Jersey readers know that we count on a few key reference materials during and after our forays into the field. Ivan's got his birding manuals, and my bible, of sorts, is the WPA Guide to 1930s New Jersey. You know there's potential for a good story if you locate something that was listed in a travel guide more than 70 years ago.
That's especially true in Northwestern New Jersey, where a lot of stuff is still where it was back then. We were counting on that when we stopped near Andover-Aeroflex Airport the other day to get our bearings. While Ivan did some light birding, I checked the WPA Guide for the next destination.
Bingo. I found "the Lackawanna RR Cutoff, 110 feet high and stretching for three miles across Pequest Valley. Built just prior to the World War, it helped to reduce the main line distance by 11 miles."
That, I was pretty sure, referred to a portion of the Paulinskill Viaduct, a well-known but well-hidden engineering marvel of its day. With soaring arches supporting the rail line between Hoboken and Scranton, it was, at its construction in 1911, the largest structure built using cast concrete. It hasn't supported train traffic since 1984, but it's gained a fan base among urban explorers. And, well, it's historic. I'd been there before, but Ivan hadn't, so it was worth a look. The thing is massive, and it comes out of nowhere, like a mirage in the woods.
My recollection was that it was just off one of the north-south roads north of Route 80, but I couldn't remember if it was 206 (which we were on) or 94. We decided to find out. The Guide said there was something there, so what the heck.
Only thing was, we couldn't find it. Somewhere around the prescribed mileage, we found a side road that turned and paralleled 206, so we took that. Nothing approaching the magnitude of the Viaduct appeared. Frustrated, Ivan did some backroads driving until the road took a tunnel through what appeared to be a very large hill. This is what we saw on the other side:
I have to admit that my favorite part of the whole story is where the school got buried during construction and the kids cheered.
The sign confirmed what the Guide had told us, but it indicated nothing about the viaduct. It wasn't easy to see where the cutoff headed, or where the track had been, because the whole embankment was overgrown.
Like a bloodhound hot on the trail, Ivan was focused on getting to the Viaduct, come hell or high water. I would have been content to let it go, but he was a man on a mission. Figuring I'd try to help somehow, I remembered the one document in the car that might help: his 1976 Bicentennial New Jersey roadmap. Surely it would show rail routes on it. Even if they weren't precise, the markings would give us an idea of where to go.
Yes, indeed, the map showed the route of the Lackawanna Railroad, so yes, I had to apologize for all of the times I've made jokes about keeping 35 year-old maps in the car.
The map also made me realize the best thing might be to get additional help from something a little more modern: my smartphone. A few taps later, and the ugly truth came out: the viaduct is off of Route 94 outside of Knowlton, just a few miles north of Route 80. Mea culpa. I relayed the unfortunate news and we headed along back roads to get there. After reaching 94, we drove a bit until I saw a familiar-looking one-lane bridge off the northbound side.
"There it is," I exclaimed. The bridge takes you to a narrow road and through the woods until... there it is, towering high above.
Now, summer isn't really the best time to see the viaduct, hidden as it is among the trees. My last trip had been during springtime, and even then the foliage obscured the full majesty of the thing. Still, though, you have to admit it's pretty amazing, sitting out there like Brigadoon in the mist.
According to some sources, New Jersey Transit plans to use the Viaduct for passenger travel between Hoboken and Scranton, starting as early as 2014. For now, though, the structure is the dominion of urban explorers and graffiti artists.
After we found the viaduct, I couldn't help but wonder why it wasn't mentioned in the WPA Guide. The reinforced concrete arches are infinitely more impressive than the big berm that crushed the schoolhouse outside of Andover, so what gives?
A little bit of research revealed what's probably the answer: 94 didn't exist yet. According to Wikipedia, that state highway wasn't commissioned until the 1950s, well after the Guide was published. Perhaps the arches weren't as easy to find as they are now (and I say that with tongue planted firmly in cheek), simply because the road wasn't built yet. It's really kind of a shame. I'd think that the New Jersey explorers of the 30s and 40s would have enjoyed seeing it as much as we did, and even more with a train on top!
Longtime Hidden New Jersey readers know that we count on a few key reference materials during and after our forays into the field. Ivan's got his birding manuals, and my bible, of sorts, is the WPA Guide to 1930s New Jersey. You know there's potential for a good story if you locate something that was listed in a travel guide more than 70 years ago.
That's especially true in Northwestern New Jersey, where a lot of stuff is still where it was back then. We were counting on that when we stopped near Andover-Aeroflex Airport the other day to get our bearings. While Ivan did some light birding, I checked the WPA Guide for the next destination.
Bingo. I found "the Lackawanna RR Cutoff, 110 feet high and stretching for three miles across Pequest Valley. Built just prior to the World War, it helped to reduce the main line distance by 11 miles."
That, I was pretty sure, referred to a portion of the Paulinskill Viaduct, a well-known but well-hidden engineering marvel of its day. With soaring arches supporting the rail line between Hoboken and Scranton, it was, at its construction in 1911, the largest structure built using cast concrete. It hasn't supported train traffic since 1984, but it's gained a fan base among urban explorers. And, well, it's historic. I'd been there before, but Ivan hadn't, so it was worth a look. The thing is massive, and it comes out of nowhere, like a mirage in the woods.
