RUDIMENTS, pt. 262
Maple Tree, pt. 1
How I first got started with the
Maple Tree has to do with two
friends from Sewaren, now moved
back to Minnesota. Their drinking
nights (Friday and Saturday) out
were usually either to a place called
Moby Dick's (still there), or, on
really bad nights, this 'old-man's'
bar called the Maple Tree -
nobody ever there except 5 or
6 brooding old guys quietly
staring into their beers, the
place half-lit, timeless and
with nothing going on. I never
went, but they said it had a pool
table in the back room, and
some other junk hanging
around, all like a corpse just
waiting for life. This was
about 1985 or '6. Then I was
told the guy died, I think it was,
and his wife had taken it over
and it was really running down.
When you come right down to it,
you have to figure that an old
man's bar is going soon to run
out of old men. They each run
down, like bad batteries, and
die. So I guess the 'clientele,'
as is said, needs a constant
replenishment.
-
This all went on for a while, and
then I forgot about it. As a kid,
I'd been to the Maple Tree for
picnics and such - it then had
large grounds, maybe 50 acres,
and a pond with a foot-bridge,
filled with 'sunnies' I think we
called them - small orange/gold
fish. Catchable but useless for
that. Some people would fish off
the bridge - a stick, string and
hook would suffice. Then, over
time it all began falling away -
the big, old, barn remained, and
some dirt lanes and paths, but
much else was taken away and
eventually all lost. The pond area
became a factory/warehouse.
The bucolic and country-boy
aspects of the entire place were
gone. Then they took away the
adjacent prison farm, replacing
it with a State-Hospital; kind of
crazy-people collections of huts
and screaming-yards. It was
pretty horrid but it lasted for
years. You'd go by there, all
hours, and there would, grabbing
at the metal fencing, screaming
their brains out along the rear
at the tracks, these bizarre
people, seemingly desperate
and in mental pain. In those
years my girlfriend and I,
crossing the tracks at the rear
yard of my house, would
walk the fence - making at
least some sort of human
contact with these poor, lost
souls. She worked there as well,
15 or 20 hours a week, feeding
and tending to some of these
cases. One of her favorite ones
was John Balby, or maybe Valby,
I forget - she fed him and would
often tell me the sounds and words
he said as he tried eating. It was
the scariest thing in the world
to me, and saddest too. There
was a lethal edge to living like
that; almost non-human, a pure,
animalistic, quality that scared
me. The dividing line from my
own world to that world didn't
seem so distant, or dividing, to
me. No one had ever prepared
me for crazy-house or internments
like this. In the early evening
hours of that Winter and Spring,
I'd often walk her to work, there.
It was maybe a mile from her house,
or less, if we cut through the tracks
from my house - but that included
avoiding some fencing and going
through the truck entrance to a local
steel cabinet company; technically
off-limits. But so what. As we'd
pass the rear porched areas and
cottages of this State School (there
were about 25 circular cottages, each
holding 12-20 patients, of varying
intensities of disability, we'd see,
and hear, the grunts and groans of
the patients, some half in and out
of fenced holding pens. I swear it
was all unworldly to me, and made
a profound impact. I can remember
that early Spring as if it was still a
vividly running film,in my mind :
the smells, the sounds, the weather;
things thawing out and greening-up
everywhere.
-
Getting out to Rahway Avenue, this
would bring us right next to the old
Maple Tree. Which had been the
'White Star Farm,' once - it was
run-down in 1966, pretty much the
beginning of the run-down that took
it to the '80's. Anyway, by 1988 I'd
began mixing some with motorcycle
activities and once or twice somehow
there was a meeting or some sort held
at the Maple Tree, in this horrid,
twisted, rank back room - sorely in
need of wiring, lighting, and repair.
There was a daytime group of its own
there - mostly prison guards from
just up the street at the maximum
security prison. They'd come in
for lunch. There was a kitchen there,
and sandwiches and some hot stuff
was served, along with beer and booze.
That was lunch, mostly for the prison
guards, the local mailmen, and some
local truck drivers. Eventually the
town shut them down with their
kitchen - their lunch trade -
because the huge industrial stove
they cooked on had no venting
system. It proved too costly to have
done, so instead they just killed the
kitchen (or at least when people
were looking). Hazel used to tell
me, as well, about their tax problems.
