MEMORIES OF ROUTE 40 IN NEW JERSEY
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Most Americans know New Jersey only as part of that narrow, densely populated corridor which connects Boston and New York City with the nation's Capitol. Back in the 30s and 40s, the major North/South route in NJ was 130, but this soon became congested with businesses and traffic lights. The Turnpike and then the Garden State Expressway
and Interstate 295 were built to handle the traffic. Back in the mid-50s, ferries could no longer
handle the constant flow of cars and trucks, so the Delaware Memorial Bridge was constructed. I remember my father waging a verbal war with bridge authorities for making it only four lanes. They should have listened, because they soon had to build a second bridge across the Delaware.
Long before North/South traffic became a serious issue, however, East/West routes were extremely important. Development of our vast nation tended to be primarily in a westerly direction. First there were covered wagon trains and then came the trans-continental railroad. The California and Alaska gold rushes added urgency to the need for more efficient transportation and roads, but
it was the invention of gasoline-powered vehicles that really caused traffic to explode.
If it was not for the discovery of oil, motor-powered carriages would hardly have become popular. Steam-power depended on a generous supply of wood or coal, and of course water. Large locomotives could carry a lot of coal, but it was more complicated with automobiles on dirt roadways.
Early steam-powered vehicles were so heavy, that they could only use steel wheels and travel on
selected roads. In the mid 19th century, whale oil was too expensive to be used as fuel and the whale was rapidly becoming extinct.
My Father-in-Law was born near Titusville, Pennsylvania, where Edwin Drake drilled the world’s first oil well in 1859. The oil was much easier to obtain than whale oil, and although refined by primitive methods, it had a higher quality. The discovery of “black gold” led to a boom that surpassed the “California Gold rush” of 1849. Almost overnight, 40,000 whalers and 700 whaling boats were put out of operation and within three years, the price of oil fell to a mere 10 cents a barrel!
Until 1900, oil was used for light, for medical purposes and for lubrication. A side product of the refining process, called gasoline, was considered a dangerous nuisance and simply dumped into the river! The whales were perhaps saved from extinction, but many fish died!
It was not long before gasoline engines were invented and the horseless carriage became a popular mode of transportation. Contrary to popular opinion, the automobile drastically improved life in cities, which had been plagued with filth and disease due to the accumulation of horse manure.
For seventy years, America was the world’s leading oil producer. Then large oil reserves were discovered in Arabia in 1938, transforming poverty stricken nations into the wealthiest in the world. Today, most means of transportation by land, sea and air are fueled with oil. A great number of homes and businesses are also heated with oil, but perhaps even more significant are plastics, medicines and cosmetic products which come from oil.
With the oil boom, prices fell into the cellar and mass production of automobiles brought an urgent need for paved roads. The first trans-continental highways were soon reality.
Many of the earliest improved highways in America were private toll roads, but the National Road (also called Cumberland Road) was the first major improved highway in the United States to be built by the federal government. About 620 miles long, the National Road connected the Potomac and Ohio Rivers and was a gateway to the West for thousands of settlers. When rebuilt in the 1830s, the Cumberland Road became the first U.S. road surfaced with macadam (layers of crushed stone). This historic event predates the automobile by nearly a century. Suggested by George Washington in 1784, planned and urged by Treasury Secretary Albert Gallatin, and constructed 1811 during Thomas Jefferson's administration, the National Road was the largest construction project to date. Begun at Cumberland, Maryland, on the Potomac River, it reached the Ohio River in 1818 and was continued until the bank panic of 1837. The National Road was halted at Vandalia, Illinois but when federal highways received numbering in 1926, the Cumberland Road was joined with other highways that led all the way to San Francisco. It received the designation, Route 40.
Around 1824, several private turnpikes were built from Atlantic coastal cities, connecting into the National Road. These feeder routes formed what was referred to as eastern extensions of the National Road.
This is significant, because when the government began numbering roads in 1926, the Atlantic City extension became the beginning of Route 40 and the southern portion of National Road that led to the Potomac got a different number.
THE EASTERN TERMINUS OF ROUTE 40
The "Jersey shore" has been a favorite vacation spot for much of the East Coast for more than two centuries. Cape May began hosting vacationers from Philadelphia around 1750 and is recognized as the country's oldest seaside resort. The eastern end of Route 40 terminates in Atlantic City, which is perhaps the best known and most visited seashore resort in America.
