Down on the Farm: Enjoy Rutgers Ag Field Day this Saturday!

Till now, every Hidden New Jersey entry has highlighted a visit that I've made to a notable location in the state, either with Ivan or on my own. Today I'm breaking with that tradition (tradition? This blog is barely four months old!) so you have the benefit of being able to check out an event I believe no proud New Jerseyan should miss: Ag Field Day at Rutgers' Cook College* campus in New Brunswick, to be held this Saturday, April 30. It's the day when our state university's agriculture and bioscience school opens the doors of the livestock barns and earth science labs for some hands-on introduction to our state's ecology and more.

I've been going to Ag Field Day for nearly 30 years and while some things have changed, many others haven't. Students continue to groom and handle pigs, sheep, cows and more for the livestock judging shows that are held on the morning of the event. You can still stop by the dairy barn to visit the cows, though I never actually got to see the famous fistulated "porthole cow" who by now has gone to the big pasture in the sky. And don't forget to drop by the Food Science Building to get the yummy Food Science ice cream -- probably a total chemical concoction, but a treat, nonetheless. Other Cook College student organizations still gather at Passion Puddle, the campus pond, to educate and raise money. One of my favorites is the Entomology Club, whose members have long offered bug snacks - cookies with real, edible worms baked into them (you don't taste the worm, but its texture leaves something to desire).

Some Cook students take
their studies very seriously,
like Buzz here.

In the time since I graduated, more of the environmental sciences are represented at the day, as well. Students and professors who study New Jersey's evolving land use will show you around the state by way of satellite imagery. Check out the marine science building to touch some of the state's sea life and learn more about the restoration of the shore ecosystem.

The great thing is that there's something for everyone - students, alumni with young kids, and the rest of us who just like stopping by to enjoy a beautiful spring day on the farm. And if you need a break from science, there's always the New Jersey Folk Festival at Douglass College just a short hike away. This year, the festival will be focusing on the Kalmyk people of Central Asia who have settled in Howell and Paterson. One can only hope that there will be throat singing! A host of folk performers and craftspeople also display their talents, with a wide variety of handmade crafts available for viewing and sale. I always find great jewelry at the booths.

The last Saturday in April was long the day when Cook and Douglass would be the places to be on the Rutgers New Brunswick campus, but that's changed with the introduction of Rutgers Day a few years ago. Now the whole university gets into the act with activities and fun on all of the Middlesex County campuses. If you have enough energy after wandering through Ag Field Day and Folk Festival, take the campus bus over to College Ave or the Busch campus to find out what they have to offer. There's always something fun and interesting, and at the very least, you can visit the President's office at Old Queens (the administration building, not the bar on Easton Ave.).

Check it out, and maybe head to Stuff Yer Face afterward. I might just see you there!

*Nitpickers will tell you that it's no longer Cook College, it's the School of Environmental and Biological Sciences at Rutgers University, but "SEBS" doesn't quite cut it as a name. And I happen to believe that George Cook is a personage worthy of continued recognition. But I digress... as will many other alumni of a certain vintage who've enjoyed Ag Field Days for lo these many years.

Masters of their domain: Union's Self Master Colony

Behind the Union Township Municipal Building is the last vestige of a collective of men working to pull themselves up by the bootstraps. Used by the township's Girl Scouts as a gathering spot for over 40 years, this green house with the yellow shutters was originally built as part of the Self-Master Colony, an early 20th century attempt to rehabilitate men who once had achieved a measure of success but had fallen on hard times. I learned a smidgen of the story as one of those Girl Scouts, but until recently, I didn't know much about why the colony was there or who started it. Here's what I've been able to glean:

The Union Twp. Girl Scout House ...
once a Self Master cottage.

Having endured a business scandal of his own in 1904, former Wall Street brokerage executive Andress Floyd conceived of the colony as a place where homeless, destitute men could learn a new trade and rebuild their self-respect before returning to the world at large. While he appreciated religious missions and the work they did, he claimed that before a man could honestly find God, he had to find his own self-worth. He was also selective in who he admitted to the community. Those who came with recommendations were turned away because Floyd was only looking to help those without friends. He also eschewed hoboes, he said, because they claimed "a thousand homes" and were unlikely to abandon the nomadic life for a steady job.

