Robert Erskine, Ringwood and the West Point chain

We're rather accustomed to finding unusual things on our journeys, but I'm still tickled when a random discovery unexpectedly links up with something I'd seen long ago. Most recently, it wasn't just a link: it was a chain.

The roots of the story are in a trip I made awhile ago to Constitution Island in the Hudson River. While I was there, I learned that the American forces tried a number of approaches to prevent the British Navy from advancing on strategically-important rivers. For example, not far from Fort Mercer on the Delaware, they modified a French system called chevaux-de-frise. It was conceptually the same as those spikes used in toll lanes and parking garages to prevent drivers from backing up in key areas (you know… the ones that puncture your tires if you go in the wrong direction). American General Robert Erskine devised a nautical version that, once sunk across the river, would wreak havoc on the hulls of any ships that dared to cross.

While these spikes were used in the Hudson, the Americans added another blocking mechanism for good measure. Fearing that the British would attempt to sail upriver from their stronghold in Manhattan, they placed a massive chain across the river between West Point and Constitution Island. That portion of the river was already difficult to navigate by ship, and the theory was that slowing traffic even further would provide additional time for the Americans to fire on their opponents from the elevated West Point vantage. From 1778 to 1782, the chain was set out in the spring to block passage, and then removed in the fall to prevent damage from ice in the winter.

Ultimately, the British never tried to get past the chain, though Benedict Arnold reportedly had claimed it could be breached. Some of the massive links were saved, though others were melted down for salvage. I saw a bunch during my visit to Constitution Island, where the anchor point and a short length are preserved near the dock.

What does this have to do with New Jersey? Consider that Washington and his military leadership relied on the state’s significant iron mines and forges for weapons and ammunition, earning the state the sobriquet of Arsenal of the Revolution. The chain had to be made somewhere, and it only made sense that it came from here.

Thing is, while I was fairly certain of that, I wasn’t sure exactly where it was made or where it ended up. Someone had told Ivan that a length of the chain was being used as a decorative border in front of a building near the Wayne/Paterson border, but when we checked it out, I saw that the links were very different from those I'd seen near the Hudson.

A pre-hurricane visit to Ringwood Manor helped to solve the mystery. The Manor, of course, was home to General Erskine, Washington’s chief geographer and surveyor during the war, as well as the operator of the Long Pond Ironworks. His mansion is fronted by several impressive examples of American military history, including the cannon used on the main deck of the U.S.S. Constitution during the War of 1812, and a mortar used during the Civil War. They're both lined up against a massive 25-link length of chain and an anvil. No markers are there to explain the significance of the ironwork, and if you didn’t know better, you’d probably write off the chain as a coarse border or maybe a length that had once tethered an anchor to a ship. I immediately had my suspicions about its provenance, and a bit of research proved it out: it's part of the Hudson chain, come to rest where it was manufactured.

Thing is, when I looked into the history of the Hudson chain a little more deeply, it seems to have many fathers and many origins. Some will tell you that the entire chain was fabricated in New York State, while others will state that various lengths were made in different places and then assembled near West Point. I've also found a reputable source that asserts that the entire thing was made at Erskine's iron works.

What's the real story? I think you know where I stand on the issue, and I'm pretty confident I'm right. I'm not a metallurgist or an expert on 18th century ironworks, but to me, the Ringwood Manor chain looks a heck of a lot like the Constitution Island chain.

In the aftermath of Sandy

Originally, when I planned our first November story, I intended to write a brief entry about the travels Ivan and I made in the two days before Hurricane Sandy made landfall in southern New Jersey. We made the most of our time on Saturday and Sunday, driving around Sussex and Morris Counties and making a few really neat discoveries before settling in to ride out the storm.

Today, however, it doesn't seem very appropriate to be sharing those adventures when so many of our fellow New Jerseyans have lost so much. We're fortunate to have only been without power and heat for a few days, a mere inconvenience by comparison. The devastation the hurricane wrought is beyond description; I'm sure you've seen as much or more of the coverage than I have, and you likely don't need me to tell you. Some of you may have experienced it first hand.

Situations like this remind me of certain truths in life. When it comes to Mother Nature, there's very little we can do but adapt and ride out the challenges. We have to admit we have less control over our circumstances than we'd like to admit, as difficult as it is to accept. And adversity gives us opportunity to show our better natures.