My recollection was that it was just off one of the north-south roads north of Route 80, but I couldn't remember if it was 206 (which we were on) or 94. We decided to find out. The Guide said there was something there, so what the heck.
Only thing was, we couldn't find it. Somewhere around the prescribed mileage, we found a side road that turned and paralleled 206, so we took that. Nothing approaching the magnitude of the Viaduct appeared. Frustrated, Ivan did some backroads driving until the road took a tunnel through what appeared to be a very large hill. This is what we saw on the other side:
 |
| Be sure to click on this photo for the full story. |
The sign confirmed what the Guide had told us, but it indicated nothing about the viaduct. It wasn't easy to see where the cutoff headed, or where the track had been, because the whole embankment was overgrown.
 |
| If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea there'd ever been a train line atop that embankment. |
Yes, indeed, the map showed the route of the Lackawanna Railroad, so yes, I had to apologize for all of the times I've made jokes about keeping 35 year-old maps in the car.
The map also made me realize the best thing might be to get additional help from something a little more modern: my smartphone. A few taps later, and the ugly truth came out: the viaduct is off of Route 94 outside of Knowlton, just a few miles north of Route 80. Mea culpa. I relayed the unfortunate news and we headed along back roads to get there. After reaching 94, we drove a bit until I saw a familiar-looking one-lane bridge off the northbound side.
"There it is," I exclaimed. The bridge takes you to a narrow road and through the woods until... there it is, towering high above.
Now, summer isn't really the best time to see the viaduct, hidden as it is among the trees. My last trip had been during springtime, and even then the foliage obscured the full majesty of the thing. Still, though, you have to admit it's pretty amazing, sitting out there like Brigadoon in the mist.
According to some sources, New Jersey Transit plans to use the Viaduct for passenger travel between Hoboken and Scranton, starting as early as 2014. For now, though, the structure is the dominion of urban explorers and graffiti artists.
After we found the viaduct, I couldn't help but wonder why it wasn't mentioned in the WPA Guide. The reinforced concrete arches are infinitely more impressive than the big berm that crushed the schoolhouse outside of Andover, so what gives?
A little bit of research revealed what's probably the answer: 94 didn't exist yet. According to Wikipedia, that state highway wasn't commissioned until the 1950s, well after the Guide was published. Perhaps the arches weren't as easy to find as they are now (and I say that with tongue planted firmly in cheek), simply because the road wasn't built yet. It's really kind of a shame. I'd think that the New Jersey explorers of the 30s and 40s would have enjoyed seeing it as much as we did, and even more with a train on top!
Sunday, August 12, 2012
History at every turn: strolling through Bordentown
Fresh off our Clara Barton discovery, Ivan and I drove to downtown Bordentown to see what other treasures were there for the finding. What we found was a quaint downtown, more of a 19th century feel than Burlington or Mount Holly, but still a throwback. Bank buildings were large and stately, the streets were wide and welcoming, and the architecture is Colonial with a mix of Classical and European influence.
Oh, and there were some cute shops and eating places, too. It's a nice place to stroll and browse on a summer afternoon.
Important to us, sites of note were clearly marked. Bordentown is clearly proud of its heritage, both as a hub of transportation and as home to a cast of characters who might be considered rabblerousers of the Revolution. Starting in colonial times, the town's location made it a key spot for travelers between New York and Philadelphia, so it was a natural base of operations for revolutionary notables.
Since it's the kind of place where we could reasonably expect that the attractions listed in the WPA Guide to New Jersey still exist, I took it with me after we parked the car. I didn't want us to miss anything important. Within walking distance, we found a wealth of history:
The marquee explorer's site in Bordentown, of course, is Point Breeze, home of the exiled Joseph Bonaparte, King of Spain and Naples. Much of the site is overgrown and foreboding, with the remainder taken over by the Divine Word Seminary, so we left it unexplored, regrettably. Given the dense vegetation and the connection to noted ornithologist Charles Bonaparte, it would have been a kick to do some birding there.
 |
| Some of the yards were fenced off with very cool wrought iron. |
Important to us, sites of note were clearly marked. Bordentown is clearly proud of its heritage, both as a hub of transportation and as home to a cast of characters who might be considered rabblerousers of the Revolution. Starting in colonial times, the town's location made it a key spot for travelers between New York and Philadelphia, so it was a natural base of operations for revolutionary notables.
Since it's the kind of place where we could reasonably expect that the attractions listed in the WPA Guide to New Jersey still exist, I took it with me after we parked the car. I didn't want us to miss anything important. Within walking distance, we found a wealth of history:
- Thomas Paine, the noted patriot and author of Common Sense, lived in Bordentown when he wasn't in France. You may recall that we first ran into his New Jersey exploits at New Bridge Landing, where Washington's 1776 retreat inspired Paine's classic, The American Crisis.
- Lawyer and artist Francis Hopkinson stayed in town after marrying the daughter of the man for whom Bordentown is named. Hopkinson not only signed the Declaration of Independence, but was a talented satirist and is credited with designing the New Jersey state seal. He's definitely a subject for a future Hidden New Jersey post, but for now we'll say that his poems and jingles inspired patriots both to fight for independence and to have a good laugh at British military.