The colony opened in 1908, and the men lived with Floyd and his wife Lillian in the Hoyt Mansion, a large house donated to the cause by watch manufacturer Charles Ingersoll (the same Ingersoll, coincidentally, who constructed houses made from Edison Portland Cement, including nearly a dozen barely a mile away on Ingersoll Terrace). In return for room, board and a 50 cent per week salary, they were expected to work a seven hour day woodworking, weaving rugs or other crafts produced by the colony. Others helped run the household, cleaning, cooking, doing laundry and odd jobs around the mansion and the surrounding 50 or so acres. It's said that more than 100,000 men stayed at the colony over its 20-plus year history, with a fair number of them ultimately finding new jobs outside Self Master once they rebuilt their dignity.

Eventually, the colony's success got greater acclaim through articles in the New York Times and other prominent publications of the day. Floyd himself went out on the speaking circuit to relate his rehabilitation philosophy, even appearing at New York's Carnegie Hall.

When his past business transgressions came to light, he responded candidly to a Times reporter, saying, "The suffering that was caused through that financial failure determined me to try to live a constructive rather than a destructive life, and finally how difficult it was for myself to get on my feet, I thought how much more difficult it must be for a man without business experience or friends to gain a footing ... I decided to surround myself with a few of these men who need encouragement and direction and to show them that I not only understood them because of my own sufferings but that it is not impossible for a man to restore himself to the confidence of good people by clean and unselfish living and by honest industry." His financial backers were well aware of his past and supported his efforts with the colony nonetheless.

According to the Union Township Library website, the Self Master Colony met its demise after the stock market crash of 1929, meaning it went out of business just when it was likely needed most. The 1939 WPA Guide to New Jersey notes that as late as 10 years later, the property still held a dilapidated print shop, two frame buildings, and a loom that was used by the last remaining resident, 69 year-old Michael Moore. The township bought the property in 1938 and sited the municipal building and main library there, along with a small park named for a former town clerk.

The Hoyt mansion is lost to history, and that little Girl Scout house is the only structure left, but the names Self Master, Andress, Lillian and Floyd are all memorialized in street names not far from the location of the original colony.

Visiting the notables in Princeton

This past weekend was bookended with the birth and death of our 22nd and 24th president, Stephen Grover Cleveland. Conveniently, he's buried about an hour away from Caldwell, in what's known as "the Westminster Abbey of the United States," the Princeton Cemetery.

The smallest of several memorials clustered around
John Witherspoon's grave.

Since being established by the Nassau Presbyterian Church in 1757, the Princeton Cemetery has become the final resting place of many of the town's and university's notable personages, regardless of faith. In fact, a healthy number of Stars of David, Sanskrit symbols and other markings are visible among all of the crosses of many Christian denominations. Cleveland gained his Princeton credentials after his second presidential term, when he retired to the community and became a University trustee. He's buried not far from the University Presidents' Plot, which itself is the final resting place of such notables as Aaron Burr Sr. and John Witherspoon, who both led the school in the 1700s.

The Cleveland plot

Visitors to Cleveland's burial plot are left with the impression that he's not soon to be forgotten. First, his grave still held a memorial wreath placed there by a military honor guard on his birthday, March 18. And given the shell leis draped over his headstone, it's clear that the Hawaiian monarchists make the cemetery one of their stops on their annual New Jersey pilgrimage. They've also thoughtfully left leis for his wife Frances and their child Ruth, who is said to have been the inspiration for the name of the Baby Ruth candy bar though she died in childhood, long before the product was marketed. Both are also buried in the family plot.

Paul Tulane seemingly thought
a lot of himself, as evidenced here.