So many people and communities have been changed dramatically by the storm's impact. The fury of wind-driven waves has reshaped our coast, taking away homes and businesses and memories as other historic weather events have claimed parts of Cape May and the barrier islands in the past. The simple yet incomprehensible fact is that many of the things we remember so dearly about Southern New Jersey aren't just hidden. They're gone.

It will take some time for the damage to be assessed fully, and it'll take a while for next steps to be planned out and taken. In the meantime, we have the opportunity to be truly kind to each other. Whether it's volunteering to help out those in need, contributing to the economies of the affected communities, or simply by cutting each other a break by not getting frustrated and angry on a long line for gas, it's us New Jerseyans who control whether the storm's aftermath gets the best of us. Our neighbors and friends need us. We know we're great people. Now's the time to show it.

Look what the storm blew in!

Big storms are a bit like a box of Cracker Jacks for birders, especially in New Jersey. Because they're accompanied by strong winds, hurricanes, especially, can potentially bring avian visitors who are either avoiding the tzimmes or blown along with the weather front. It's a great opportunity for those who don't travel much to see birds that rarely -- if ever -- show up here without a push from Mother Nature. Some have opined, for example, that the crested caracara hanging out in West Windsor in September was seeking refuge from a large storm well to our south.

Hurricane Sandy is predicted to be a mammoth storm -- which is why I'm drafting ahead of time, in case I lose power or can't otherwise get to the internet. Based on the current storm path predictions, our birding buddies are already offering thoughts about what types of birds could find their way here. Given that we're also in migration season, things could get pretty interesting.

Even if you're not a birder, or are just starting out, keep an eye and ear out for unusual sights and sounds after the storm. You never know if your backyard or local park might attract a southern bird, or a pelagic (ocean-dweller) that got blown off course. If you're not sure what you're looking at, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology hosts a great website that can help you identify your visitor. 

Let us know if you see anything unusual... but above all, stay safe! 

The Elizabethtown Presidential mansion: Boxwood Hall

One of the highlights of my Union County travels during this year's Four Centuries Weekend was a visit to the home of former United States President Elias Boudinot, in Elizabeth.

Yes, you read that right: New Jersey was actually home to a president other than Grover Cleveland, and like Cleveland's, his home is now a state historic site. The eight room, mid-18th century Boxwood Hall is now a shadow of what it was in Boudinot's time, when the mansion held 18 rooms and the surrounding property covered four city blocks.

Boxwood Hall (courtesy NJ Division of Parks and Forestry)

Before I get into the highlights of the house, let me clear up the presidential confusion. As you know, the 13 colonies declared independence from Great Britain in 1776, and the Constitution we're governed under was ratified in 1787. In between, the central government operated under the Articles of Confederation, by which power was concentrated in individual states, which were in a 'league of friendship' with one another. The president of Congress thus had largely ceremonial duties, and was elected by the legislature to preside over meetings and act as an impartial moderator over debates. Boudinot was the second man to hold the position, presiding between November 4, 1782 and November 2, 1783.

Boudinot's historical contributions far exceed his rather brief and somewhat nominal leadership of our country. A member of the New Jersey Provincial Congress in 1775, he served as an aide to New Jersey Militia commander and future Governor William Livingston. His presidential term was just part of his overall service in Congress, as he also served three terms in the House of Representatives between 1789 and 1805.

Just as I have on other visits to historic homes around the state, I ran into a few familiar names at Boxwood Hall. Our good friend Alexander Hamilton was a guest there while studying at Elizabethtown Academy, just before making a longer stay at William Livingston's Liberty Hall. (One might wonder why he moved, as Boxwood is much closer to the school. Maybe he was more taken by Livingston's daughters than by Boudinot's family?) Forming a close and lasting friendship with the young and ambitious student, Boudinot later supported Hamilton's proposed fiscal programs while in Congress.

George Washington also made a visit to Boxwood Hall, not during the Revolution, but just before his first inaugural. He'd taken about a week to travel from his Virginia home to New York, which was then the capital of the young country, and Elizabethtown was his final stop before reaching the city.

Upon becoming director of the U.S. Mint in 1795, Boudinot moved to Philadelphia and sold Boxwood Hall to Jonathan Dayton. A patriot in his own right, Dayton had been the youngest signer of the U.S. Constitution and Speaker of the House of Representatives. (As a side note, he was also friends with Aaron Burr and was indicted for treason in the ex-vice president's alleged attempted western land grab.)

