Early Days on Highland Avenue

Some time during his adult life, Clarence Graham was moved by the interest of his nephew to reminisce about boyhood days on Highland Avenue. The Grahams lived in the house at 46 Highland now owned by the Allen Schulz family. The account is suggestive of Booth Tarkington or of “Our Gang,” circa the late 19^th century. Excerpts which give the flavor of the period or are of general interest appear below. Only infrequent and very minor editing has been done for the sake of clarity. Xerox copies of the complete original document may be found in the Glen Ridge Library Historical File.

I must have been about 18 months old when my family moved from Flushing, Long Island, to “Ridgewood” – that being the name of the western section of the town of Bloomfield at that time…

Our grounds were entirely enclosed by picket fences with a large gate at the driveway and a small one at the front walk. This was to prevent stray cows from a nearby dairy from making free with our garden… I can recall holding on to our front gate and gazing across the road into a beautiful field of rye, and, on the slope of the hill, another field of corn…

I remember there was a boardwalk on the west side of Highland Avenue that extended from Belleville Avenue to Baldwin Street. All the fields on the east side were enclosed in snake fences there being no houses on the east side of the street. Near Belleville Avenue there was a beautiful pine tree which we called the “Music Tree” because when we paused to listen we could hear tones when the wind blew through its branches. The boardwalk extended on both sides of the tree and it was considered bad luck to pass on the left side. One day I wanted to show how fearless I was in reference to superstition, so I passed on the left and began jumping up and down on a loose board. The next moment my stocking were filled with yellow jackets and I ran screaming home for medical treatment. Thereafter I always took the precaution to pass on the right side…

…My father arrived home one day and said to my mother, “Mary, I have a surprise for you. Do you remember that studious young man who boarded in the same house with us in Wilkes-Barre? Young Brewer? Well, I met him with Mr. Bond. He is married and has a little girl. They are boarding at the Bond’s and have bought a lot just across the street from us. So we will have some nice new neighbors.”

Sure enough, it was not long after that a handsome new house was added to our community. Mrs. Brewer and mother took to each other immediately, and were fast friends all their lives… It was not very long before a young man appeared in the Brewer family. He was rosy and plump. He was named Orton, in honor of Mr. William Orton, president of the Western Union Company. My first observation of him, after he had reached the toddling age, was something bobbing around under a large straw hat in the strawberry bed down in their garden. Sometime afterward he developed a taste of cherries and was a constant guest at our trees during the season…

… There was only one post office and that was on Broad Street, Bloomfield, where Grants is now located. There was no delivery. You had to go get the mail. I can recall one time when I went down and we had to stand in line way out in the street waiting for the mail to be sorted. This inconvenience stirred up considerable discontent in our little community and some of the leading citizens sent in a petition to the government for a substation. It was finally granted but there was one complication. There was already a thriving town in New Jersey by the name of Ridgewood, so the name of our section of Bloomfield would have to be changed. I never heard who was responsible for selecting the name “Glen Ridge,” but as there is a Glen and also a Ridge, people took to it readily. The beautiful wide avenue which runs the length of the Borough is the only reminder of the old name.

The new post office was set up in the D.L. & W.R.R. Station…. The ticket agent was appointed Postmaster, and his name was Thomas Moritz. In addition to his official duties, he was a barber and specialized on children. He used to take us out under the trees, back of the little wooden station, bringing a chair for us to sit on, and clip our hair between train times.

He had a son, Tommy, Jr., who learned the Morse code, and not long after the Western Union opened an office in the station with young Tom as operator. Thus the station became a sort of “center of gravity” as it were, for the Glen Ridge residents…

There were enough boys in our neighborhood to establish quite a formidable gang. There were rival gangs from across the tracks, however, and when we approached too near the tracks, some of us would be apt to return home with a black eye and torn shirt. Of the innocent (or otherwise) escapades of our group, I shall have more to say later, merely remarking here that none of us ever ended up in a Reform School…

There were a couple of toy cannons and some fuses and a can of powder secreted in our chicken coop. On the eventful day (the Fourth of July) we were up with the crow of the first rooster. We carried our armaments to Mr. Brewer’s front walk, where operations immediately got under way. The noise attracted the attention of a few of the younger boys, who were not too welcome with their loose firecrackers and lighted punk.

I was called into the house by my mother to perform some duty, and upon leaving heard the most piercing screams that could possibly emanate from a pair of young lungs. As I reached the scene, I saw something resembling a monkey running around in circles on the lawn. It was poor Loraine (one of the “gang”), his face blackened, his hair and eyebrows scorched, and his shirt burning. He had tried to pull his shirt off, but his hands were so blistered he could not use them. I finally succeeded in tearing it off, while someone wrapped a heavy coat around him and lead him into the house. I might mention here that the screams were produced by a small boy whose lighted punk came in contact with the loose powder, and who had received a minor injury.

