Ah, the Jersey Devil….those who dare say it’s simply a legend, folklore, a made up story. But there are so many more who can spin fascinating tales about Mother Leeds’ 13th child! Mother Leeds lived in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey in the mid-1700s and had a dozen children. When she discovered her 13th pregnancy, she screamed, cried, and prophesied the child would be the Devil himself. It was a stormy night when Mother Leeds went into labor, and it is said the child was born looking normal. But the infant suddenly changed into a creature, alternatively described as one with a goat’s head, bat wings, a forked tail, clawed hands and hooves. The creature reportedly killed the midwife, then flew up the chimney amid blood curdling screams to live his life in the Pine Barrens and killing local children who wandered into what is now the Leeds Point portion of Atlantic County. Some say Mother Leeds was really a woman named Deborah, married to Japhet Leeds, who, in a will written in 1736, left his estate to his 12 children and lived at Leeds Point. It was Benjamin Franklin himself who first called the Jersey Devil a monster. His rival in the almanac publishing business was none other than Daniel Leeds, a man with had three wives and nine children in his lifetime. As a businessman with strong ties and allegiance to the British crown, Leeds and anything to do with him were indeed ‘monsters to the American patriot Dr. Franklin. Truth or fiction, many have sworn to the credibility of the Jersey Devil. He was spotted over the Hanover Mill Works as a flying creature flapping its wings that even a cannonball fired directly at him couldn’t stop. Napoleon’s brother, Joseph, attested to the fact he was hunting on his Bordentown estate when he saw the Devil. Farmers complained the devil was responsible for killing livestock; one farmer said an unknown animal with red eyes tried to steal his chickens. City residents in Haddon Heights swore a creature attacked a trolley car; police responded and shot at the creature, but had no effect. Footprints in the snow have been attributed to the Devil, and schools closed and factories shut down rather than risk an encounter with the wild creature that could not be controlled. As late as the 1960s, stories were so rampant that merchants in Camden offered a $10,000 reward and offered to build a private zoo to house the Jersey Devil, should he be found and captured. Could the Jersey Devil be real? An undiscovered creature? There are those who believe that as well. Could it be possible that a yet unknown species could live and thrive in the Pine Barrens, an area isolated, uninviting, and spacious? If it does exist, into which classification does it fall… a mammal like a huge bat? An avian like the Blue Heron? …a mammal like the kangaroo it has been reported to resemble? Perhaps even a dinosaur? Or could it be a creature unlike anything else…part-mammalian, part avian and part reptilian? Are there any who dare venture into the inhospitable depths of the Pine Barrens to get the truth? And if they do, will they return to share the news with the rest of the world? Are there any so bold they would take the risk for the sake of truth? Or shall the three century old Jersey Devil continue to remain New Jersey’s own mystery?

By Muriel J Smith Freehold Transcript, August 2018

Even before the American Revolution, the name Scudder was highly revered and respected throughout the eastern part of the continent that would become the United States of America, though there are varying accounts of when the Scudders first arrived and from which part of the British Isles they emigrated.

What is certain is that two Scudder brothers arrived on these shores in the 17th century, landing in Massachusetts, where one settled, while the other moved on to Long Island and was well established there by 1630.

That brother, Thomas, was a miller in Huntington, Long Island, married and had a son named Jacob. Jacob grew up on the Island until he moved to what became known as Scudder’s Mills, just southeast of Princeton, NJ. He and his wife, Abia, later settled near Monmouth Court House, a name used to describe the county seat at Freehold, where they raised their three sons and three daughters.

Nathaniel was the eldest of the half dozen and was born May 10, 1733, most likely at Freehold, although historians disagree on whether there or on Long Island. Nathaniel was in the fourth graduating class of the College of New Jersey, now known as Princeton, in 1751, and immediately launched into the study of medicine.

During his years as a physician, Nathaniel was highly regarded and respected, and had an extensive practice through the Monmouth County area. Early accounts describe him as enjoying “the respect and confidence of the people of that part of the State on account of his varied learning, strong powers of mind, genial disposition and purity of life.”

Nathaniel married Isabella Anderson, the only daughter of Colonel Kenneth Anderson, the year after his college graduation, and following a charming and whirlwind romance. The History of NJ Medicine records the courtship and romance as told a century later by Dr. Scudder’s granddaughter, Maria.

Seems the beautiful Isabella, a member of an old Scottish family that came to the colonies during the Scottish troubles of 1715, came to church services on horseback, and was quickly seen and appreciated by a young college graduate, Nathaniel Scudder. She alighted from her horse and fastened him to a tree before walking into the church. The daring young medical student went up to the horse, disarranged the equipment and entangled the bridle before he, too, went into church. When service was over, and young Isabella went back to her horse, only to be chagrined by the entanglement, Nathaniel suddenly appeared, quite dignified and graceful, and offered to come to her assistance. He righted all the reins he had entangled, then assisted the young lady into the saddle. He mentioned to her that since they were both traveling in the same direction, a distance of some four miles or more, he felt the need to travel with her and offer her protection. She acquiesced to his gallantry, Nathaniel mounted his own horse, and the two rode off together, the beginning of a courtship that culminated in a marriage in 1752 and ultimately the birth of three sons and two daughters.