In 1785, a man named Jeremiah Leeds was the first white man to build a permanent structure on this barrier island. His farm was called Leed's Plantation. After Leed's death in 1838, his wife Millicent opened Aunt Millie's Boarding House and Tavern and the first tourists came. By 1850, however, there were still only seven permanent dwellings on the island. A physician named Dr. Pitney and a civil engineer from Philadelphia, Richard Osborne recognized the value of this island for vacationing, but access to the island was by water only. These men worked to bring the railroad. The first train arrived on July 5, 1854. Osborne has been given credit with naming the city, while his friend Dr. Pitney thought up the plan and names of city streets later made famous by the popular board game Monopoly. Streets running parallel to the ocean were named after the worlds great bodies of water, Pacific, Atlantic, Baltic, Mediterranean, Adriatic, and Arctic. Streets running east and west were named after States.
The biggest problem for Atlantic City turned out to be that which also enticed people to populate the resort -- the fine white sand. Sand got tracked into hotels and homes, made poor roadbeds and played havoc with railroad tracks, especially in storms. The first official road and bridge from the mainland to the island was completed in 1870. In the same year, an 8' wide wooden walkway from the beach into town became the first Boardwalk.
Atlantic City was officially opened as a resort on June 16, 1880 with a celebration seldom seen in the region. The primary mode of transportation was still the railroad, but this was about to change. The rising popularity of "motor carriages" gave paved road construction a high priority, not just in Atlantic City, but all over the nation.
HOW ROUTE 40 GOT ITS NAME
in 1926 the government devised a numbering system for all federal highways. Roads running east/west were called "decade routes" using numbers in multiples of 10 while north/south highways use numbers ending in five. National Road, the route carrying transcontinental traffic at the nation's midsection, was originally to receive the number 1, but this didn't fit the established highway naming conventions. National Road was therefore named Route 40 and realigned to run from Atlantic City, NJ to San Francisco, CA. Highways to the north received progressively smaller numbers in increments of 10 and highways to the South received larger decade route numbers.
Although the National Road was the first major improved highway, it's northern neighbor, the Lincoln Highway (Route 30), dedicated October 31, 1913, was completed before Route 40, earning it the distinction of being the first coast-to-coast highway. The Lincoln Highway runs from Times Square in New York City to Lincoln Park in San Francisco.
Prior to World War II, Route 40 received a concrete surface between Atlantic City and the Delaware
Bay. The macadam base and strong concrete pads are still there, although covered with layers of
asphalt. We lived for several months about 100 yards from Route 40 and could hardly sleep for the noise and shaking of the house as tires of heavy trucks rumbled and bounced over the expansion joints
in the concrete, which seem to work their way through to the surface. Back in the fifties, the highway was widened about two feet on each side. Locals know they can limit bouncing by keeping the right wheel of their vehicle on that apron.
The mid-1950's were a period described by many as the Golden Age of Automobiling. At the time, Route 40 stretched 3,157 miles from Atlantic City to San Francisco and was the most popular transcontinental highway. This in spite of the fact that the Lincoln Highway was realigned to make it 3,142 miles, all of 15 miles shorter than Route 40! Both highways served America well, but Route 40 carried more traffic and saw less severe winter weather. If you needed to travel from coast to coast, there simply wasn't a better choice.
When the Interstate Highway system came along, many western sections of Route 40 were decommissioned. Today, Route 40's official western terminus is at Silver Creek Junction, Utah, about 50 miles east of Salt Lake City. The Lincoln Highway is also partly incorporated in the Interstate Highway system, but it has remained largely identifiable.
Although Route 40 is a well-known federal highway, you probably won't find it on your Garmin GPS. Garmin insists on using street names rather than highway numbers. Perhaps someone has calculated the number of names for Route 40, but my estimate is at least a hundred. In New Jersey, Route 40 is generally known as the Harding Highway, but local municipalities have created their own names.
THE ENVIRONMENT OF ROUTE 40 IN NEW JERSEY
Only 40 miles south of the "Big Apple" (Few New Yorkers, or anyone else for that matter, know how the city got its nickname) is the "Great Swamp Wildlife Refuge," 7,000 acres of pure paradise. A little farther south, one comes to a large expanse of virgin forest called the "Pine Barrens." This is where Route 40 cuts through, enabling millions of vacationers to visit the Jersey Shore on paved road. Since 1977, the casinos have made Atlantic City the most frequented tourist attraction in America, with an average ten thousand visitors per day.