- The tracks of New Jersey's first railroad, the Camden and Amboy run on the bed of a sub-surface cut through downtown. Just a mile away, the state's first steam locomotive, the John Bull, was built and tested in 1831.
- The Delaware and Raritan Canal's western end is at the base of a steep embankment just outside the business district.
- The home of Patience Wright, who was America's first sculptress of note, well, when she wasn't spying for the colonists in London.
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| Francis Hopkinson's house. |
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| Apparently the entrance to Bonaparte's estate. We heeded the sign's direction. |
Friday, May 11, 2012
A cranky Patersonian changes the world of art
New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art contains one of the world's finest and most diverse collections, thanks in large part to a cranky, uncharitable Paterson industrialist. By most accounts, the guy didn't even care that much about art.
If you visit the Met and read the small placards next to the works on display, chances are you'll frequently see the words "Rogers Fund" as the funding source. That's referring to Jacob Rogers, the aforementioned curmudgeon. The son of Rogers Locomotive Works' founder Thomas Rogers, he became the manufacturing concern's president upon his father's death in 1856. The company was the largest of five locomotive manufacturers in Paterson, turning out a new railroad engine every two days.
While Jacob Rogers was among the wealthiest men in the city, there's no trace of his generosity anywhere in Paterson. In fact, he seemed to enjoy turning down requests for donations and small favors. Young boys who asked if they could use a portion of his land for a ballfield were told he'd lease them the land for $2000 per month -- after they erected a $5000 fence around it. Even when he chose to give funds to a worthy cause, the donations could end at any time. A representative from a local hospital suggested that Rogers might be able to afford a monthly gift of more than the $100 he had been sending; the stipend was quickly and permanently stopped.
Much of this behavior stemmed from restrictions the Paterson city government had put on Rogers' business, primarily forbidding the company from starting any of its locomotives within the city. Undoubtedly this meant having to use protracted and expensive means of moving product out of the factory to customers. Rather than seeking a mutually satisfying compromise, Rogers instead held a grudge against the city to his dying day.
That's a good explanation for why there are no grand tributes to Rogers' largess in Paterson, but how does he become one of the Met's most influential donors? It seems that his contrariness is a major factor. He'd read about a wealthy man who'd died in the Midwest in the 1880s, leaving his entire estate to a group of educational institutions. The man's family contested the will, but it held up in court.
Rogers, a lifelong bachelor, didn't believe in inheritance and saw an opportunity in the Midwestern man's approach. He became a member of the Met, delivering his $10 membership fee to the museum director each year. He asked about the institution's management structure and finances, and though he mentioned he'd be addressing the Met in his will, the director didn't think much of it. It seems that the only times Rogers visited the museum were to deliver his annual dues -- not exactly the type of member one would expect more than a couple thousand dollars from after death. Apparently the Met management was unaware he was a wealthy locomotive magnate. They just thought he was an unusual man who was curious about where his membership money was going.
Rogers' seeming obscurity at the museum ended with his death in 1901. Other than small inheritances to a few of his nephews, he left the entirety of his estate -- liquidated property and all -- to the Met. The $5 million was the first gift over $1 million the struggling museum had ever received. Rogers stipulated that his bequest was to be invested and the principal left untouched; the museum was allowed to spend only the income. Unlike other donors, however, he set no boundaries on the types of art the institution could purchase with the proceeds of his gift. As the museum's then director Luigi Palma di Cesnola said of New York millionaires at the time, "They will give money for buying collections, and for building purposes, because both remain visible monuments of their generosity, while endowment funds are invisible and remain unknown to the general public."
Since then, the income from Rogers' gift has funded the museum's productive archaeological expeditions in Egypt as well as the acquisition of legendary works by Rembrandt, Velasquez and other acclaimed artists. The principal continues to grow and earn, ensuring that a Patersonian known in life as tightfisted and mean will, nonetheless, endure as an example of generosity.
If you visit the Met and read the small placards next to the works on display, chances are you'll frequently see the words "Rogers Fund" as the funding source. That's referring to Jacob Rogers, the aforementioned curmudgeon. The son of Rogers Locomotive Works' founder Thomas Rogers, he became the manufacturing concern's president upon his father's death in 1856. The company was the largest of five locomotive manufacturers in Paterson, turning out a new railroad engine every two days.
While Jacob Rogers was among the wealthiest men in the city, there's no trace of his generosity anywhere in Paterson. In fact, he seemed to enjoy turning down requests for donations and small favors. Young boys who asked if they could use a portion of his land for a ballfield were told he'd lease them the land for $2000 per month -- after they erected a $5000 fence around it. Even when he chose to give funds to a worthy cause, the donations could end at any time. A representative from a local hospital suggested that Rogers might be able to afford a monthly gift of more than the $100 he had been sending; the stipend was quickly and permanently stopped.
Much of this behavior stemmed from restrictions the Paterson city government had put on Rogers' business, primarily forbidding the company from starting any of its locomotives within the city. Undoubtedly this meant having to use protracted and expensive means of moving product out of the factory to customers. Rather than seeking a mutually satisfying compromise, Rogers instead held a grudge against the city to his dying day.
