6. SAMPTOWN

6. SAMPTOWN

Probably the most forgotten community

around here is what once was 'Sampton',

also once called 'Waterville', and also

originally called Samptown. It's long gone.

The following sad note is the closing

paragraph on a sort of 'municipal history'

of Samptown, squeezed in now as it is

between references by name to South 

Plainfield and Piscataway, each of which

would lay fuller claim to it if they could:

'It was Samptown's misfortune to have

become part of a community that has 

little or no interest in its past. For that 

reason, its memory has been consigned 

to a few pages in a dusty history book 

and the ghosts of the soldiers who fought 

and died there. Pity.' You know what I

wrote in that previous piece, about the

cop car brazenly sitting, in the present

day, on the very spot where so much old

history and presence bled through. All of

the Samptown area is like that. The word

to be used is 'hideous.' I am reminded of

an old Twilight Zone episode, one that has

always stayed with me  - one that has

infiltrated, obviously, my mind and my

thinking. In it, a wagon-train guy, whose

son is ill, leaves his wagon train, desperate

to find a medicine or a cure or something

for his son, gravely ill in a wagon. I'm 

glossing over everything, but he leaves 

the wagon train, walks over a hill, and is

somehow plopped into the modern day 

(1959) of a roadside diner and some

unsuspecting, and then very suspecting,

people. The story goes on, lots of the

usual blather (save the kid, he'll maybe

someday be a 'great doctor', etc.). 

Anyway, whatever the merits and the

shortcomings  -  these range from the

conversations, and the differences over

clothing and rifles and places and ideas,

but it all works  -  the episode is always

to the forefront for me at places like this.

I walk Samptown. There are only remnants,

and only if you know. Once there were

water mills, bucolic ponds and streams,

country farms and houses and even a

drawbridge of sorts over a twisting land

(I've seen pictures). But then came the

railroads, the idea of mills and water

'power' (the heck with just the water),

the paths and lanes were widened, and 

by the 1930's it was over. Roads and 

factories, etc. There was some vital

Revolutionary War skirmish activity and

battles here, dead bodies, cannonballs,

muskets and the rest. Over the years

things have been found. The only truly

old and original part now, which I 

actually like to walk  -  there's nothing 

much else there and one's mind can

soar  -  is the old graveyard. It's part

new too, but there are old sections, 

really old sections, war sections and 

an entire Jewish section. It's pretty 

mute, all of it, and you have to do 

the talking, here, yourself. Otherwise 

it doesn't talk. The area is, however,

littered with the ghosted remnants 

of the world that we have passed 

through and which has passed through

us. The only thing left there now is

the cemetery, a car wash, and a big

factory joint called 'Harris Structural 

Steel'. Until ten years or so back, there 

was also a large Pepsi-Cola Bottling 

Plant there. The rest is just junk  -  

and I am  always ashamed 

here by how we live.

-

Never knowing what to make of 

anything, I just most often wind 

up praying to my own version of 

God. Not God the Militant or God 

the Merciful. Neither of those; none,

in fact, of any of the normal. I tend 

more towards God the Transformative. 

There's not much good we can answer 

back with, so I do this all fleetingly  -  

absorbing into my life lessons that 

which I see and feel deep within my 

own comportment. I walk , when I'm 

like this, in a different air  -  same 

air, sort of, that I write from. Not

an atmosphere of Earth at all. Well,

hard to explain, but easy to breath.

-

There are places around, like Batsto 

and Allaire, that once used to be 

unassuming. I remember, in 1966 

and '67, going to those places on 

Summer days just to regale myself

in the informal lassitude of the past, 

the very past, the unheralded and 

untroubled past. Things just were; 

these places were, sure to say, historic 

spots, but no one ran overboard to

cater to all the crap like they do today. 

I often think that one of the keys to 

today's downfall of all things is that 

somewhere along the line someone 

realized that they could work their 

way into free money, heck, into a real

racket, by hooking up government 

stuff to all these places : docents, guides,

the dumb history that goes with all of that, 

money for improvements, tours, new 

walkways and parking lots, fences, gift 

shops, gardens, all that. All at government 

expense, and unwittingly paid for by the

captive citizenry. It just sort of ruined 

everything. It became an 'industry' unto 

itself, like some sort of California Knott's 

Berry Farm of the communual mind. 

Horrid stuff : who needs some crappy 

history mis-told and prettified, at the

expense of the entire commonweal, for

otherwise bestial ignoramouses. Once 

these operators glommed onto the idea 

that the 'Government' would get, and 

stay, involved, and realizing there was 

a living and a salary to be made from 

it (and some cheesy, penny-ante fiefdom

to rule over), the whole system was 

gamed, until we have what we have 

today : children's days, changing tables

in the restrooms, cafeterias, seating areas,

and Summer 'concert nights' and junk.

A travesty, and a far, long cry from the

original reality of whatever truth was

supposing to be presented. And it's all

very funny : a place like Samptown, or

Sampton, or Waterville (whatever the 

hell it was ever originally called) is 

forgotten and negated to nothing at all  

-  a sad, ghosty memory of images and 

shadows for a writer  - while other places,

like Allaire and Batsto, get tickeld over

and all frumped up with stupidity in the

other direction. I think that middle ground,

of just leaving it all alone and letting 'you',

as the one person, alone, to take it all in

and carry yourself through the dreams 

and memories, was much, much better. 