The young Dr Scudder had a lucrative and popular medical practice in Monmouth County, but also displayed his strong belief in a free nation separated from ties to England, as well as his belief in a strong religious foundation. He was a member of old Tennent Church where he apparently challenged Thomas Paine of Common Sense fame on a religious matter. Scudder bested the gifted New Englander in the verbal controversy.

But as the colonies grew closer to war and New Jerseyans heard reports of the British soldiers taking over and burning Boston, Dr. Scudder was among the first to become involved. At a meeting of citizens held in Freehold on June 6, 1774, a full two years before the Declaration of Independence, Dr Scudder took a leading role and drafted resolutions of sympathy for Boston and support for the cause of freedom.

His involvement in the freedom cause came quickly after that, and he was named to numerous positions of authority and leadership. He became a member of the local committee of public safety, then a delegate to New Jersey’s first provincial congress which met in New Brunswick. He became speaker of the legislature within two years, and when the first Monmouth County regiment of militia needed more men, Nathaniel hung up his stethoscope and signed on. He became a lieutenant-colonel in the First Regiment of Monmouth militia under Col. George Taylor, whose father, Edward Taylor, owned Marlpit Hall.

By November 1776, five months after the Declaration was signed, Lt Col. Scudder was promoted to colonel and took charge of the regiment whose soldiers came from the Freehold and Middletown area. Taylor had resigned his post to join the Loyalists.

It was neither glorious nor safe to be a rebel anywhere on the continent, but particularly in New Jersey, where lived the highest concentration of Loyalists among all the colonies. Families were torn apart by the differences of opinion on whether this far flung child of England should remain loyal to the King, albeit laden with heavy taxes and no representation in British government or take on the world’s strongest nation and fight for independence.

Loyalists, some of whom remained soldiers simply to act as spies and report troop movements to the British generals, burned or otherwise destroyed the homes of their rebellious neighbors and former friends, took their cattle and destroyed their crops.

Nor could the rebels honorably call themselves an army. They had no uniforms, received little or no pay, left their own families and farms to take up the cause, and were often armed only with make shift weapons. But Scudder, as others like him, saw it as a worthy and honorable cause and bore all the burdens of leading an upheaval never before known, all for the cause of freedom from British rule. There followed a period known as the Tory Ascendancy, and unfortunately, Scudder, in command of Monmouth Militia troops, had little success. The militia dissolved.

With no troops to command, Scudder attached himself to a Pennsylvania Continental regiment; some other troops also followed. Thus, began a month long, but highly successful action to put down the Ascendancy. Within a few weeks, the Monmouth militia was reconstituted and spent the next month encamped on the hills of Highlands, with a mission to guard Monmouth County against a British invasion by their troops stationed at Sandy Hook. But by February, Scudder’s militia was involved in the Battle of Navesink, surprised by the British and falling to them with the loss of more than two dozen militiamen killed and another 70 captured.

Dr Scudder resigned from the militia to devote more time to rising in the political field, where he felt he could do better as a legislator. In 1777, he was elected a delegate to the Continental Congress, but did not attend a session for nearly a year because of his militia obligations.

Throughout his two one-year terms in Congress, Congressman Scudder also missed a number of other meetings because his duties; he was a member of the committee dealing with the quartermaster service, a position which required a considerable amount of personal travel time. He declined to accept a third term, indicating the heavy burden his time away from home placed on his modest estate in Freehold made the obligation too demanding.

Records show that in actuality, Col Scudder was not even in the militia in June of 1778. At the time of his 1777 resignation to focus on politics, he relinquished his post as colonel of the first regiment to Asher Holmes. As it happened, he was at home enjoying a Congressional recess in the summer of ’78 when British General Charles Lee began his march through Monmouth County.

Scudder decided to join the fray so close to home, an encounter which became known as the Battle of Monmouth, the battle historians later called a turning point of the war. While it was never seen as a clear-cut victory, the British fled Freehold under dark of night while General George Washington was preparing an early morning attack. Routing the British after Washington’s stunning losses in New York gave those who yearned for freedom the boost in morale they needed to continue waging the war.

With his retirement from Congress in 1779, Scudder devoted full time to his military duties. He also served on the NJ Council of Safety, where part of his obligations included fining or jailing captured Loyalists in areas, Monmouth among them, where there were no courts. He also served as the county’s representative to the Privy Council, the Upper House of the NJ Legislature.

That he knew his life was constantly in danger as a soldier was best evidenced in a letter he wrote his son, Joseph in 1780. Joseph was a law student in Philadelphia and the worried father expressed concern for his son’s future. He signed it “with every sincere wish and prayer for happiness both here and hereafter, your most affectionate and careful Father..”.

Ironically, Nathaniel Scudder, doctor, Congressman, New Jersey Assemblyman, local leader, soldier, patriot, came through the war years unscathed… Until 1781.

Still affiliated with his old friend from the Monmouth Militia, General David Forman, he was assisting the general in repelling Loyalist raids on bayshore lands. The pair had formed the Retaliators, a vigilante group of patriots viewed as both illegal and dangerous, known for taking strong actions against Loyalists and suspected Loyalists.