Boxwood Hall may be more modest in size today than it was during Boudinot's day, but it's a true gem in a city that highlights aspects of its substantial Colonial heritage while hosting a diverse, multicultural population of immigrants and first generation Americans. Two young student volunteers told me the story of the house and its furnishings, and they were clearly excited to have notable history right in their own neighborhood. I couldn't help but share in their enthusiasm, and it reminded me why it's so important to preserve and maintain places like Boxwood Hall.

Washington, Damn the Torpedoes and Hitting an Elephant: Plainfield's Drake House

Over a dozen significant historic attractions in close proximity to each other: it's a New Jersey booster's dream and challenge. Union County's Four Centuries event makes it easy to step back in time to get a broader understanding of the region's contributions to the country's development and growth.

Thing is, when you visit five Colonial-era houses in less than four hours, you tend to be exposed to a lot of the same types of artifacts. I've seen my share of chamber pots both decorative and functional, reading lamps that affixed conveniently to ladder-backed chairs, bed warmers, foot warmers, cast-iron plates, you name it. Don't get me wrong: museum docents should point them out, as it might be the first time a visitor has ever seen them, but me, I've seen so many it's as if I grew up with them (which I didn't, incidentally). I'm proud of my state's history and heritage, but at this point, I'm looking for something a bit more distinctive.

I found it at the Drake House in Plainfield.

House museums take one of two curatorial approaches. Some focus on a single era, so you can better understand the lives and times of a particular family, or perhaps what a notable visitor or resident might have experienced there. Others present a much wider scope or time frame. The Drake House does a mix of both, reminding visitors of Plainfield's rural beginnings and its later status as a mid-19th century resort for wealthy New Yorkers.

The story begins in 1746, when Isaac Drake built the house for his son Nathaniel, who married and had several children. Supporting the family's patriotic bent, three of his sons served in local militias, and their freed slave Caesar was a wagoner for the Continental Army. The home gains added significance for having briefly hosted George Washington during the Battle of the Short Hills in 1777. The original lean-to kitchen still includes a broad hearth and a column which would have been knocked out of place to collapse the roof and separate the room from the rest of the house if there were an out-of-control fire. Additionally, the dining room and a back bedroom are furnished to reflect 18th century decor.

The Farragut signal cannon

Early Victorian times are reflected in the parlor, with a trove of furnishings and some fascinating knick-knacks. Manhattan Banking Company President John Harberger bought the home from the Drakes in 1864 and then added more rooms with contemporary touches. One can't help but notice the shiny brass signal cannon in the corner, formerly owned by his neighbor, Central Railroad of New Jersey employee Loyall Farragut. You may have heard of Loyall's father, Admiral David Farragut, who served in the US Navy during the Civil War and is best remembered for shouting, "Damn the torpedoes... full steam ahead!"

Heath hen was once a common
food source for the working class
in New Jersey and elsewhere.

Victorian decor sought to bring the outdoors into the house, and the Drake is no exception. A taxidermied heath hen is displayed under a glass cloche, representing a once common but now extinct species. According to our guide, the Smithsonian has often asked the Plainfield Historical Society to part with it, to no avail. I was happy enough to be able to appreciate this long-gone bird skillfully preserved. You don't see much wild fowl of any kind -- but for turkeys -- wandering through the woods or fields of New Jersey anymore.

The real treat of the day is sequestered in the Harberger Library in the back of the house. While Victorian furnishings and period wallpaper make for an impressive sight, they pale in comparison to the seven-by-nine-foot oil painting that essentially takes up one wall of the room. The Death of General Sedgwick portrays the final moments of the highest-ranking Union casualty in the Civil War. As the story goes, he was repeatedly warned to duck for cover during the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House, as Confederate sharpshooters were just a thousand feet away and already firing. Sedgwick rebuffed all warnings, saying, "They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance!" Those turned out to be his final words, as he was struck just below the left eye and perished shortly after.