A few steps away from the Clevelands is a memorial whose placement has caused a fair bit of conjecture. Paul Tulane was a native New Jerseyan, merchant and philanthropist who also had a special interest in the city of New Orleans. As the story goes, Tulane offered a significant donation to Princeton University in 1882, with the condition that the school should be renamed in his honor. When the trustees balked, he instead gave over $300,000 to the Medical College of Louisiana, which subsequently became Tulane University. Allegedly he developed a grudge against Princeton, and ordered that when he died, his memorial gravestone should stand with its back facing Nassau Hall. Indeed it does, but there appears to be no rhyme or reason to why graves in that part of the cemetery are oriented as they are, and there's no uniformity to their directions. I'll give him this, though: it's one of the largest and grandest stones in the lot, so if he was making a statement, he wasn't messing around.

And finally, for those who need a little humor in their graveyards, here's one from a more obscure Princeton resident. I wonder: did his family consider him to be a bit of a hypochondriac?

Like standing in the parakeet section at Woolworth's

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that Cleveland's birthplace was our second stop of the day. We ventured out early (relatively, for me; late for Ivan) to check the progress of spring migration on Garret Mountain.

You'll recall our previous visit to Garret, where we saw but a few birds and even fewer birders. This time could not be more different. The parking lot, while not full by a stretch, held a healthy number of cars sporting various environmental/birding stickers and/or Conserve Wildlife plates. On the way in, we'd already passed a few clusters of optics-sporting strollers, all pointed in the same direction, so it was clear that it would be a productive morning.

This is a yellow throated warbler, which, while yellow like
many of the warblers we saw, is not one of the warblers
we saw.

Indeed, it was. Not far from the park road, near the large pond, we were treated to four different species of warblers - Black and White, Palm, Yellow-Rumped and Pine. Given that they'd likely just flown in, they were treating the trees and brush like the proverbial Turnpike rest area and attacking the food court with gusto. (All together now:  "I just flew in from Central America, and boy are my wings tired!") So focused were they on finding good munchies that they allowed us to get close enough for a good view without binoculars. It was, no joke, reminiscent of the old parakeet aisles at Woolworth's. All that was needed was the display of Hartz Mountain bird food. Much to my regret, I didn't have my camera on hand to capture the scene; these are totally adorable, tiny birds. After a winter of spotting mostly dull-colored species, it was nice to see flashes of bright yellow flitting around the budding greenery.

After this experience I truly understood why birders flock (no pun intended) to Garret in the spring, as a relatively short stroll netted us, conservatively, about a dozen species. In all, with just about two hours of scouting, Ivan picked up something like 30 different kinds of birds, and it's early in the season. You can imagine what kind of results a birder could get in a day later in the spring.

Aloha and fruitcake from Cleveland's birthplace

Who is the only U.S. president to have been both born and buried in New Jersey?

Who was the only man to have served as president twice, in non-consecutive terms?

Who's the only president to be married in the White House?

Who is Cleveland, Ohio named after?

The answer to the first three questions: Grover Cleveland. And the answer to the last question: not Grover Cleveland.* Before Saturday's torrential rains began to fall, Ivan and I made a visit to the birthplace of our 22nd and 24th president, on Bloomfield Avenue in Caldwell. Now a state park, it's one of those sites that's long been on my 'to visit' list. We learned far more than we expected and saw things we never anticipated.

The house itself was formerly the manse (minister's home) for Caldwell's First Presbyterian Church. Cleveland's father, Richard Falley Cleveland, served as the congregation's pastor from 1834 to 1840 before moving to a new church in Fayetteville, New York. The future president lived in the manse to the age of three and spent his formative years in upstate New York. At the age of 16, Grover lost his father, prompting his departure from school and the start of his work career. Eventually moving to Buffalo, he studied for and passed the bar exam without having attended college or law school, and then entered public life. Gaining a reputation for honesty and integrity, he was elected to positions of increasing importance, first as sheriff of Erie County, then mayor of Buffalo and next the governor of New York. Later, of course, he was elected president of the United States as a Democrat, which was remarkable for the time.

A house tour will bring you through the first floor, which is largely where the Cleveland family lived during their stay in Caldwell. While most of the artifacts weren't the family's belongings, they're of the same vintage, giving you a good idea of what it was like to live in the small house. The parents' bedroom, Cleveland's actual birth place, is marked by a decorative plaque, and it draws the inevitable question of where Grover and his seven brothers and sisters (at the time) slept. According to our very informative guide, they all shared a common bedroom on the second floor, no doubt huddling together to conserve the limited heat. While the presbytery no doubt provided comfortable accommodations for their clergy, we can pretty safely assume that in the 1830s, central heat wasn't part of the deal.