That's a good explanation for why there are no grand tributes to Rogers' largess in Paterson, but how does he become one of the Met's most influential donors? It seems that his contrariness is a major factor. He'd read about a wealthy man who'd died in the Midwest in the 1880s, leaving his entire estate to a group of educational institutions. The man's family contested the will, but it held up in court.
Rogers, a lifelong bachelor, didn't believe in inheritance and saw an opportunity in the Midwestern man's approach. He became a member of the Met, delivering his $10 membership fee to the museum director each year. He asked about the institution's management structure and finances, and though he mentioned he'd be addressing the Met in his will, the director didn't think much of it. It seems that the only times Rogers visited the museum were to deliver his annual dues -- not exactly the type of member one would expect more than a couple thousand dollars from after death. Apparently the Met management was unaware he was a wealthy locomotive magnate. They just thought he was an unusual man who was curious about where his membership money was going.
Rogers' seeming obscurity at the museum ended with his death in 1901. Other than small inheritances to a few of his nephews, he left the entirety of his estate -- liquidated property and all -- to the Met. The $5 million was the first gift over $1 million the struggling museum had ever received. Rogers stipulated that his bequest was to be invested and the principal left untouched; the museum was allowed to spend only the income. Unlike other donors, however, he set no boundaries on the types of art the institution could purchase with the proceeds of his gift. As the museum's then director Luigi Palma di Cesnola said of New York millionaires at the time, "They will give money for buying collections, and for building purposes, because both remain visible monuments of their generosity, while endowment funds are invisible and remain unknown to the general public."
Since then, the income from Rogers' gift has funded the museum's productive archaeological expeditions in Egypt as well as the acquisition of legendary works by Rembrandt, Velasquez and other acclaimed artists. The principal continues to grow and earn, ensuring that a Patersonian known in life as tightfisted and mean will, nonetheless, endure as an example of generosity.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Amphibian warfare in Hopewell?
While I was researching after my recent Hopewell trip, I discovered that the mascot of the town's elementary school is Freddy the Frog. Okay, that's fine; maybe at some point the kids got really charged up about amphibians and petitioned the principal to officially designate the frog as their patron animal.
Nice thought, but untrue. Believe it or not, the name originates from a battle: the Frog War.
Small green animals with guns and grenades? Nope. It's about trains. Back in the mid 1800s, railroads were expanding in New Jersey, which isn't surprising given the state's historic importance as a critical transportation corridor. The Pennsylvania Railroad had a choke-hold on the state, but that didn't stop a group of entrepreneurs from forming New Jersey's first separately owned railroad, the Delaware and Bound Brook. State legislation had opened the industry to competition in 1873, and the D&BB was itching to get into the business.
As major corporations will, the Pennsy Railroad responded by creating a separate subsidiary to compete with the upstart. The Mercer and Somerset Railroad was designed primarily to block the D&BB by intersecting its path with a common crossing at a point northwest of Hopewell. In railroad parlance, the intersection they used is called a frog. See how the amphibians get involved?
The D&BB, to its credit, didn't simply concede its right of way to the larger Pennsy system. With the country's centennial approaching, the route to Philadelphia was far too lucrative and the upstarts wanted their share of the potential profits. They kept laying rails on their planned path, no doubt expecting a confrontation. Meanwhile, the Pennsylvania railroad stationed a locomotive at the disputed stretch of track, yielding the section only for its own oncoming traffic.
This simmering dispute was bound to heat up, and it did in January 1876. As the blocking locomotive moved to let an approaching Pennsylvania train through, a mass of D&BB laborers jumped out of the brush to block the engine with heavy ties. A D&BB locomotive then chugged up to further assert the young railroad's right of way. Hostilities grew when the Pennsy railroad sent their own host of men to defend its perceived right. The situation got so heated that the governor sent a militia at the request of the Mercer County sheriff.
It wasn't unusual for corporations of the day to use muscle to quash competition, but the great Frog War was ultimately settled in a more modern venue: the courts. With the law and popular opinion on their side, the little guys won, and D&BB finished its route while the Pennsy disbanded the M&S.
Today the track is still in use as part of Conrail's Trenton freight line, and local explorers routinely go on a search for the frog in contention. Any of you Hidden New Jersey readers ever find it?
Nice thought, but untrue. Believe it or not, the name originates from a battle: the Frog War.
 |
| The historic Hopewell train station, no frogs in sight. |
As major corporations will, the Pennsy Railroad responded by creating a separate subsidiary to compete with the upstart. The Mercer and Somerset Railroad was designed primarily to block the D&BB by intersecting its path with a common crossing at a point northwest of Hopewell. In railroad parlance, the intersection they used is called a frog. See how the amphibians get involved?
The D&BB, to its credit, didn't simply concede its right of way to the larger Pennsy system. With the country's centennial approaching, the route to Philadelphia was far too lucrative and the upstarts wanted their share of the potential profits. They kept laying rails on their planned path, no doubt expecting a confrontation. Meanwhile, the Pennsylvania railroad stationed a locomotive at the disputed stretch of track, yielding the section only for its own oncoming traffic.
