7962. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #4

4.  JOCKEY HOLLOW / 
SOUTH PLAINFIELD
There was a time when, quite near to

me, South Plainfield was still farmland.

And a fairly historical place as well. Late

into the 1970's, early 1980's, as everything

else, it sort of changed irrevocably into

the re-telling of land and place that it is

now : a rank line of subdivisions, with

here and there the usual historical society

types putting up a sign or interjecting

something about the wonderful world

that once was. As if they'd never been

complicit in its demise. It's usually, in

these civic contexts, the ones with the

loudest voices about history and markers

and plaques and reverence, who are the

worst offenders  -  the real estate wives,

maybe the cute, polite ones with their

expensive clothes and faux manners

who show houses on the weekend.

Their second tier of salesmanship is

a dilapidated form of self-sex, whereby

they quietly sell themselves, in their

looks I mean, in addition to the

qualities of the house. The very house

their husband's land and development

company probably put up where now

she wants the historical marker placed

for 'Henderson's Farm', or the 'Battle

of Little Plains', some disappearing

Revolutionary War skirmish between

colonials and Redcoat King's Armies

on the run. I know we have one or two

around here  -  real estate families wherein

the husband has the big hammer and rules

the real estate roost, tearing things down,

calling them later, say, 'Zappia Estates'

and at the same time having the wife

go to bat defending what's being done.

Refuting the damage  - 'Those were old

homes, rank and with mold. In need of

repair...' It's all crap. I used to do printing

for all these guys, and their public relations

needs too. David Annun, Moretti Real

Estate, Alan Pollak , J. J. Elek. Many other

names. I know how it's done and I know

what they do. It's all false-front, and it's

all lies  -  except for the facts, which

they make up and then own. Not

much you can do there.

-

Long about 1995, in South Plainfield, I

got wind (through my work with the Star

Ledger, writing overnight coverage for

town meetings, zoning and variance

boards, boards of education meetings,

etc., I'd get to cover, and hear about all

these different issues in about 15

different towns) of another old home,

this in South Plainfield, which had been

approved  -  after a rancorous meeting

or two  -  for tear-down and 'redevelopment'

(by any of the usual crooks). First chance

I got, I set out in search of this place. It

turned out to be a wonderfully one-of-

a-kind brick and stone home, built by

some Italian guy, whose name was

inscribed in the bricks and concrete at

the walkway entrance. Quite catching

in appearance  -  low, rambling, perfect

use of window space and wood, along

with the old-world quality of the fine

brick and masonry work. Had to be seen;

as did the yard and little garage/barn and

other outbuildings. My friend and I walked

right in to the open and unattended barn.

The loft and floor were filled with old

things, junked, forgotten, collected. It

was a site. In the loft area my friend

nabbed an old RCA Victrola, old-style,

table-top, crank-handle powered. It was

a sight, and nicely original and decal'd.

All that was damaged was the sound

horn, that big thing that used to come

out of those old RCA Victrolas, sort

of like a megaphone to better amplify

the sound. No problem, he eventually

found a really nice replacement one

for it, from a refurbisher. We threw

all this into my car. The place was

great, and the large, old, three-floor,

wood homes all around it were of the

traditional, old-style American forms,

chicken-coops in the yards, car-barns,

farm sheds. There were about four of

these homes around and, in the middle

too, some horrid-looking, new-brick

Baptist Church. Ugly and out of place,

but that's how they do this  -  beginning

their infiltration of bad taste. I knew there

was a history here  -  all these old homes,

a curious old section of South Plainfield,

and there was even, unbelievably, to the

rear of all this, the remains of an old

race-track! A horse and paddock,

oval-shaped, track, where once, probably

80 years before, people came with their

buggies and horses, and later, cars, and

parked on the grass and the hard-pack for

their race-track trackside entertainments.

It was all still visible : the fences, the

remnants of the stands, the oval of the

track and the worn-out depressions in

the grass and ground. What is it now,

some twenty plus years later? All gone.

Some ten or so new homes take the places.