Looking into the parents' bedroom, I noticed an orange plastic lei draped atop the future president's small cradle. What connection could the house possibly have to Hawaii? As it turns out, Cleveland's second term occurred during a pivotal time in the history of the island chain, and his actions made him a hero to monarchist Hawaiians. American businessmen had already overthrown Queen Liliuokalani and were seeking annexation to the United States. President Benjamin Harrison's administration had already sent the necessary legislation to the Senate, but Cleveland blocked it, effectively stalling the annexation until after the conclusion of his term. While the inevitable happened in 1898, several Hawaiians make an annual pilgrimage to Caldwell to honor Cleveland for his stalling move. If you'd like to meet them and learn more about their devotion, they're expected to visit again on April 30.

The last room of the house is a treasure trove of artifacts from Cleveland's political career, including campaign posters, buttons and other paraphernalia. There's lots of great stuff there, but I was most taken by the wedding cake. No, it wasn't a recreation: they have two pieces of the actual cake from the reception after he and the considerably-younger Frances Folsom tied the knot in 1886.

A piece of Cleveland's traveling wedding cake,
in its mailing carton.

Seeing shades of Miss Havisham, I asked the guide how and why someone would save a 125-year-old piece of cake. I mean, I get its significance as an artifact of the only presidential wedding at the White House, but come on. She explained that the custom was to have two wedding cakes: one for the attending guests to enjoy on the day of the ceremony, and another to divide and send to invitees who were unable to attend. The second cake was usually a firmer, fruitcake-like confection, so it would hold up during shipping. One wonders if this is where the traveling fruitcake tradition started. The piece we saw didn't look all that much different from what my Aunt Edna used to send us every year at Christmas time, so perhaps we have Grover Cleveland to thank for popularizing the concept. No doubt, there's still a piece of his cake being regifted every year during Yule season.

As we've experienced during many of our other Hidden NJ jaunts, we left the Cleveland home with our curiosity piqued about yet another Garden State notable. For one, we knew we had to make it down to visit his gravesite in Princeton.



* Rather, the city in Ohio was named for the president's distant relative Moses Cleaveland, a late 18th century surveyor and politician.

The Voodoo they do so well at Sandy Hook

Sandy Hook is rife with abandoned and decaying gun batteries and supporting structures. Look around closely enough, and you're bound to find pillboxes and quonset huts among the larger batteries and office buildings. Some of them are in pretty decent shape, while others look as if they were intentionally wrecked to prevent explorers from going within and possibly getting hurt.

Then there are the mysterious treasures you can only see with a ranger or an intrepid volunteer. Back in November 2009 I was fortunate to join a caravan of other curiosity seekers on a "Weird Sandy Hook" tour. We were promised entry into restricted areas, and I wasn't disappointed.

Right at dusk, we were escorted to a gate just off the main road, on the bay side of the hook. As the gate was unlocked and we drove through, our volunteer guide warned that if we chose to return to the area on our own, unescorted, we would be apprehended and arrested. The Park Service is very serious about this particular "no entry" sign. Our bus stopped at Kingman and Mills, the two bayside World War Two-era batteries that are still reasonably intact, but we weren't going there, quite yet. We had a short hike ahead of us.

Walking along the beach, an abundance of slipper shells crunched under my boots. Wood poles lined the water's edge; they were the last vestiges of the dock which once stood there. We were headed to the structures that dock served: the bunkers that held the ammunition for the nearby batteries. The sand that had once obscured the bunkers had eroded over time, leaving two brick and concrete buildings with curved roofs.  The one that lacks a door is the voodoo bunker.

Before we entered, our guide warned us that we might encounter the carcass of a sacrificed animal inside, and indeed, a several-days slaughtered chicken was decaying in the corner. But that was just the confirmation of what we'd come to see: the voodoo bunker.