Many visitors to the northern part of the state ask if the State's nick name, "The Garden State," is not a misnomer. Anyone who has traveled Route 40,
however, has likely stopped at one of the numerous roadside markets and bought fresh New Jersey peaches, cantaloupe, tomatoes and sweet corn. They have no doubts about the validity of the State motto. Beneath the pine barrens lies an enormous underground reservoir of fresh water called the Cohansey Aquifer. About 17 trillion gallons of clear drinking water flow unused into the ocean each year, enough to supply all of New Jersey and New York City's needs! South Jersey also has beaver colonies, pheasant, wild turkeys, painted turtles, deer and a thousand other species of wildlife. You can even find an occasional bear. At least 850 species of plants and 400 kinds of birds can be found in South Jersey. I couldn't begin to name the myriads of insects such as colorful dragonflies, butterflies and mosquitoes.
The mosquitoes drove the first settlers (Swedes) across the river to Delaware. New Jersey mosquitoes cannot be considered wildlife, however. They are quite tame and will eat right out of your hand - or any other part of the body for that matter.
The Lenni Lenape or Delaware Indians once had this delightful area all to themselves. They belonged to the Algonquin family which populated the Atlantic Coast from Canada to Florida. The beginning of the end of their claim to paradise came in 1632 when Sir Edmond Plowdon, of Ireland, petitioned Charles I for a land grant. His request was at first refused, but he was later appointed governor of "New Albion," a large area now known as New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Long Island. Maryland had been previously given to Lord Baltimore, but Charles was forgetful.
The New Jersey Lenni Lenape were placed on a reservation consisting of about three thousand acres near Brotherton (Indian Mills). Most of them later moved to New York and joined with the Mohicans in 1802. In 1832, the NJ Legislature purchased the reservation from the Lenapes for two thousand dollars. Lake Lenape, on Route 40 in Mays Landing is about the only reminder of these peaceful early Americans.
Today, New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the union. You can fit New Jersey into Alaska 75 times, yet the city of Hoboken, NJ has more people than all of Alaska! Still, fewer than 20 persons populate a square mile of New Jersey.
Except for the northeastern part, New Jersey is a jewel of a State but some would argue that even the northeastern corner of New Jersey is a wonderful place. I heard of a wealthy businessman, who, whenever he got near the refineries and heavy industries of North Jersey, would roll down the windows of his Rolls Royce. After inhaling deeply, he would smile from ear to ear and say, "Ahhh! That smells like money!"
HOME SWEET HOME!
I grew up in a large family of eleven children just a mile from Route 40. We lived in a large
colonial house with ornamental cast iron railings on the front porch. It was located in Fox's Mill
and our family represented half the population! Fox's Mill belongs to Daretown, Upper Pittsgrove Township, but the postal address is Elmer. If this sounds confusing, let me explain.
There had been a lake across the road from our house, but a storm took it out around 1940 and it was not restored until 1956. An old mill, from which the name is derived, still exists and has a functioning paddle wheel that was lovingly restored by Jay Williams, a local farmer. I will have more to say about this personality later.
Daretown is half a mile south of Fox's Mill and nearly a ghost town today. When our family moved there in 1947, Daretown boasted a public school, two feed mills, a railroad station, post office, trucking company, blacksmith shop, a new car dealership and even an undertaker. There were two general stores in Daretown. Egan’s store had a gas pump where farmers tanked up their tractors at ten cents per gallon. Ice cream cones cost a nickel and a double-thick chocolate malt milkshake cost twenty cents.
Today, none of that is left. After the Post Office in Daretown closed, Elmer became our mailing address. A mailman delivered mail with his Model A Ford and usually had time to chat about the weather and local happenings, so we really didn't miss the post office.
The railroad tracks were removed in 1951 and even the brand names of cars once sold in Daretown (Hudson, Kaiser, Frazier and Studebaker) have vanished. There are four churches in Daretown, two are Baptist and two are Presbyterian. Only the "newer" churches are used today. The older structures are museums surrounded by cemeteries where many American pioneers are buried.
During colonial times, a busy road connecting Philadelphia with the Port of Greenwich, ran through Daretown and Pole Tavern. Most Americans have heard of the Boston Tea Party, but patriots also staged a tea party in Greenwich. A boatload of tea destined for Philadelphia was burned in the town square.
Daretown's relationship with Philadelphia is still quite "strong". That strength, however, has more to do with smells than with friendly relationships. Sludge from Philadelphia sewage plants is trucked to Daretown and converted to mulch that people spread on their lawns, gardens and fields. The owners of this industry, located near Route 40, have planted trees along the road in an attempt to hide the unsightly mountains of sludge. Daretown was previously known as Pilesgrove and Pittsgrove. Both of these names would be appropriate today. When the wind is right, the piles of sludge smell like the pits!