History is never clean and simple, can't

be whitewashed for pleasure, often was

painful and with hurt, often stunk to

high heaven, and was filled to the brim

with Death and Destruction. 

5. WORDS

5. WORDS

One thing that I wanted to make clear,

with this South Plainfield story, is how

often, philosophically, the modern world 

just messes with your mind-patterns. It

actually opens up the field to great

new musings. Here's a for instance:

Somewhere along Hamilton Blvd, near

to Belmont and Montrose Aves., there

was, until not too long ago, a two-centuries

old farmhouse, with the old remnants of

what used to be all its fields and

out-buildings still standing; whitewashed,

and wooden. It made for a very nice site,

if your mind could overlook the slow,

over-the-years encroachments that took

place  - a schoolhouse, some ten or so

houses, widened streets, a large business

building., etc. Then, some five or six or

more years ago, it just all came down in

the Spring  -  nothing mattered, and 

nothing was left : all the remnants of an

orchard, a nice little flower-garden area,

the very serene rear porch and overhang,

with a shelter of perhaps a Summer-kitchen

or a farm 'mud-room', as they used to be

called, for the exits and returns for the

barn-chores and cow-milking necessary.

I remember those days well myself  -

in Pennsylvania  -  mud encrusted

boots, manure-splattered pants-legs,

old, wet barn-coats and chore-jackets.

But, anyway  -  here they just took

everything down, and in a few months

time, the new construction was in place

(they'd built a 'Senior-Citizens' Housing

Complex), along with all of its new paving.

Now, here is where it gets very weird.

These few years later, all the construction

in place and done, I am passing by,

remembering what was here  and all of

what I recall, when  -  lo and behold  -

a cop car sits, I see, well back on the

macadam'd area of what once had been

the farmhouse and yard I just had 

described. At this point, my mind 

short-circuited, sparks flew, and I was 

momentarily stirred to either murder or 

nothingness. I had been brought to the 

precipice of the unexplainable. My History, 

the pulp and matter of my days and 

life, had been reduced somehow to the

takeover I'd just witnessed. There was no

explaining it; there was just nothing to be

said. I knew once more that  -  at that

instance  -  I was alone in the world, a

world I did not understand and with which

I could not communicate. There was a vast

and wordless gulf, and all it proved to me

was the dense, layered, multi-dimensional

world of my own. Centuries had disappeared,

and without a blink, the 'civic' pattern of the

present day  - quite disgusting, may I add  -

had taken over. A young cop, in  a squad

car, brazenly sitting there doing traffic duty

-  checking and watching the cars as they

went by, alert for those who'd speed, or 

those with violations. The now and present

interdiction of force and law, without even

a comment or acknowledgement had taken

over all history. Maybe I wouldn't mind so

much if they at least said something. Are

they even aware of how they've trespassed

time and all its eras; flattened and collapsed

all of the past into storybook lines, alone,

in some stupid schoolbook of History while

they themselves have flagrantly violated

the cosmos in this way? Authority had

simply taken over, and now it sat there,

hidden  -  not even bold enough to show

itself  -  to ensnare the unwitting, to stop

the citizenry, to remove even more of a

human birthright's claim to being. Is

there any awareness to any of this, or,

instead, just the grumpy ignorance of

Law and its manifestations : senseless,

ignorant, unwise and Satanic? The Devil

himself drives a police car, I've read.

-

So, as you can see, I don't really know 

what to make of this, or, if I do know, I'm

not sure I'm getting it across. It saddens 

me to have to be the bearer of bad tidings

all the time. I have joy in myself too. You've

got to understand that, but part of the 'joy'

comes in the telling of the betrayals, so in 

essence my paradox is in the joy that 

comes from telling of the bad. How do 

you get that, and live with it all? It gets 

maddening enough to just have to be a

quite ordinary adult who  -  by this time  -

thought I'd be King or President or some

big ass Nobel prize winner or such, in

Literature and Art and all that. Never did

turn out that way, and that burden's mine.

But it's OK, that was never the matter. It's

fine because I 'see' other things. And those

other things have turned out to be what I

write about, and it all suits me fine. To sort

of paraphrase something from the 'Franny'

chapter of 'Franny and Zooey', by J. D.

Salinger (oh, old-timer), here's what a

writer is supposed to do  -  writer, poet,

whatever, and hopefully, here, something

I am doing, no matter the consequences 

or the reality of what is done : 'a writer is

supposed to leave something, after you

get off the page and all. The crummy ones

don't leave a single, solitary thing, except

about themselves maybe. The good ones, 

they get inside your heads, and leave 

something there, just because they do,

just because they know how.' Yes, that

works  -  they leave 'droppings'. Those

droppings can be anything at all  -  a 

story, a picture, the idea of something, 

a place, even just a unique pile of words, 

words which do something you've somehow 

never seen done before. It's a grace, 

and it's a graceful pity too. Solitary.

Singular. Serene. Strong.

4. JOCKEY HOLLOW/SOUTH PLAINFIELD

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, bivuouacs, 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.