When a party of refugees landed at Sandy Hook and made their way undiscovered to Colts Neck, where they took six prisoners, the alarm was sounded at Freehold, and Dr. Scudder responded. Knowing the direction, the refugees would head, he told his family that a battle was “expected at Long Branch. I will go down and bind the wounds of the poor fellows.” With other patriots from Freehold, Dr Scudder took off in pursuit of the Loyalists, in an effort to rescue the prisoners. Near Black’s Point, now Rumson, Dr. Scudder and General Forman were standing on the river bank talking when a shot was fired aimed at Forman. But, as the general told it later, he had taken an involuntary step backward, describing it as “the most fortunate step of my life.” The bullet that missed him, struck and fatally injured Dr. Nathaniel Scudder. It was four days before the Battle of Yorktown and the surrender of the British to their American foes.

Colonial Scudder thus became a casualty of the war, the only member of the Continental Congress to serve with the militia and be killed by the enemy. He is buried in Old Tennent Church cemetery, Manalapan. At the Freehold Borough Hall, the second- floor meeting room is dedicated as the Scudder Room and a glass wall, designed by local designer Nelson Kuperberg, depicts Scudder’s writings, a scene from the Battle of Monmouth and the map of the area.

Today, with the Atlantic Highlands branch of the Monmouth County Library such a vital, inviting and busy place at Borough Hall on First Avenue, it’s fun to look back 75 years or so when the new Atlantic Highlands High School opened just up the street and students boasted about the “new spacious library with its better lighting and modern fixtures” which all the residents of the borough were invited to enjoy. In fact, the Class of 1942, the first “to derive the benefits” of the new building, dedicated their yearbook to Annie A. Woodward, the school librarian who had already been with the school for 15 years and earned “the since respect and ardent devotion of all those who have passed from our halls of learning.” Mrs. Woodward was described as an earnest and untiring librarian with quiet charm and “a beacon light which exudes grace, friendliness and efficiency.” She was a woman with “excellent literary ability and complete understanding of the world’s best literature,” the students wrote, adding she “has improved the selection of books not only for our students but also for the people of our community.” Showing equal regard for the importance of athletics and the leadership of a great coach and teacher, the class of 1942 also dedicated the book to Jimmy Egidio, not only for his excellence as a patrolman, first aid squad captain, first aid instructor and volunteer fireman, but also for his assistance to all the varsity teams. For anyone who knew Jimmy, later the well beloved police chief, the students’ description of his

unceasing enthusiasm, his dedication to all things scholastic and athletic, his genuine love for his community and all its people, is quite apt. Actually, the high school, the library and the grammar school were all in the same building. During the 19th century, borough youngsters went to District School #69 on Leonardville Rd in Leonardo. Until November 5, 1883. That was the very important day when Miss Sarah R. Everett, the district school principal, herded the youngsters all together then marched them in a body to Avenue C, between Highland and Washington avenues, when the new school was built. The town elders had decided the year before that the Navesink and Leonardville schools were entirely too far for the youngsters to walk so a school house had to be built closer to home.

PHOTO: Postcard of the Atlantic Highlands Grammar and High School, circa 1910, then located on Avenue C. That was the first public school in the borough and it opened with great fanfare and pomp headed by the Board of Education and teacher Miss Sarah R. Everett, who assembled with the children in the upper room of the school waiting to greet all their parents and friends who came in to see the borough’s addition. Students presented a program, beginning with a song, Miss Josie Leonard at the organ, the Rev. Mr. Lake offering a prayer and then more singing and recitations by the children. The county school superintendent came, as did the Rev. Mr. Lavelle from Navesink and at the end, a shade tree was planted on each side of the playground. About 150 local folks came for the big occasion. But 13 years later, Atlantic Highlands was now officially a borough and the community had outgrown their first school. The second…the building still standing and in use on First Avenue, was formally opened Jan. 2, 1896 with many of the same names in attendance, names still held by local families today. There were the Mounts, the Swans, former Mayor Thomas Leonard and Mayor Jacob Stout. This time, there were about 400 local residents there for the celebrations.

photo: Atlantic Highlands High School, circa 1960. It was another 15 years or so, with the town growing in leaps and bounds, when it was time for an addition to the ‘new’ school. And it was that 1920’s addition that lasted until the high school graduating class of 1942 bragged about their new school with “better lighting, modern fixtures, a comfortable teacher’s room to enjoy, work space for the work needed in the war emergency, a Red Cross Work Room, and a large, well-lighted and ventilated Study Hall complete with reference books and equipped with a projection room. Their pride and joy, the students wrote, represents “our realization of ambitions and our good times as we, the Class of 1942, are the first to derive its benefits.” So many of those names from the Class of ’42 are still revered families today in both Atlantic Highlands and Highlands. Highlands did not have a high school so those teens had the option of Leonardo High or Atlantic Highlands High. Among those who went to Atlantic are names still well known and loved today….names like Dalton Carhart and Duke Black, Gloria Joy, Helen Cowden, Gloria Mendes, Ida Kadenbach, Anna Marchetti, Stu King, Sam Vasto, Brother Tracy and so many more. A mixture of Highlands and Atlantic highlands kids. A blend of both communities. And the class advisor was another name that also remained popular, revered, and involved through the decades, Everett C. Curry, later the town’s Mayor. Don’t you just love being in a community that’s so beloved that decades, even a century later, the descendants of those families still want to live here and be a part of it?