Philadelphia is the nearest major city, so residents of South Jersey generally support the 76ers, Flyers, Phillies and Eagles. Philadelphia served as the nation's Capitol twice. Trenton and Princeton, New Jersey also served as the nation’s Capitol for a short time. Few Americans realize that our Capitol relocated eight times before finding a permanent home in Washington DC.
Elmer, Daretown, Pole Tavern and Fox's Mill are all located in Upper Pittsgrove Township . This 15-mile stretch
along Route 40 is one of few areas in the non-Muslim world where alcoholic beverages may not be sold. There is neither a pole nor a tavern at the Pole Tavern traffic circle on Route 40. A tavern was built there around 1740 and was one of the first licensed hotels in America. During the Revolutionary War, "Minute Men" gathered at the flag pole in front of the tavern, thus the name "Pole Tavern". The tavern and pole were destroyed by fire in 1918. It is rumored that the fire was the work of local prohibitionists. The Prohibition Act was signed two years later.
There is an 800-pound bronze cannon in front of the Pole Tavern Township Hall just across the road from the Point
40 Diner. It has been there for as long as anyone can remember, but is now encased in a Plexiglass showcase. The cannon was forged in Naples, Italy and named “Il Lugano” (The Wolf) in 1763, and has a colorful history. It was used during the Napoleonic wars in Austria, transported to France and then presented to Napoleon's brother, Joseph, who was the ruler of Spain. The Duke of Wellington acquired the cannon for use in the War of 1812 after which it was exported to Canada. Americans captured it in the Battle of Plattsburg, NY in 1814. After the war, the United States Government sold Il Lugano and two other Napoleonic cannons, along with 287 muskets, to Salem County. The cannons were used for training militia during the Civil War and then put to rest in Salem, Woodstown and Pole Tavern. In 1889, the Pole Tavern cannon was borrowed for a parade in nearby Bridgeton. For some yet unknown reason, it was afterwards sent to Trenton and spent the next 24 years in the State Arsenal. Local citizens held a celebration when the cannon was finally discovered and returned to Pole Tavern. Il Lugano was twice stolen and once damaged, but it always returned home.
My father and the local farmer I already mentioned, Jay Williams, restored the cannon in 1986. Their names are engraved onto a brass plate fastened to its wood frame. According to a newspaper account, the cannon was "fired for the first time since Civil War days" during the July Fourth celebration of that year. I put this in quotes, because I know better. As a teenager, I fired the old cannon several times myself. On one occasion, I used carbide to fire it, but usually, firecrackers served as powder and tangerines as cannon balls.
That takes us to the town of Elmer, also located on Route 40. If you are one of the many who never heard of Elmer, don't be embarrassed. Unless you get caught in the infamous Elmer speed trap, you could miss this sleepy town entirely. Since my generation terrorized Elmer's inhabitants with hot rods and loud mufflers, the town has gotten quieter. A barber shop stands where the smoke-filled pool hall
was located and a news store which sold questionable magazines and lottery tickets, burned down years ago. Some claim that it was in answer to the prayers of concerned church members.
Elmer was once a boom town with a dozen factories, a busy railroad station and the largest potato market in the East. As recently as 2005, there were still three car dealerships, but these are now closed and the vacant buildings, like many homes, are for sale or rent. Two notable employers in Elmer belonged to the Harz family. Carl Harz Furniture boasted the largest selection of La-Z Boy furniture in the East, but Carl retired and the renowned establishment closed its doors forever in 2010. Fred Harz Tires still exists, but the fuel delivery business was discontinued several years ago. A pyramid-shaped stack of tires ranging from those of giant earth-moving machines to wheelbarrows has become a landmark on Route 40 East.
Elmer's largest remaining business thrives on sickness and injuries. The modern hospital and medical clinics are well known in Southern New Jersey. Unfortunately for the town, the hospital, like the four borough churches, is a non-profit institution and therefore pays no taxes. Make that three churches. The Roman Catholic Church closed in 2009.
Elmer Lake once provided ice for the region's refrigerators and had a nice swimming area with picnic pavilions and boats to rent. Today, it is so clogged with algae that even fishermen avoid it.
Most community affairs center around the Baptist, Methodist and Presbyterian Churches, the Fire Company, Masonic Lodge or Hospital Auxiliary. Other noteworthy places in Elmer include four banks, four pizzerias, Kountry Kitchen and Dodge's Market.