There is no object going into the details of (Loraine’s) long suffering convalescence, only to remark that he was a good soldier through it all. His father told me afterwards that it was his pluck and my mother’s nursing that saved him…

In those days in winter, not all of the boys were clad in thick winter overcoats as at the present time. They wore heavy underwear under rather heavy suits. In addition they wore long worsted scarfs, twisted around their throats, crossed on their chests and tied in the back. They also wore leggings and high-buttoned shoes in stormy weather, if they did not own rubber boots…

In my boyhood days there were quite a few industries that gave prestige to our little community. Wheeler’s Paper Mill was just off Bloomfield Avenue at the D.L. & W.R.R. crossing. They made cardboard for paper boxes, I think. Then there was Moffett’s Brass Rolling Mill, down in the Glen underneath the present Parkway Bridge. Further along in the Glen, East of Ridgewood Avenue was Brower’s Paper Mill where they made rolls of paper of various colors. All of our Christmas chains were made of scraps of these attractive papers. Then on Belleville Avenue, between the Public School playground and Herman Street, was Hayden’s Brass Rolling Mills, with an entrance on Bloomfield Avenue also. Just across the street on the corner of Belleville and Sherman, was Samuel Benson’s Brass Rolling Mill. We boys were more familiar with this factory because the Bensons were neighbors and owned most of the property on Highland extending to Sherman. The old Benson homestead faced Bloomfield Avenue and was on the site of the school baseball diamond…

During the period of our breakaway from Bloomfield, there were no sewer connections, so we were dependent upon cesspools, subject to frequent visits from “The Odorless” excavating establishments. Neither were there any water, gas, or electric connections. The water was supplied by artesian wells or cisterns, piped into the house and drawn up to a tank on the third story by means of a Force Pump.

Each home had its outside “Castle,” some in bold relief, others more picturesque. Ours was De Luxe. It was a three-seater, two for adults, one for little children. It was protected on three sides with a substantial lattice covered with honeysuckle. It was finished with lath and plaster which made it a little warmer in the winter. Many were the discussions on the important affairs of the day that took place there.

After the modern improvements began to make themselves evident in our neighborhood, the “Castles” began to disappear. Ours was nearly the last to go. The moving day is worth recording. It happened on a Saturday afternoon. Some Italians arrived with a heavy truck and a three-horse hitch. By means of a small windlass and several crowbars they were able to draw it up on the truck and make it fast. As the truck pulled out into the street, my brother Tom and I became quite overcome with emotion. We stood on the sidewalk with bowed heads and taking out our hanks “burst into tears” simultaneously, much to the edification of Mrs. Benson who had been viewing the proceedings from her bedroom window. As the truck moved along, we were saluted by the crew whose shiny teeth indicated their approval of our acting….

Most all of the boys in our neighborhood learned to swim in the old Morris Canal. Our favorite spot was a good mile and a half from home, above an inclined plane, where it ran through a wooded section. There were always some of the older boys with us until we were able to take care of ourselves. The bathing suits were informal, existing only in the imagination.

When I think of the care and protection given to the modern swimming pools, and compare them with our old Canal, I wonder how we lived to grow up. The water itself was not unlike any small river, but as it wended its way through the cities and towns, it became a catch-all for any discarded matter – either animal or vegetable. We became quite efficient in dodging these “floating mines.” The first fellow who spotted one would shout “Dead Dog” so we would be ready to duck as it passed on.

The boat traffic was not too heavy and gave an added interest to the scene. The complete outfit consisted of a coal barge with a small cabin in the rear (neat or otherwise) and two sturdy mules tethered to the bow by a stout rope. A typical crew would be a family affair, “Pop” at the tiller, “Pete,” a teenager astride the second mule (where he could govern both), and Mom at the cabin door peeling potatoes – while little “Nellie” swept the deck or watered the geraniums in the tomato cans. For the most part they were friendly and we showed our appreciation by trying to appear as little as possible like nudists – easily accomplished by ducking down and presenting heads and shoulders only.

Once in a while a rival gang would appear and then we were subject to some rather unfair tactics. Sometimes as we were emerging from the water to dress, somebody would throw a couple of handfuls of dirt in the air which would settle on our damp shoulders, compelling us to go back and wash off. Another trick they had was to “chaw” our clothes. Translated this meant tying knots in our underwear and stocking. We were quite chilled at times before we could get them undone.

We always enjoyed our walks home as we made frequent stops at farm houses to refresh ourselves with a nice drink of well water and at the same time make an appraisal of the crops in the apple orchards for future sampling…

Our neighbor, Mr. Benson’s fields, adjoining his factory, were all under cultivation, and the corn was just beginning to tassle, one Halllowe’en night. We boys were assembled in the Brewer’s rear garden about to start on some expedition, when it occurred to us that we could save a lot of time if we skirted along the edge of the field, in a single file, instead of going all the way back to the road. This we proceeded to do, keeping well away from the outer edge of the corn. Suddenly, young Obbie (Orton Brewer) called out, “They’re coming after us!” Sure enough, there were Mr. Benson and two millhands, armed with clubs, on the gallop. Of course we became panicky when we saw this array of force and took to our heels, fanwise, through the field, doing considerable damage to the corn.

