Appeal There is nothing new to report nor any new actions concerning the operation of the non-profit organization, Their Place, located on South Avenue, the previous home to Mother Teresa School, Atlantic Highlands Borough Administrator Caleb Stratton said at this week’s council meeting in response to a question from a local resident.
The non-profit organization, which works to assist adults with disabilities become empowering adults is located in Middlesex County, and now leases both the former Moher Teresa School and the adjacent Hesse Building on South Avenue.
The lease and use of the school property, when the K-8th grade school has been closed for several years, has been the subject of recent municipal meetings when it was learned the borough’s zoning officer, Borough Clerk Michelle Clark, approved the use of the building apparently as a school, despite the firm not meeting the definition of a school in the current zoning ordinance and not in need of any variance or hearing before the planning board for a change of use or any other reason.
Clark, who was appointed zoning officer with a $9,500 stipend salary, at the regular reorganization meeting in January, in addition to her assignments and duties as municipal clerk, recently resigned from the position as zoning officer, though no date nor reason was made public.
At this month’s meeting, Council referred to Mrs. Clark’s resignation and appointed Richard Collangelo to fill the unexpired term at a salary of $ 10,000. Colangelo is also the borough’s code enforcement officer, was also elected earlier this year as president of the Henry Hudson Regional Board of Education.
Richard Colangelo
In unanimously approving Colangelo for the position, in addition to his current code enforcing obligations which pays $25,000 annually, Council noted he has been certified as a zoning officer since 2022 and is familiar with the work of the office.
At earlier meetings this year, when it was learned Ms. Clark had approved Their Place without need of any public notice or planning board action, questions to her concerning her reasons were referred to the Borough Administrator. Since her decision was made without the need for any public notice, input or meeting, the reasons for her actions do not have to be made public.
With the decision made without any public meeting or official notice or information, it is up to any member of the public who wants to challenge the decision to file an application with the Planning Board, borough attorney Peg Schaefer said last week… However, it is not possible to do so, she added, since the time for filing such an appeal is 45 days after the action is taken. Their Place was approved by the zoning officer last November.
When asked how the public is made aware of any actions or approvals of the borough that are not made public, the attorney opined it is usual that someone passing the area or lives close to something different happening notices and can take action by filing an appeal with the planning board, in spite of the matter never having come before the board in any capacity.
The official web page for Their Place, does not contain any information about the new rental in Monmouth County nor its plans for activity there. It lists two facilities, both in Middlesex County, where it explains the programs and assistance given to both children and adults in these facilities. The web page marks “Ten Years of Empowerment” in a lead in giving information of the firm on its page, but explains 2026 marks 11 years of empowering adults “with disabilities to lead fuller, more independent lives. Over the past 11 years, Their Place has grown from a small initiative to a thriving organization, thanks to the dedication of our community, staff, and supporters.” The website says.
Both borough officials, and members of the Our Lady of Perpetual Help-Saint Agnes parish received notice of an upcoming invitation to an Open House to introduce the facility, though none has been received since.
policepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepolicepoliceHonoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring HonorHonoringing Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring Honoring eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle HAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? CHAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? CHAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? 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