-

Before too long, making me think we were

busted for sure, some guy came stumbling

over  -  from a distance he appeared to be in

earnest, but as he came to us it was apparent

he was just a nearby local, and half or more

drunk as he was, to boot. Instead of accosting

us for being there, or scolding us for trespass

or whatever, he began a wild, talkative

monologue. My friend made the mistake

of telling him (as a cover) that I was 'from

the Star Ledger' (I wasn't) and that was all

this guy needed to hear. Immediately, he

somehow assumed I could write the expose

article of a lifetime to tell what went on and

what had happened here : he rambled and raged

at the inequities of the 'thieves and real-estate

bastards' destroying the town and these blocks

in particular; how the neighbors had spent all

their energies fighting this; how the neighborhood

was ruined, what was to come, what a fine, old

house this had been, etc. He was deadly serious

and in full overdrive. And pretty drunk. Offering

for us to come to his own home with him and

continue drinking (we passed on that) he said

we should 'feel free to take whatever we see,

whatever we want, because none of those

bastards are going to want it and we've

already all taken ours. We've been through

here'. And then he walked us to the adjacent

property, through a broken fence and over a

small, wet low-spot, and pointed to the chicken

coops and a stable, all at the rear of this grand,

set-back, old house. 'This too is going'. He said.

The doomed old property was to be the next to

go. Funny thing is, all stripped and barren, it

does still stand, all these years later. It looks

like unkempt crap, but there are always two

or three cars in the long drive, and a few

tenants, or families, still live there.

-

In other respects, like Morristown, South 

Plainfield did have a lot of history and 

heritage, if they'd only taken care of it. 

The problem, and it's a constant problem, 

everywhere, is a political one  -  how local 

political types only see or justify growth 

and development as positive goals. Much 

like a publicly-traded stock company, 

wherein each quarter (folks, that's every 

three months) the rabid shareholders 

demand growth, not decline. They want 

profits, and perhaps dividends too, which 

grow from profits, as well as a constantly 

rising stock price. It's greed, quite simply, 

greed and stupidity. The simple fact is, it 

cannot happen. It shouldn't even be expected 

to happen. All companies fade and recede 

over time, the growth curve is not constant, 

nor is it exponential, and  -  in economics  -

certain  things are cyclical. Only the dumbest

of investors would not know of that. It's

the same, locally, with scab politicians  -

willing to wreck, plow and pave anything 

over so as to show, and be seen promoting,

growth. 'Growth' in quotes, as it's mostly

shabby, cluttering, rank, foul, and stupid.

And it ruins everyone else's life and habitat.

Try to get that back in your taxes.

-

And, one last thing for here, now, and back to

Morristown. Years back, about 1985, that same

friend and I, with my wife and son along too, 

visited, on the wooded fringe of Morristown, a 

place called Jockey Hollow. It's a historic

encampment of Revolutionary War times

and soldiers, while Washington himself

headquartered a distance off, in the old Ford

Mansion (and all still standing, as 
'Washington's Headquarters Historic Site'). It was 
a  November 're-enactment' weekend, which meant 
there were all sorts of 'soldiers', modern people 
acting as soldiers anyway, in full, authentic costume,
 period uniforms, bivouacs, tents, open campfires, 
the whole bit. A regular campfest. We tried, he and I,
all we could to break this one guy out of character.
He wouldn't budge. He pretended offense, and interest,
in my wife, the female, on the campgrounds  -  unless
she was, 'perhaps, a camp-follower?'  -  I said,
'Hey, Buddy, you're calling my wife a whore.' My
son, 9 years old, spending his time gleefully rolling
down the hillocks and otherwise just frolicking
about, he called some crazy name, I forget, which 
meant a soldier who'd gone mad, crazy, from the
combat-stress, etc. I said 'Hey buddy, you're calling
my kid crazy'. At that, I told him it was show-time,
and we had to have a go, I was taking offense. I 
grabbed his rifle, and blew his authentic-soldier 
brains out, right there, on the field.
 (OK, just kidding). We couldn't
break this guy, no how, no way. 
Pretty cool.