This simmering dispute was bound to heat up, and it did in January 1876. As the blocking locomotive moved to let an approaching Pennsylvania train through, a mass of D&BB laborers jumped out of the brush to block the engine with heavy ties. A D&BB locomotive then chugged up to further assert the young railroad's right of way. Hostilities grew when the Pennsy railroad sent their own host of men to defend its perceived right. The situation got so heated that the governor sent a militia at the request of the Mercer County sheriff.
It wasn't unusual for corporations of the day to use muscle to quash competition, but the great Frog War was ultimately settled in a more modern venue: the courts. With the law and popular opinion on their side, the little guys won, and D&BB finished its route while the Pennsy disbanded the M&S.
Today the track is still in use as part of Conrail's Trenton freight line, and local explorers routinely go on a search for the frog in contention. Any of you Hidden New Jersey readers ever find it?
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Stuff that's not there anymore: Communipaw Cove
Go to Liberty
State Park Jersey
City terminal of the Central Railroad of New Jersey stands restored
against the Hudson River , its rail shed a
small indication of the massive amounts of people and freight that once entered
and departed the area. If you look carefully around the edges of the lawns and
access roads, you’ll see another indication of previous use: the warning signs
showing where nature is being allowed to remediate soil polluted by the
industry that once stood there.
Aerial photographs of the area from the 1940s and 50s show a
substantial number of docks where freight would be loaded onto or off ships. It
was in the southernmost part of this area, at Black Tom Wharf not far from the Statue of Liberty,
that an act of sabotage in 1916 helped prompt the United States
The area’s status as a shipping center actually began with
the construction of the Morris
Canal Jersey City shore of the Hudson River, the
canal brought Pennsylvania coal east and New Jersey New York City
The canal’s builders would have seen a much different
topography than we do today. Instead of an expanse of land to the south, they’d
have seen a naturally scooped-out shoreline. That was Communipaw Cove, the
summer home of Native Americans before the arrival of the Dutch in the 1630s. A
tidal flatlands, the area was rife with oysters, as was much of New York Harbor
Once the Dutch West Indies Company planted itself there,
industrialization, as it was at the time, started in earnest. Settlements sprouted
up in the area, including plantations powered by slave labor. Then, as now,
proximity to Lower Manhattan fueled
transportation: regulated ferry service was established between the island and
Communipaw in 1669. Apparently Jersey
City
But why does the cove no longer exist? Well, it comes back,
in some regards, to the Morris
Canal Phillipsburg and Jersey City Pennsylvania coal, LVRR wanted to
beef up its New Jersey capacity to get to the
lucrative New York City New York Liberty
State Park
A fair amount of coastal northern New Jersey Liberty State Park
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Oh, the humanity! Wandering around Lakehurst.
First it was the railroad hub for the Pinelands.
Then it became a popular resort.
Then it was the site of the nation's first international airport and the place where the growth of the passenger airship industry came to a fiery halt.
And now its population has soared, thanks to the host of retirement communities built there over the past 30 years.
Yup, I'm talking about Lakehurst, Ocean County. On one of our rare non-bird-related jaunts, Ivan and I made our way down the Parkway to Route 70, drawn by the lure of another type of flying object. We hadn't registered in advance for a tour at the Naval Air Engineering Station, but I was confident we'd uncover something worthwhile. Any small town that gained international notoriety for a disaster had to have plenty of interesting stuff. Plus, it's in the Pinelands, where the unusual is commonplace for explorers.
Leaving the highway and heading to the compact downtown, we saw that the locals take pride in their connection to the history of the airship. Whether you call them blimps or dirigibles or something else, they're represented in a lot of signage and outdoor artwork around town. Awnings on borough hall proclaim Lakehurst to be the Airship Capital of the World (take that, Friedrichshafen!), and even the local laundromat sports a large painting of a Buddhist-themed airship. Om, the humanity?
That's the south side of the highway. The Naval Air Engineering Station is down a road to the north, obscured by the region's signature pines. Signs warn passers-by about security measures and low-flying aircraft, reminding us that even though it's a historic landmark, the airfield is still an active military base. It's difficult to get a clean photo of the massive airship hangar from the road or a nearby housing development, though the building towers above the scrub pines in the foreground. Disappointing, yes, but we had other destinations to check out.
First, however, it was time for lunch. Regular readers know that I'm a diner burger aficionado, and it was time to see where the local contender stood in the pantheon. We'd passed the Lakehurst Diner on the way in, and we had to know: do they have a Hindenburger Deluxe on the menu? Sadly, management had seemingly overlooked this golden opportunity for a local special (well-done cheeseburger with sauerkraut, anyone?), though they offered a "Blimp" steak sandwich. I guess you have to take what you can get.
Following a tasty cheeseburger meal, we returned to the other side of the highway for the highlight of our visit, the Lakehurst Historical Society in tiny Old St. John's Church. It's the only town museum I know that's surrounded by a graveyard, having served as the community's Catholic sanctuary until the congregation outgrew it. Starting in the 1980s, an influx of retirees from Northern New Jersey started coming to the worship regularly, forcing the parish to move first to a community center and then to a newly-constructed church not far away.