For all those who were in or around Middletown in late May and early June 1961, it’s a memory that can’t be forgotten. All of a sudden, Van Nortwick busses were carrying folks like Anne Bancroft, 14-year old TV star Patty Duke, Victor Jury and Inga Swenson, along with scores of set managers, props folks and designers from the Molly Pitcher Hotel In Red Bank to the Oak Hill Road Middletown McLean home daily. It was the on location filming of a soon to be very popular movie, The Miracle Worker, the story of Helen Keller and her personal miracle worker, Annie Sullivan. Local historian Peter Van Nortwick, a member of the Monmouth County Historic Commission, and a long time Middletown native and resident, has captured all the thrill and excitement of the area in books, photos and memories of when he met Patty Duke, when he hoped she would be back to help the township celebration its 375th anniversary, and the fun he has had in reliving all the excitement of the day 60 years ago. His only sadness is that Duke died before the anniversary celebration and never returned to Middletown. Middletown, Red Bank and the movie world have the late Matthew J. Gill to thank for the production scenes that took place at the historic and spacious McLean Farm. Long before he added publisher and owner of The Courier in Middletown to his list of entrepreneurial successes, Matt was a Middletown realtor, so proud of his native town and so eager to show it off. So when Harrison Starr, production Manager for Miracle Worker came into Matt’s Route 35 office in search of the perfect spot, Matt went to work. Starr has spent childhood summers in the Shore area and when the producers said they wanted to film the movie on the east coast, politely turning down Hollywood offers, they charged him with finding the perfect setting, with a house that looked like the Keller home, which would make it a 19th century residence of grandeur. They needed to have it within an hour of mid-town New York. Furthermore, it had to be in a place where there were no planes flying overhead, no TV antennas…prolific at the time, no telephone poles, no nothing. Just like it was in Helen Keller’s childhood. Starr thought of his childhood summers and thought Monmouth County could be the spot.So he stopped in Matt’s office and asked for help. Matt, who knew and loved every inch of his native town and searched out all the spots he thought could be perfect. When he settled on the McLean property, with its added beauty of a wonderful apple orchard and peach trees galore, Starr was delighted. The orchards, he added, would be especially perfect since they would be in full bloom in May and June, the time he was capturing in the shore shoots. Realtor Gill then approached friend and neighbor Sidney MCLead, explained there was a film company that wanted to rent the house, not to live in, but wanted it to have a lived-in appeal and feeling, and it had to be at least a century old. Everyone agreed it would be perfect and the deal was made. Filming began June 12, with the end of May and the beginning of June taken up with preparations for the property, installing phone lines so the producers could make phone calls, and arranging with the Molly Pitcher for accommodations for the estimated 100 or so who would be involved. Producers and directors also sought out local kids to play bit parts in the movie and secured the necessary approvals and signatures. Filming would take place over two weeks on location, the rest in the New York studio. For the most part, it was only the outside of the house used for the movie. Many of the indoor shots were filmed on fabricated sets in the New York film studio, but the entrance hall of the McLean mansion was used. Even here, the setting was perfect. Production people toured all the antique dealers along New York’s Third avenue for the perfect antique furniture for those scenes. But, when they looked inside the McLean home, they found the house was already furnished with exquisite Victorian style pieces, and no more was needed. Where were the McLeans during the filming? The film company offered them a two weeks’ vacation elsewhere, but they said no thanks. They preferred to stay at home and watch. For them, having their home turned into a movie set was history in the making and they wanted to be on hand to witness it. When it was over, grateful cast and crew were gracious and plentiful in their thanks to Middletown, Red Bank, and the entire community of people, restaurants, shops, entertainment and more that had made their stay so pleasant. And Starr wrote a letter he asked all newspapers to print as his way of saying thanks to all; but primarily to Matt Gill. His letter, in part said, “First, and in a special category all his own, comes Matthew Gill, realtor. It’s perfectly true that if it weren’t for Matt Gill, we would not have come to the Red Bank-Middletown area. The first impetus came from him, and thereafter he spent hours and days of his time on our behalf. Surely we would not have found our excellent location sites if it hadn’t been for Matt Gill’s encyclopedic knowledge of the countryside and his tireless efforts in every phase of our negotiations. I can’t think of praise lofty enough to define Matt Gill’s ceaseless, energetic and intelligent service to us. We are indebted to him more than we can say. In his own way. Matt Gill, too, was a miracle worker.

Any stories of World War II bring memories back to the few generations still around who remember the horrors of that terrible war and the heroes who came home, some in caskets, some on crutches, some blinded, all deeply scarred by what they had seen and what they had done, or was done to him.

I was nine when the war ended, so my memories of it are the changes we had to make in our lives, and the stories my parents told us. I remember all of us, my parents and three siblings and me, kneel in the living room to say a rosary every night, remembering every soldier, sailor, marine and nurse who was out there risking their lives for us.

It’s some of those memories and the example of my father that are the background for my own lifetime of journalism. My dad wasn’t only a reporter for the Newark Evening News, he was also the chairman of the state’s largest draft board, Board #2 in Union, where we lived. Because he was the man responsible for drafting someone’s son or brother…..never someone’s father…I learned early on in life you have to always do the right thing, and it isn’t important whether people like you or not, say nasty things about you or threaten you. So long as you can follow the right path and know you’re doing the right thing, you simply must do it, my dad always said. And we all have, all of our lives.