Julian Scott provided this key to assist viewers
in identifying the people in his portrayal
of the death of General Sedgwick 

Beyond its size, the painting is striking for the authenticity of its portrayal of the scene, which isn't surprising because it's the work of a noted Civil War veteran. Julian Scott was just 15 years old and a fifer with the 3rd Vermont Infantry when he was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for saving several of his combat brethren. Injured in the war, he studied painting at the National Academy of Design and under the tutelage of Emmanuel Leutze, painter of the famed Washington Crossing the Delaware. Scott eventually opened a studio in Plainfield and became well known for his stirring and realistic portrayals of combat and its aftermath. He died in Plainfield in 1901 and is buried in Hillside Cemetery, Scotch Plains.

All told, I got a lot more from my visit to the Drake House than I expected to, and I barely scratched the surface of the museum's representation of Plainfield as a summer resort. I'll be delving into that in a future installment, so stay posted!

Journey to the center of the EARTH

That headline isn't a typo. Yes, we found ourselves journeying to the EARTH Center. Who'd think it would be in North Brunswick?

Okay, okay... I'm playing around a little bit, but when Ivan and I saw a small brown sign pointing us to the EARTH Center off Route 130, we had to check it out. Neither of us had heard of it before, and, well, it was a brown sign, which designates a park. We'd had a largely unsuccessful morning of birding, so maybe scouting a new location would perk us up a bit.

Access to Davidson's Mill Pond

The Brunswicks can offer some interesting surprises. While easy access to the Turnpike and Routes 1, 18 and 130 has fostered a great deal of development, pockets of bucolic scenery and farmland are still scattered about the remaining open space. Our trip to EARTH brought us past a few houses on winding Riva Avenue, but we soon found ourselves at the scenic Davidson's Mill Pond Park.

The park itself has a couple of lovely ponds and the stone remnants of the foundation of its eponymous mill. It's a nice place to walk your dog, have a picnic or just sit and meditate on a nice day. We, however, were more driven to find out what all of this EARTH stuff is about. The answer, as we saw from a directional sign, was past a wooden gate and down a paved drive, so we parked by the Mill Pond boat launch and started our stroll.

Almost to the EARTH Center!

EARTH, as it turns out, is an acronym for Environment Agriculture Research Teaching Health, and the center is part of the Rutgers Cooperative Extension. As you might now, each county has an Extension of the larger New Jersey Agricultural Experiment Station. Basically, it's the public outreach arm that Rutgers operates to fulfill its obligation as the state's land grant university. Each Extension offers an array of classes and educational services on topics like gardening, home economics, nutrition, horticulture and the like. They're a good resource if you can't figure out why your tomato plants aren't producing, if you find an invasive species in your yard that defies identification, or if you're looking for an environmentally sound solution for a stink bug infestation in your house.

These tall grasses looked like a great buffet
for seed-eating birds! 

We seemed to be the only birders at EARTH. While we were getting a lay of the land, a few people came by, walking their dogs or checking out the short trails meandering through the woods, but no one had binoculars. We were also the only people who showed any curiosity about the solar installation, cultivated rain and butterfly gardens, and the small building that looked like a kids' clubhouse.

Ivan was on the lookout for sparrows, so he was drawn, magnet-like, to the large acreage of grasses beyond. About five feet high and gone to seed, the grasses were sectioned off with flexible fencing and labeled in a way that seemed to denote the nutrients they'd been given. Some got commercial fertilizer, while others got compost or manure, or nothing at all. It looked like a good experiment to teach kids about cultivation techniques.

We weren't seeing many birds, but then it was midday and they were probably laying low for the next several hours. Just as we were reluctantly agreeing that our time there was only a reconnaissance mission for future visits, sparrows started to emerge. One would pop up, fly 30 feet or so and duck back down into the growth. Occasionally one would perch on the fencing for a minute or two before going back into hiding, but for the most part, we had to try to identify them on the wing.

Another view of EARTH

We had more luck near an open-air structure several feet away. A host of savannah sparrows and phoebes bopped around in the open, allowing us to get a good look for a few minutes before they went back into hiding or flew away.

Noting a stand of pine trees in the distance, Ivan went to check for signs of owls while I found a bench and quietly took in the surroundings. How is it that we'd never heard of this place? It looks to be great habitat for grassland birds, and raptors should also be around, drawn by seed-eating rodents. Some other birder had to have found it before us, yet it hasn't shown up on any lists or bulletin boards.

Was it our own little discovery? Right now, it seems to be. Regardless, we'll be returning to EARTH sometime soon. It's inevitable.

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.

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.