When I explained our innocence to Mr. Benson, in father’s presence, father seemed to think that appeasement on the spot would have been a better policy. But Mr. Benson was not easily appeased in those days. We took to the road thereafter…

The surrounding country was undeveloped, with large patches of beautiful woodland. We used to build huts by bending over young saplings – pegging their tips to the ground and then roofing them with sweet fern. We built fireplaces nearby and cooked our supper. On some occasions we would spend the night in our huts, but not too often as the mosquitoes and gnats were rampant.

There was one place we called the “Cave” which I suppose in modern times called a “hideout.” It was located on the side of the embankment parallel to the D.L. & W. R.R. tracks, short distance west of the present Parkway Bridge. The R. R. Co. had evidently dug into the side of the bank to use the earth for grading. By the time we took over, the small trees and shrubs had formed a screen over the entrance. So we had a pretty safe place for protection from enemies or rain storms. There was quite a good-sized pond there in those days – nothing in the way of fishing, but plenty of bullfrogs which we used to kill with our slingshots.

Our cave was unfurnished except for a thick carpet of sweet fern, making it comfortable for those who wished to stretch out. We had occupied this place of refuge for some time when one day we started to hold a meeting for some important event. As we advanced, we saw smoke coming from the direction of our cave. Upon reaching it we were amazed to see a heavy curtain stretched over the entrance, and a man with a gun and a dog standing guard. When one of the braver of the boys started to lift the curtain, both man and dog showed their teeth; the man seizing the boy’s arm and the dog ready to seize his legs.

The man wore earrings and had a black beard. He looked real fierce, but as he handed us a letter to read his expression changed for the better. The letter was from a R.R. official granting him permission to occupy “our cave” until he could find a more suitable abode. We all took off our caps and he smilingly lifted the curtain. There were two small cots in the room, a table and two chairs, also a homemade kitchen closet. On one of the cots was his wife nursing a baby. He told us in broken English that he had been out of work for some time and had been evicted for non-payment of rent. He had discovered our lair and the railroad men did the rest.

He said the night before some hoodlums had thrown stones and mocked him and he had scared them off with his gun. Both he and his wife smiled, gratefully, at our sympathetic attitude. Upon our leaving, the dog wagged his tail. I am glad to say the man found a job with a few weeks and was back in a real house again.

We stopped using the cave and the immediate vicinity a short time later on account of a tragedy that occurred on the railroad track over the trestle. The sister of one of our pals was walking the track with her younger brother when a train approached. She pushed him down under the ties and started to jump but the boy stuck his head up and she rushed to push him down again and in doing so she was run over and killed. The boy was unharmed. Our parents put a lid on after that…

There was a second story to Mr. Brewer’s barn with a nice room that was entirely vacant. One of the boys had a bright idea: “Let’s form a club and use the room for our headquarters.” The idea was immediately adopted. Another boy thought the name “Junior Athletic Club” would carry considerable prestige, so that name was also adopted. There must have been enough obsolete or damaged chairs to make us comfortable. I believe there was also a rickety old table where the “Chairman” presided.

Our athletic equipment consisted of two baseball bats, several Professional League balls, a much-worn glove and a dilapidated mask. Our membership fell short, by two, of a full “nine,” but that did not worry us as we played “One O Cat” and our opponents were chosen among our own team. The “fans” were an assortment of minors of both sexes and a few stray dogs.

Our parents rather encouraged this organization as it kept us in full view – and was good healthy exercise besides. As the summer waned and schools began to open, there were other diversions, but the Club remained intact.

That fall was an election year and we became politically minded. My older brother belonged to an Organization called the Dickerson Battery. There were about 30 young men in it and they toted a good-sized cannon mounted on a gun carriage. Both ends of the rope were attached so as to form a loop which made a double row of men. They all carried colored lanterns and the effect was dazzling in the dark. Every so often they would shoot a charge from the cannon. Then the Captain would shout,” What’s that matter with Grover?” Chorus: “He’s all right!” “Who’s all right?” Chorus: “Grover, hurrah!”

As this display of noise and color was usually preceded by a Fife and Drum Corps, it occurred to us that we could contribute something toward the campaign if we had one of our own. The necessary funds were raised by hard labor and possibly donations. How Mr. Brewer became our Purchasing Agent is an unexplained mystery; and he should have been well commended for his courage and unselfishness. I wonder how self-conscious I would have been walking through the Ferry boat with four drums hanging from my shoulders? (Mr. Brewer was a commuter to New York)…

There was an elderly German in our neighborhood who kept a couple of cows and used to peddle milk. We were one of his customers and it was quite interesting to see him trudging up the path to the back door with a yoke on his shoulders and two large cans hanging from it and a long-handled ladle attached to his waist. We would bring out our pitcher and he would dip down into the can and measure out the required amount. What chances we used to take!…

There was very little worthwhile fishing in the local ponds and brooks. The nearest and best place was the Passaic River at Pine Brook, some miles west of Caldwell. There were plenty of perch, pickerel, and even a black bass now and then to be caught without too much skill. It was an all-day affair and an exciting adventure for us to go on one of these expeditions. There was a Stage line from Montclair to Caldwell which met some of the D. L. & W. trains. We would take this Stage to Caldwell and hoof it the rest of the way to the river. There on a sloping bank we would stow away our lunch boxes in our coats and bait our hooks.