There were coincidences, too, for my dad, making different kinds of stories he could file with his straight news accounts. One of my favorites is one that has impacted me for the rest of my life.

That story is an early chapter of the book I wrote about my dad, “The Reporter and the Draft,” and it involves a kid from Union named William L. Kukis.

In July 1945, as a reporter, my dad was assigned to meet the Hospital Ship George Washington when she docked in Staten Island. He felt the thrill, the fears, the anxiety and the excitement of the crowds on the dock, many gasping at the sight of the rows and rows of stretchers and wheelchairs, the lines of men fitted out with crutches, and even the more able sailors and soldiers who were pushing some of those wheelchairs for their less fortunate comrades. He watched as these kids and young men of four years earlier came off the ship with scars from waging war as far back as Pearl Harbor, pride in their hearts, and smiles on their faces as they searched the crowd for loved ones.

My dad was taking notes, talking to waiting family members, anxious to be able to talk to some heroes coming home. But before he got a chance to approach any soldier or sailor coming down the plank, he heard a surprised but thrilled shout, “Hey, there’s the guy who inducted me!” Amid that crowd, and four years later, William L. Kukis still remembered Vincent de Paul Slavin, not the reporter, but Vincent dePaul Slavin, the draft board chairman. And my Dad was the first person to welcome Veteran Kukis back to his home territory, the first one to shake the hand of this returning hero, crutches and all.

There were 3,568 soldiers and sailors about the George Washington that day. Kukis had been seven months overseas with General Patton’s Third Army. He was in Luxembourg on the east side of the SAAR River, leaving that battle unscathed. But then he went to Meckel in Germany, and that’s where a gunshot took off his leg.

But this young hero didn’t lose his sense of humor, his joie de vivre, his spirit. He grabbed my dad’s hand, stood on his crutches, pointing down at where his leg should have been, and joked, “ you drafted me, but I guess I can’t blame this on you.” Then he laughed, told my dad he’d be in to see him at the draft board office on Morris Avenue soon, and with a twinkle in his eye, and respect for a man he could have hated, said, “and then the drinks will be on me.”

I don’t know whether Hero Kukis ever came in for those papers and that drink. My dad didn’t write about that. But I know his affection for my father, and my father’s ability to deal with both the pain and agony of being a volunteer draft board chairman and also the reporter who had to face the injuries and disabilities with which the men he drafted came home. It’s all of that that convinced me, even as a nine year old, that it isn’t important what people say about you, it’s just important that you keep the high standards you were also taught. Then, and only then, the heroes and those with high standards, will respect you.

Taken from one of the stories in my book published “The Reporter and the Draft” in 2007.

Any stories of World War II bring memories back to the few generations still around who remember the horrors of that terrible war and the heroes who came home, some in caskets, some on crutches, some blinded, all deeply scarred by what they had seen and what they had done, or was done to him.

I was nine when the war ended, so my memories of it are the changes we had to make in our lives, and the stories my parents told us. I remember all of us, my parents and three siblings and me, kneel in the living room to say a rosary every night, remembering every soldier, sailor, marine and nurse who was out there risking their lives for us.

It’s some of those memories and the example of my father that are the background for my own lifetime of journalism. My dad wasn’t only a reporter for the Newark Evening News, he was also the chairman of the state’s largest draft board, Board #2 in Union, where we lived. Because he was the man responsible for drafting someone’s son or brother…..never someone’s father…I learned early on in life you have to always do the right thing, and it isn’t important whether people like you or not, say nasty things about you or threaten you. So long as you can follow the right path and know you’re doing the right thing, you simply must do it, my dad always said. And we all have, all of our lives.

There were coincidences, too, for my dad, making different kinds of stories he could file with his straight news accounts. One of my favorites is one that has impacted me for the rest of my life.

That story is an early chapter of the book I wrote about my dad, “The Reporter and the Draft,” and it involves a kid from Union named William L. Kukis.

In July 1945, as a reporter, my dad was assigned to meet the Hospital Ship George Washington when she docked in Staten Island. He felt the thrill, the fears, the anxiety and the excitement of the crowds on the dock, many gasping at the sight of the rows and rows of stretchers and wheelchairs, the lines of men fitted out with crutches, and even the more able sailors and soldiers who were pushing some of those wheelchairs for their less fortunate comrades. He watched as these kids and young men of four years earlier came off the ship with scars from waging war as far back as Pearl Harbor, pride in their hearts, and smiles on their faces as they searched the crowd for loved ones.

My dad was taking notes, talking to waiting family members, anxious to be able to talk to some heroes coming home. But before he got a chance to approach any soldier or sailor coming down the plank, he heard a surprised but thrilled shout, “Hey, there’s the guy who inducted me!” Amid that crowd, and four years later, William L. Kukis still remembered Vincent de Paul Slavin, not the reporter, but Vincent dePaul Slavin, the draft board chairman. And my Dad was the first person to welcome Veteran Kukis back to his home territory, the first one to shake the hand of this returning hero, crutches and all.