Our lanterns and flashlights exposed several large pieces of spray painted artwork on the walls, all apparently done by Santeria practitioners. The creatures looked oddly pre-Columbian with a touch of Keith Haring, and undoubtedly had some sort of significance in whatever rites were practiced in the bunker. But who did them, and how did they find this isolated, virtually unreachable part of the park? Our guide posited that the artists had canoed across Sandy Hook Bay under cover of night, originating from Highlands or perhaps someplace further down the bay.  

Though the artwork was fascinating, it was also a little freaky, especially as the evening skies outside were darkening. There were probably about 40 of us inside and around the bunker, but I still had that eerie apprehension of being caught at someone's sacrificial altar.

Unfortunately my photos were less than ideal, given the lack of illumination and the difficulty in getting a clear shot with so many people milling about. These should give you at least a tiny understanding of what's out there.

As I said, the voodoo bunker is in an area of Sandy Hook that's closed to public exploration, but there's always a chance the National Park Service will run another tour. Check their events website for a quarterly schedule of activities, and call ahead for more information. There's always something interesting on their calendar!

Egrets, I've had a few: visiting the osprey and more at Sandy Hook

The history at Sandy Hook is a big draw for my repeated visits, but the real reason for my recent trip was to check in on the osprey. I've been doing this for years, stopping by the bayside observation deck across the road from the Spermaceti Cove visitor center to see if the ol' fish hawks were nesting on the usual platform. They've become more and more common since I started my vigil, but it still warms my heart to see them pairing off and cultivating their broods.

This year I've been a little impatient, hoping that some of February's warm weather spurts had somehow encouraged the osprey to show up a few weeks early, but they waited until their usual late March date to arrive. As I approached the visitor center parking lot from the access road on Saturday, I saw one of the nesting pair fly off, no doubt looking for lunch. I was hoping to get some decent photos of the pair, but the platform was out farther than my lens could get an acceptable shot. Besides, nothing interesting was happening there, beyond a squawking conversation once the second osprey returned to the nest.

Undeterred, I went to my other reliable nesting site: Officers Row. That's the group of houses on Fort Hancock, facing Sandy Hook Bay, where the base's lieutenants, captains and commanding officer lived with their families. With only a few exceptions, they've been closed up since the Army left in 1974, and they're silently deteriorating in the salt air. It breaks my heart to see them slowly rot, but at the same time it's gratifying to see a little bit of life nurtured atop the chimney of one of the houses. I only just noticed them last year, and when I checked over the winter, the nest was still there. That bodes well for continued habitation, as long as the conglomeration of sticks and detritus doesn't get blown off the chimney by a gust off the bay.

I parked my car behind one of the adjacent houses and pulled out the camera and long lens, kicking myself for not bringing the tripod. As I got out of the car, I heard the splat of bird droppings hitting the car roof. Welcome to Officers Row, Sue. This was going to be fun.

I knew from last year's observation that the osprey would probably be a bit pissed at me for getting within camera shot, which in this case is the sidewalk in front of the house. They don't seem to realize that it's a long way from there to the top of a chimney on a three-story house. I figured I'd give it five or ten minutes and take my chances.

I got several clicks off as one of the osprey came by with lunch for the other, but much of the activity seemed to alternate between evasion and intimidation. First, the birds left the nest and flew far off behind the house, beyond the parade ground, back by the sergeants' family housing. Then after several minutes they came back closer to me, flying in front of the house, over the road and multi-use path and out to the bay. I was fortunate not just to get the photos, but to get a closer view of the pattern on the underside of their extended wings through the binoculars. I'll admit it was kind of intimidating to see them hover directly above me. Kinda made me feel the way the fish would, if they could see up to the sky to see they're being stalked. And after all, you never know if the osprey will poop on you, and osprey poop stinks, probably like fish.

Though I had positive intent, I started feeling a bit guilty for scaring them from their nest, so I packed up and hit the road. Out of habit, I looked quickly to my right just before passing the bayside platform. Distracted by a large flash of white, I was delighted to see a great egret perched atop a cedar on the side of the road. Good thing nobody was driving directly behind me; I pulled to the shoulder and grabbed the camera to squeeze off a few shots. I've seen egrets perched in deciduous trees, but never in a cedar. There's a first time for everything, I guess.