Outside, the museum/church is a tidy, picturesque white wooden chapel. Inside, it's an interesting panoply of historic artifacts, juxtaposed with classic Catholic symbols. The Stations of the Cross are still on the walls, hanging above old railroad tools and World War II-era ration stamp books, and there's a painting of Jesus looking over a collection of vintage clothing. The community's first jail cell stands in a corner not far from the entrance to the sanctuary. That would make a novel confessional, don't you think?
We expected to see a few Hindenberg artifacts and maybe something or other on the Jersey Devil, but it turns out that Lakehurst has other notable yet lesser-known claims to distinction. An entire display case is dedicated to the Pine Tree Inn, an expansive Victorian resort that operated from 1898 to 1937. Well-to-do visitors from New York and Philadelphia flocked there from 1898 to 1937 to escape the city and enjoy the quiet beauty of the Pinelands. For much of the hotel's last decade of operation, many of its guests probably got to Lakehurst via the Blue Comet, the Jersey Central Railroad's answer to the Twentieth Century Limited (more on that in an upcoming post). The Historical Society has plenty of information and objects to tell the story of both, and more!
From the earliest days of the area's bog iron and charcoal industries that supplied the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War, to present day, if you're curious about something in Lakehurst, somebody at the Historical Society can probably tell you about it. Just be sure to stop by on Wednesday or Sunday afternoons, when they're open.
Now, to get that airship hangar tour set up....
Then it became a popular resort.
Then it was the site of the nation's first international airport and the place where the growth of the passenger airship industry came to a fiery halt.
And now its population has soared, thanks to the host of retirement communities built there over the past 30 years.
Yup, I'm talking about Lakehurst, Ocean County. On one of our rare non-bird-related jaunts, Ivan and I made our way down the Parkway to Route 70, drawn by the lure of another type of flying object. We hadn't registered in advance for a tour at the Naval Air Engineering Station, but I was confident we'd uncover something worthwhile. Any small town that gained international notoriety for a disaster had to have plenty of interesting stuff. Plus, it's in the Pinelands, where the unusual is commonplace for explorers.
Leaving the highway and heading to the compact downtown, we saw that the locals take pride in their connection to the history of the airship. Whether you call them blimps or dirigibles or something else, they're represented in a lot of signage and outdoor artwork around town. Awnings on borough hall proclaim Lakehurst to be the Airship Capital of the World (take that, Friedrichshafen!), and even the local laundromat sports a large painting of a Buddhist-themed airship. Om, the humanity?
That's the south side of the highway. The Naval Air Engineering Station is down a road to the north, obscured by the region's signature pines. Signs warn passers-by about security measures and low-flying aircraft, reminding us that even though it's a historic landmark, the airfield is still an active military base. It's difficult to get a clean photo of the massive airship hangar from the road or a nearby housing development, though the building towers above the scrub pines in the foreground. Disappointing, yes, but we had other destinations to check out.First, however, it was time for lunch. Regular readers know that I'm a diner burger aficionado, and it was time to see where the local contender stood in the pantheon. We'd passed the Lakehurst Diner on the way in, and we had to know: do they have a Hindenburger Deluxe on the menu? Sadly, management had seemingly overlooked this golden opportunity for a local special (well-done cheeseburger with sauerkraut, anyone?), though they offered a "Blimp" steak sandwich. I guess you have to take what you can get.
Following a tasty cheeseburger meal, we returned to the other side of the highway for the highlight of our visit, the Lakehurst Historical Society in tiny Old St. John's Church. It's the only town museum I know that's surrounded by a graveyard, having served as the community's Catholic sanctuary until the congregation outgrew it. Starting in the 1980s, an influx of retirees from Northern New Jersey started coming to the worship regularly, forcing the parish to move first to a community center and then to a newly-constructed church not far away.
Outside, the museum/church is a tidy, picturesque white wooden chapel. Inside, it's an interesting panoply of historic artifacts, juxtaposed with classic Catholic symbols. The Stations of the Cross are still on the walls, hanging above old railroad tools and World War II-era ration stamp books, and there's a painting of Jesus looking over a collection of vintage clothing. The community's first jail cell stands in a corner not far from the entrance to the sanctuary. That would make a novel confessional, don't you think?
We expected to see a few Hindenberg artifacts and maybe something or other on the Jersey Devil, but it turns out that Lakehurst has other notable yet lesser-known claims to distinction. An entire display case is dedicated to the Pine Tree Inn, an expansive Victorian resort that operated from 1898 to 1937. Well-to-do visitors from New York and Philadelphia flocked there from 1898 to 1937 to escape the city and enjoy the quiet beauty of the Pinelands. For much of the hotel's last decade of operation, many of its guests probably got to Lakehurst via the Blue Comet, the Jersey Central Railroad's answer to the Twentieth Century Limited (more on that in an upcoming post). The Historical Society has plenty of information and objects to tell the story of both, and more!
From the earliest days of the area's bog iron and charcoal industries that supplied the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War, to present day, if you're curious about something in Lakehurst, somebody at the Historical Society can probably tell you about it. Just be sure to stop by on Wednesday or Sunday afternoons, when they're open.