There were 3,568 soldiers and sailors about the George Washington that day. Kukis had been seven months overseas with General Patton’s Third Army. He was in Luxembourg on the east side of the SAAR River, leaving that battle unscathed. But then he went to Meckel in Germany, and that’s where a gunshot took off his leg.

But this young hero didn’t lose his sense of humor, his joie de vivre, his spirit. He grabbed my dad’s hand, stood on his crutches, pointing down at where his leg should have been, and joked, “ you drafted me, but I guess I can’t blame this on you.” Then he laughed, told my dad he’d be in to see him at the draft board office on Morris Avenue soon, and with a twinkle in his eye, and respect for a man he could have hated, said, “and then the drinks will be on me.”

I don’t know whether Hero Kukis ever came in for those papers and that drink. My dad didn’t write about that. But I know his affection for my father, and my father’s ability to deal with both the pain and agony of being a volunteer draft board chairman and also the reporter who had to face the injuries and disabilities with which the men he drafted came home. It’s all of that that convinced me, even as a nine year old, that it isn’t important what people say about you, it’s just important that you keep the high standards you were also taught. Then, and only then, the heroes and those with high standards, will respect you.

Taken from one of the stories in my book ” The Reporter and the Draft” published in 2007.

For anyone, and there were many, who were tuned into the Middletown Historical Society’s great presentation on Zoom tonight with Dr. Sandra Moss giving a great history of poisons, chemicals, and terrible things in New Jersey, you might like to read more about radium and its personal impact in Monmouth County. I wrote this story four years ago when I introduced Rose Penta of Highlands..her husband was the former councilman, Luke Penta, to Kate Moore, the great British author who wrote The Radium Girls. The five sisters Dr. Moss mentioned in tonight’s presentation were Rose’s mom and her four aunts, one being the first to go public on the effects of that terrible disease, another being the last to die of it. Kate’s book is an award winner and tells an indepth story of the impacts of radium both in Orange as well as Illinois, as well as how heroic Dr. Martland of Newark was for thse women who suffered tragically. , Martland Medical Center was later named in his honor. Kate flew here from England to meet Rose, as a descendant of the Maggia family from the Radium factory,and to hear Rose’s own heroic story of what she did after her mom’s death to help promote more education on the effects of radium.

One of the saddest stories coupled with great inventions and discoveries is one that occurred in New Jersey, after the discovery of radium by Madame Marie Curry. It’s the story of the Radium Girls of Orange, NJ. And even though the story is filled with grief for those girls, and others like them as well as their families, it is also an important part of the story of the first Medical Examiner in Essex County, Dr. Harrison Martland, for whom the 19th century Newark City Hospital was named. The former hospital is now a Medical Center and part of Rutgers University.

The sad part of the story started in the 1920s and took place in Orange where the United States Radium Corporation ran a small watch factory at the corner of Alden and High streets. They were one of the few companies at that time that hired women, and their pay was comparatively good, so it wasn’t hard to find help. The ladies were all assembly line workers, and it was their job to paint the tiny numbers on watch faces with luminous paint….the paint made the numbers glow in the dark, thanks to the minute amounts of radioactivity it contained. The work had to be done with tiny camel’s hair paint brushes, and the female workers were instructed to lick the tips of the brushes every so often to keep the tip straight and pointed. They were advised there was no danger. Indeed. At the same time others were touting the medical benefits of radium, so what could go wrong? Enter Dr. Martland, who didn’t believe the research the company was putting out and conducted his own tests, even exhuming at least one body to verify his conclusions. His work was complete enough and early enough to later enable the Atomic Energy Commission to carry on atomic development in safety. But for the Radium girls, it was too late.

Many of the girls suffered excruciating pain, even years after they had left their jobs. Some had such deterioration of their jaws, they had to be removed; others had teeth that simply fell out; many had severe bone problems throughout their bodies, many were permanently disfigured, some lost babies through still birth, others lost limbs, and many died young. Dr. Martland had a personal conviction the radium on the tongues of the female workers was connected to their awful physical problems. Coupled with the fact that the founder and technical director of the company Dr. Sabin von Sochocky continued to say there was no wrong with the element in spite of a former chemist at the plant dying from high levels of radiation, Dr. Martland worked with Sochocky to design a Geiger type counter. When one of the Radium Girls, who was dying at the hospital, breathed into it, the counter registered a high degree of radiation. Sochocky also breathed into it and was stunned to see how high his own radiation level registered.

But back to the female workers. Among these group were six sisters, the daughters of Italian immigrants, Alerio and Antoinette Maggia, and, like their parents, they were hardworking, industrious, and proud to be first generation Americans. Their parents had raised them with love, respect for their country, and pride and love in family. They worked side by side at the watch factory. Their youngest sister, Josephine, was too young in the early 1920s to have a job; the second youngest, Irma, only worked there a brief time. The older girls, Albina, Louise, Amelia, Clara and Quinta, all suffered the devastation, pain and agony of radiation poisoning and died young. At the time when the US Radium Corporation was still denying that the lip licking brushes caused the workers to ingest dangerous amounts of radium, the death certificate of one of the girls was listed as syphilis, an attempt to bring even further shame on hard working and well brought up young women.