Unreported hot dog sales, let's call it.
He'd say, to the effect, 'you've claimed
to have sold 1,711 hot dogs in the last
six months, yet your receipts for
mustard, and relish, reflect amounts
for considerably more than 1,700
hot dogs? How do you account for
that?' ('Well, uuh, unreported cash
sales?' How's that?). She used to
be amazed at how they'd wrinkle
around these figures and find all
this stuff out. It's got to be tough
running a business of that nature.
So, anyway, the tax guy was always
hounding them. (1996 era anyway).
-
I'd gotten friendly with her a little bit,
and we were using, at that time, for
our bike runs, a place in Union, called
Farcher's Grove. Great spot, except it
had been a Nazi Bundt-Club Hall or
whatever those sympathizer German
clubs were called. The guys running
it were sneeringly evil at heart - names
like Gunter and Hans and Edelbert;
along with their wives - swashbuckling,
harsh, amazing Germanic and Nordic
women. We'd have planning meeting
there, contract for the hall and grounds,
1700 bucks, whatever; and after we'd
made all our plans and the meetings
were over (the runs and swap meets
were always great successes, by the
way), out would come the after-hours
free beer and liquor. On them. German
Weiss beers, schnapps, Goldenschlagger,
or whatever it was called, supposedly
with flecks of real gold in it. They'd
then start regaling us with their Fatherland
tales, brings out the medals and knives
and medallions. Awe and wonderment
at this stuff. It was crazy amazing, And
the wives. Prideful. Like Adolph was
still there, in the other room. Eventually
the outlaw clubs started mixing in, we
all got friendly, troubles began ensuing.
FBI, Biker task force teams, agents
on the adjoining factory rooftops
filming everything with their long
lenses. I kid you not. The comings and
gong got to be too much. And then
Farcher's Grove was sold and razed.
The Woodbridge Auction grounds,
as well, was gone - a Home Depot
took the place. We were stuck, and
needed a place. I talked to Hazel and
she thought it was a splendid idea.
We got the place for like $800 an
event. The entire grounds was ours
to use; beer truck in the yard, etc.
live music on the stage we'd bring
in, food, open fire pits, vendors, etc.
Inside the bar, whatever Hazel made
that money was hers. She was elated,
and made out well. This went on for
some 6 years, maybe 8 events a year.
Motorcycles everywhere. Cops.
Money. Guests. Bands. All the same
as Farcher's Grove except with the
authenticity of the Nazi influence.
We got the fake ones.
-
In addition to that, being a near-to
alcoholic Biker as I was through
most of the 90's, we'd have packed
houses there every Friday and
Saturday night - and I mean
every. Bands (I ran a band schedule
monthly), parties, raffles. And on
Sunday mornings, wherever we
were headed out (usually some
pigfest in NYC, or to a semi
literate place down south called
'Just Plain Jane's), we'd use the
Maple Tree as our start-out point,
mostly about 11am. Which again
meant a nice early start on the
beer (Hazel made out some more)
and then some recreational drunk
riding. Bikers in the flesh. Ah,
well, you had to be there. I daresay,
in all honesty, we kept that place
going and in business for those
ten years.
-
One time, one of the outlaw clubs
- this is an example of the troubles
we'd sometimes face - came in to
one of these bikefests, and in time
they commandeered the men's room
to scold or have some sort of
meeting with someone who had
caused a problem, and they
announced 'Men's Room closed'
- for their time being. Unwittingly,
in about 10 minutes, one of the
half-buzzed locals gets it in his
head that it was time for the urinal,
and strolls in. They ball-peen
hammered this fool's head for
barging in. he came staggering
out, blood flowing, and ran out
the back door, In a blaze of fury.
Knowing he lived locally, and
faring the worst (it was dark out)
a few of us set out after him, to
make sure he was alive and to
hopefully get him home and explain
away a bad scene, without the cops.
We never found him. Wherever he
went, he went good. I never did
find out any follow-up to that one,
and to this day I wonder how he
fared. It sounds weird, but that's a
true story.
-
Next chapter, I'll do some physical
details of the Maple Tree's unique,
but still 'squalid' interior, and some
of the stories it had.
No comments:
Post a Comment