Now, to get that airship hangar tour set up....
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
When is a hotel not a hotel? When it's the Cranford Hotel!
Go to the downtown business district in many of the older towns on the Raritan Valley railroad line, and you'll see a Victorian era building that might or might not still have a restaurant or a bar, or both. During the the late 1800s and early 1900s when the line was part of the Central Railroad of New Jersey, those were important stops for city dwellers who came out to the 'countryside' for a weekend or maybe longer. Cranford is no different, with the Cranford Hotel standing a few dozen feet away from the elevated railroad tracks.
Today, the Hotel is a local meeting place with reliable dining options and two friendly bars, but it doesn't take in overnight guests anymore. That got me curious. Did the building always offer hospitality? Who stayed there? When did they stop taking in guests? What's upstairs now? I had the chance to get a rare behind-the-scenes chat and tour recently with the Hotel's general manager, Dave Carracino.
The current Cranford Hotel building was constructed in 1893, replacing an earlier structure on the South Avenue side of the block, which had burned down. The railroad tracks were just outside the front door, at grade level in the days before the entire line was elevated to eliminate conflicts with road traffic. In addition to sleeping rooms, the hotel included a bar and a produce store on the ground floor. Visitors today might notice that the room housing the J-shaped upstairs bar has a section called the Tac Room. Barely noticeable now, that separate space is where the produce stand was, and it was still a separate room within the bar until the 1980s. Where the name comes from is a mystery; there doesn't seem to be any connection to horses.
The real surprise for me came when we went to the basement level bar. Evenings there can be a bit boisterous, with sporting events usually playing on several TV monitors, and apparently it was even more so during the Hotel's early days. The cozy fireplace dining area was originally a bowling alley, and the dartboard on the wall near the entrance was once the site of a grill that served quick meals. A relaxing game of ten pins, a burger and brew: what else could a guy want after work?
As you walk around the public areas, you can't help but notice the old-time craftsmanship and details that newer restaurants and bars attempt to recreate for atmosphere: vintage photos, exposed brick walls, wood-fronted beer coolers with those neat metal pull latches. Dave also mentioned that the acoustical tiling in the Tac Room obscures a 12-foot tin ceiling along with the air conditioning ducts.
All of this was very interesting and cleared up a lot of questions in my mind, but my real interest was in the upstairs rooms the public never sees. Dave was kind enough to give me a quick tour, starting with a stop at his office to check out the guest register. Opening a wooden box and pulling out random cards from the late 1950s and early 1960s, he pointed out the numbers printed at the top and bottom of each, representing days of the month. Many of the people staying there were long-term boarders, some living at the Hotel for years. They might have been working in the area and essentially just needed a place to sleep before they moved onto another job someplace else. A few of the cards were bundled together in a rubber band, with a note saying they were in arrears. Somebody owes the Hotel $150 for ten weeks of rooming!
Both the second and third floors have about five rooms apiece, plus a shared bathroom holding a toilet, sink and shower stall. Some of the rooms are larger than others, and all have sufficient space for someone who just needs a basic place to stay. Occasionally, the Hotel gets phone inquiries from travelers looking for lodging, but the building hasn't taken in overnight guests since the early 1970s. In these days of Residence Inns and Homewood Suites, most people wouldn't be satisfied with a small room and a shared hall bathroom. That's not to say that the space can't still be attractive to the right tenant for the right purpose. While the paint and plaster could use some updating, the place is sturdily built and not going anywhere any time soon. The rooms are mostly used for storage now, but you could see where they'd make good office space for small businesses, or maybe lawyers or accountants.
Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind setting up a Hidden New Jersey editorial office there, myself. Proximity to good burgers, New Jersey brews and the Newark-bound train, all in a great old building. What more could we need?
Today, the Hotel is a local meeting place with reliable dining options and two friendly bars, but it doesn't take in overnight guests anymore. That got me curious. Did the building always offer hospitality? Who stayed there? When did they stop taking in guests? What's upstairs now? I had the chance to get a rare behind-the-scenes chat and tour recently with the Hotel's general manager, Dave Carracino.
 |
| Forebears of the current owners bought the Cranford Hotel in the 1940s for less than $3000. |
The real surprise for me came when we went to the basement level bar. Evenings there can be a bit boisterous, with sporting events usually playing on several TV monitors, and apparently it was even more so during the Hotel's early days. The cozy fireplace dining area was originally a bowling alley, and the dartboard on the wall near the entrance was once the site of a grill that served quick meals. A relaxing game of ten pins, a burger and brew: what else could a guy want after work?