So where is the connection between this horrible event form the 1920s in Orange, NJ and the Bayshore?

Rose Penta, former owner with her husband, former Highlands Councilman the late Luke Penta, is the daughter of Irma Maggia. And after her mom, Irma, died, and medical scientists were still looking into the causes of death of women who had worked at the watch company, Rose was contacted and asked for permission to exhume her mother’s body so further tests could be run. Rose’s mom died of cancer, believed to have been the result of the watch painting days of the 1920s.

Rose, now a nonagenarian with the same vitality, energy and sense of duty that has been her trademark throughout her life, sadly recalls the grief generations of her family have faced because of the US Radium Corporation. But ever the optimist, she still points to the advances made from discoveries that have come about in large part because of the agonies of the generation before her and the willingness of her family, and others like them, to share their grief with the medical industry

Former Mayor Dick Stryker was not only a terrific mayor but was, and remains, a great historian, particularly when it comes to his hometown. Dick also saves lots of newspaper clippings to remind him of events he probably remembers in great detail without them. He was only a kid, of course, but he remembers some great stories about the Mandalay excursion boat. Here’s one.

The Mandalay was only one of the many excursion boats that brought crowds from the city down to enjoy the beaches, amusement parks and beauty of the Bayshore in the 19020s and 1930s. There was one summer when the boat was making its last trip back to the city, loaded with customers.

However, because it was so crowded, the boat left 14 stranded at the pier, unable to get on. Still, the folks were not concerned and did not even take out their frustration on Atlantic Highlands Pier Manager John Brasilius. Mr. Brasilius quickly got the authorization to see that the 14 got back to Manhattan, albeit not by the ease and comfort of the excursion boat. The company paid for a bus from Depot Garage to take the customers, at $1.25 each, ticket paid for by the boat company. The incident gave the boat company the idea to let all its passengers know they would always be guaranteed return passage by land if the boat was too crowded to accept them for the trip home.

It could have been even worse had the weather been better. There were 3,000 planning to disembark in Atlantic Highlands on that Sunday afternoon; however, heavy rain showers kept them from landing.

The Mandalay met its demise on May 28, 1938, when it was heading to Atlantic Highlands with 325 passengers aboard in heavy fog. The group was heading to a party in a park in Red Bank, and the liner SS Acadia was beginning a cruise to Bermuda. The Acadia struck the Mandalay in lower New York Harbor,, sinking the vessel. However, all the passengers were rescued. And made the most of it. The story goes that the orchestra was playing in the Mandalay’s ballroom as the passengers were crossing from the sinking boat to the Acadia. The orchestra was playing “Dancing on the Mandalay,” the ship‘s own song. The safe landing on shore of all passengers was thanks to the Coasties aboard the Coast Guard Cutter Icarus, two of their patrol boats and some motor lifeboats from Sandy Hook and Rockaway Point stations.

The Yankee, the successor to the Mandalay, also didn’t fare well weeks after taking over for the Mandalay. Sailing from Atlantic Highlands with 850 passengers aboard, the boat was disabled midstream in the Bay Ridge Channel in upper New York Bay, when one of her paddle wheels was broken. A safe but delayed and more exciting trip for the passengers.

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The Fourth of July is the day we celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence which marks our freedom from the control of a King. In actuality, it was on the second of July that the first members of the Continental Congress put their lives on the line and signed the Declaration.

That was the day Virginia’s Richard Henry Lee resolution declaring that the colonies should be free and independent was read, voted on and approved.. Even back then, however, paperwork and politics took precedence.

Though the votes for approval took place July 2, Congress then had to draft a document to properly word Mr. Lee’s motion. So, of course, John Hancock then had to appoint a committee to draft it. Fortunately, when he made the selection he chose five brilliant members of the Continental Congress to take on the task: John Adams, Roger Sherman, Robert Livingston, Benjamin Franklin, and Thomas Jefferson. Four of those five men unanimously agreed that far and away, Mr. Jefferson was the best writer and should take on the task on his own. He did, locking himself in his rented room in Philadelphia and concentrating fully on covering every aspect of freedom he felt the country needed. That’s why we have such a great Declaration of Independence today.

But it still took Congress two days to complain about, feud over, edit, and even question the linguistic ability of Mr. Jefferson…..Adams was a Harvard man and wasn’t sure a William and Mary grad knew everything……

Still our first political leaders weren’t done. The Declaration had to be printed, and the first 200 copies were ordered from John Dunlap the printer. They arrived two days later, July 4, and that’s the day the first members signed the declaration they had approved two days earlier.

So in essence, it was the printer who had the final word!

Not so with Mr. Adams. The day after Congress actually voted, July 3, John wrote another one of his long and heartfelt letters to his wife, Abigail. He wrote about the pains the nation had gone through, the smallpox that had hit the soldiers, the victories in Canada, and the signing of the declaration. It wasn’t until page 3 of his letter that he told Abigail about the impact that Declaration of Independence would forever have on the nation:

Mr. Adams wrote: “I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shows, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.”

It is interesting, but not surprising, that his first thoughts were to pay thanks to God for this new freedom the country would enjoy. Thanks first, he told his wife, and then all kinds of celebrations for the rest of the day, including “illuminations” those fireworks that are so symbolic of the Fourth of July.