As you walk around the public areas, you can't help but notice the old-time craftsmanship and details that newer restaurants and bars attempt to recreate for atmosphere: vintage photos, exposed brick walls, wood-fronted beer coolers with those neat metal pull latches. Dave also mentioned that the acoustical tiling in the Tac Room obscures a 12-foot tin ceiling along with the air conditioning ducts.
 |
| Guests often stayed for weeks, as noted on these 40+ year-old registry cards. |
Both the second and third floors have about five rooms apiece, plus a shared bathroom holding a toilet, sink and shower stall. Some of the rooms are larger than others, and all have sufficient space for someone who just needs a basic place to stay. Occasionally, the Hotel gets phone inquiries from travelers looking for lodging, but the building hasn't taken in overnight guests since the early 1970s. In these days of Residence Inns and Homewood Suites, most people wouldn't be satisfied with a small room and a shared hall bathroom. That's not to say that the space can't still be attractive to the right tenant for the right purpose. While the paint and plaster could use some updating, the place is sturdily built and not going anywhere any time soon. The rooms are mostly used for storage now, but you could see where they'd make good office space for small businesses, or maybe lawyers or accountants.
Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind setting up a Hidden New Jersey editorial office there, myself. Proximity to good burgers, New Jersey brews and the Newark-bound train, all in a great old building. What more could we need?
Friday, October 14, 2011
Penn Station eagles come to roost in the Highlands
Several eagles from New York left Manhattan in 1963, taking a strange migration to places far afield. Some roosted and remain in the same locations to this day. Others have disappeared, never to be seen again, despite the fact they weigh well over two tons. (Yes, when these eagles sit around the house, they sit around the house.)
Two are located in Ringwood, guarding the entrance to Skylands Manor, which is where Ivan and I found them this past weekend. Gotta love it when our interests converge.
Why are these raptors so darn big? Some odd breed? Perhaps escapees from an updated Jurassic Park?
Not quite.
The Skylands eagles are among the last remnants of the old New York Pennsylvania Station, which was demolished in 1963 to make way for the new Madison Square Garden. The passageways and corridors beneath the Garden are still considered Penn Station, of course, but they're in no way equivalent to the grand marble structure that once stood there. Based on the Roman baths of Caracalla, the old station stood majestically on Seventh Avenue at 34th Street, with 14 large marble eagles and a host of smaller ones perched high above at strategic positions.
When the original station was pulled down, the Pennsylvania Railroad was inundated with requests for the eagles. Two found homes in front of the new Penn Station, but no markers explain their history, leaving me to wonder if anyone makes the connection. Another is at Cooper Union in Lower Manhattan. Others are at train stations, and four even grace a bridge in Philadelphia.
All of the large 14 are accounted
for, according to this informative website, but the eight smaller ones, well, no-one is sure where they are, apparently.
These aren't the only vestiges of the old Penn Station to rest in New Jersey. Some of the other statuary atop the station were rescued from a landfill and brought to Ringwood State Forest. I seem to recall seeing them there several years ago, still resting in pieces waiting to be reassembled, but now they're being kept at a New Jersey Transit training facility in Newark, as reported on this website.
Other, less artistically-important pieces of the Penn Station facade remain in the same less noble resting places they were carted to nearly 50 years ago. Intrepid writer and explorer Robert Sullivan wrote about his own search for Penn Station in New Jersey in his informative and entertaining book The Meadowlands. He tells the story a lot better than I ever could, but he ultimately found several Penn columns in a truck yard off Penhorn Creek in Secaucus. It is true, it seems: whatever you can think of is or was, at some point, carted to the Meadowlands. Anyone else getting the idea for a Hidden New Jersey trip to Secaucus?
Two are located in Ringwood, guarding the entrance to Skylands Manor, which is where Ivan and I found them this past weekend. Gotta love it when our interests converge.
Why are these raptors so darn big? Some odd breed? Perhaps escapees from an updated Jurassic Park?
Not quite.
The Skylands eagles are among the last remnants of the old New York Pennsylvania Station, which was demolished in 1963 to make way for the new Madison Square Garden. The passageways and corridors beneath the Garden are still considered Penn Station, of course, but they're in no way equivalent to the grand marble structure that once stood there. Based on the Roman baths of Caracalla, the old station stood majestically on Seventh Avenue at 34th Street, with 14 large marble eagles and a host of smaller ones perched high above at strategic positions.When the original station was pulled down, the Pennsylvania Railroad was inundated with requests for the eagles. Two found homes in front of the new Penn Station, but no markers explain their history, leaving me to wonder if anyone makes the connection. Another is at Cooper Union in Lower Manhattan. Others are at train stations, and four even grace a bridge in Philadelphia.
All of the large 14 are accounted
for, according to this informative website, but the eight smaller ones, well, no-one is sure where they are, apparently.
These aren't the only vestiges of the old Penn Station to rest in New Jersey. Some of the other statuary atop the station were rescued from a landfill and brought to Ringwood State Forest. I seem to recall seeing them there several years ago, still resting in pieces waiting to be reassembled, but now they're being kept at a New Jersey Transit training facility in Newark, as reported on this website.Other, less artistically-important pieces of the Penn Station facade remain in the same less noble resting places they were carted to nearly 50 years ago. Intrepid writer and explorer Robert Sullivan wrote about his own search for Penn Station in New Jersey in his informative and entertaining book The Meadowlands. He tells the story a lot better than I ever could, but he ultimately found several Penn columns in a truck yard off Penhorn Creek in Secaucus. It is true, it seems: whatever you can think of is or was, at some point, carted to the Meadowlands. Anyone else getting the idea for a Hidden New Jersey trip to Secaucus?
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