Then, fearing his wife would think him forgetful of what this Declaration would cost, he continued, “You will think me transported with Enthusiasm but I am not. — I am well aware of the Toil and Blood and Treasure, that it will cost us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. — Yet through all the gloom I can see the rays of ravishing light and glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means. And that Posterity will triumph in that days Transaction, even although we should rue it, which I trust in God we shall not.”

It really wasn’t until August that most of the Congressional representatives actually signed the document, and it was already 1777 before most people got to see it or hear of it.

Jefferson frequently spoke of the importance of the work he had authored, right up until his death. In the last letter he ever wrote, he penned, referring to the Fourth, “For ourselves, let the annual return of this day forever refresh our recollections of these rights, and an undiminished devotion to them,”

And while both Mr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson, if alive today, would continue to agree Independence Day should be celebrated with prayer first, then parties and parades throughout the day, it is also a day to remember both of them in a sad way.

The two friends had fought and been bitter over politics for some time, but they reunited in friendship. Both wrote and celebrated the Fourth of July every year for 50 years, whether they were at their homes in Quincy, Mass, for Mr. Adams, Charlottesville, VA for Mr. Jefferson, or Philadelphia or Washington, D.C. Then, in 1826, on the 50th anniversary of the signing, Mr. Adams lay dying at home, but murmured for his family to hear: “Thomas Jefferson still survives.” Shortly before, just after midnight, Mr. Jefferson, with his daughter Polly and others by his side, asked, “Is it the Fourth?” And when told it was, he closed his eyes and died peacefully. Mr. Adams could not have known, but Mr. Jefferson preceded him in death by scant hours.

Thanks John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and all the rest of the Revolutionary heroes. Rest in peace.

And Happy Fourth of July!

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It was 65 years ago last week that The Miracle Worker began filming on the quiet and very attractive 130-acre McLean Farm just off Oak Hill Rd. in Middletown Play-Films Inc was the film company and Fred Coe was the producer.

While crowds gathered around the area in the hopes of watching some filming and perhaps getting up close with starts including Patti Duke, Inga Swenson and Ann Bancroft, the Middletown Police were called in by Coe to be sure everyone understood there had to be quiet on the set, ergo, no local folks hanging around to see a movie being made.

Local historian Peter VanNortwick, who is also a member of the Monmouth County Historical Commission, has a special fondness for the time surrounding the filming, as well as the years after. As a historian, Pete has gathered and collected thousands of words in print from numerous newspapers and other sources to recall the event. He’s got plenty of photos of the stars, including some of him and Patti Duke some years afterward. It was the Van Nortwick bus company that delivered the more than 50 stars, cast members, stand-ins and crew to and from the Molly Pitcher Inn in Red Bank where all stayed for their couple of weeks in Middletown.

The movie is based on the four Tony Awards winning play of the same name, which was produced by Coe and was named the best play of 1960. Coe was filming the outdoor scenes in Middletown for his movie, choosing the McLean house for its similarity to the Keller Farm which was in Alabama and where Annie Sullivan taught the young Helen Keller how to read, despite her blindness and deafness in the 1880s.

It was an exciting time for local youngsters as well during the filming since some were asked to play bit roles in the production. Employees at the McLean household Mae Gaines, Frank Moss and Louis Everett all appear in the movie, along with youngsters from a beloved and highly respected family on GIllville Lane, eight year old twins Dennis and Dana Fisher. Six year old Barbara Campbell and George MCGree, who lives on Thompson Hill Rd. also appear in the movie.

Coe had made the arrangements to lease the McLean home for the filming through the efforts of local realtor Matthew J. Gill, who lived nearby the farm. So when they asked him, he was also happy to allow his year old daughter Noreen Ann, to appear in the film as well. Noreen played Helen Keller’s infant sister. And up in Hazlet, Nick SanFIlippo had another personage that was considered necessary for the film….his mule!

Gill also provided more than the property lease and his daughter! When asked, he also went out in a successful search for two dozen chickens which he got from the Charles Lang Farm in Chapel Hil, a couple of carriages and a hay wagon. Gill also had to produce his own kind of miracle when asked to come up with summer cottage, but he knew he could produce that with no problem. Gill knew and loved Duffy Fisher.

Duffy had been known in the Middletown area for years as the go-to guy for moving buildings. He moved everything that needed to be moved on land and sea…..at one time he even moved what became The Quay in Sea Bright down the river to be set up as a popular bar and restaurant. Duffy didn’t use any sophisticated equipment for his moves….Fels Naphtha soap to grease everything, coupled with hard work and a spectacular smile and “Yes, Sir!” attitude was all it took.

So to create the summer building, Duffy took a workshop on Deepdale Farm and set it up. Actually, he had already moved that building to Deepdale in the first place. It had been on Railroad Ave earlier in the century where it was a butcher shop. It’s an attractive summer cottage in The Miracle Worker.

Frank Mannino did landscaping at the locations where the film was shot, and Rocco Cione did some preparatory carpenter services. Middletown definitely took a prideful and enthusiastic interest in The Miracle Worker.

Once the outdoor scenes were completed in Middletown, cast, crew and excitement went back to New York to finish production at the Hi Brown Studios in New York, and the film was released towards the end of the year.

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