Dodge's market is worth special mention. My wife and I served 38 years as missionaries. While speaking in Pittsgrove Baptist Church once, someone asked what we missed most in Austria. With no hesitation, Verna
replied, "Dodge's Market!"
The market is located on the corner of Main Street and Route 40 and you could buy any fresh vegetable or fruit that happened to be in season. To erase all doubts about the quality of their products, Raymond and Aldi Dodge were always passing out free samples. Groceries, seafood and candy were also sold, but the market was
best known for its sharp cheese.
As a mere coincidence, Dodge’s Market was located next door to the Dodge car dealership and both businesses were founded by Dodge Brothers.
I could never understand why some Elmer residents traveled 20 or 30 miles to do their grocery shopping. Dodge's Market had everything locally, plus friendly service. The most one can expect at a supermarket, is the mandatory "Have a good day" when checking out. I have even seen signs taped to the register, promising a free purchase, should the cashier forget to repeat these magic words. Once, after the cashier repeated her "Have a good day," a friend responded with, "Thank you, but I have other plans." Without looking up, the cashier said, "Well, whatever they are, have a good day!"
Three decades ago, Aldi Dodge purchased a snow blower, but it never snowed that winter. The Dodges were joking about this one day, when the town gossip entered the store. She began to share all the news that the Elmer Times newspaper deemed unfit to print. The wife of one of the brothers had heard enough and began to talk about the snow blower again. After the customer departed, the Dodges had a good laugh and decided to "get out the snow blower" whenever someone started to swear, tell shady stories or gossip.
The snow blower worked fantastically well. Soon the Methodist minister got wind of it and asked permission to use the Dodge's snow blower when needed. In time, half the town was familiar with the snow blower which was often used in summer. When the minister's son left for missionary service in Japan, he requested and was granted permission to "export" Aldi's snow blower. When we went to Europe, we were granted the same privilege. Aldi's international snow blower has come in handy on many occasions!
After the Atlantic City casinos opened in 1978, Route 40 became more heavily traveled than ever. Tourists often stopped at Dodge's Market for a watermelon or cantaloupe. Raymond would ask if they were headed for the casinos. If they replied affirmatively, he told them that he had a sure-fire system for winning at the slot machines. He said, "Every time I play the slots, I double my money!" Raymond would then lower his voice and say, "For a dollar, I'll tell you my secret." Few customers could resist such an offer. After pocketing the Dollar, Raymond would say: "I only went to the casino once in my life, put a quarter in the slot machine and two quarters fell out. I haven't played since, but I just won another Dollar!"
The Dodge brothers, Aldi and Raymond, have passed away but the market still exists. The new owners have remodeled and added a restaurant, but the place is just not the same without them.
As a child, Route 40 meant only one thing to me. It led to the beach. We normally turned off Route 40 at May's Landing and drove to Ocean City. My parents said that Atlantic City was too commercial and evil for children. When the casinos opened in 1977, the matter was settled forever. Ocean City, like Elmer, is dry and prides itself as a family resort.
One hot sunny day, my parents packed all 11 children into their 9-passenger 1950 Ford "woody" station wagon and headed for the beach. When we stopped for gasoline, the attendant asked, "Are these all yours, or is this a picnic?" Pop Harvey was never lacking for a good answer. He replied, "Yes, they are all mine, and it's no picnic!"
It was certainly no picnic the time my parents left my brother at the beach. We had traveled half an hour, when one of us asked, "Where's David?" Pop stopped and counted heads. Sure enough, David was missing. He had no recourse other than driving back to Ocean City. We finally found David at the police station enjoying an ice cream cone which a nice policeman had bought him. He probably would have been content to stay!
On another occasion, Pop stopped at a red-light with his heavily populated station wagon. The decorated car of a newly wed couple pulled up next to us followed by a dozen cars honking their horns. The new bride was obviously amused at the packed station wagon in the next lane and motioned for her groom to look. Pop stuck his head out of the window and shouted over the din of car horns, "See what you're getting yourself in for, young lady?"
My brother, Bob Harvey, made his hobby of bee keeping into a career. The Harvey's Honey Bee Farm is located on Route 40 between Woodstown and Pole Tavern, not far from the Slabtown Road intersection. Harvey's Honey is well known on the east coast for honey, wax, manufactured beehives and more. The slogan, "We pollinate the East Coast from Main to Florida" is not exaggerated. In recent years Harvey's Honey has been sending tractor trailers loaded with bees to pollinate nut groves in California! The last I heard, Harvey's Honey maintains over 5,000 hives that produce about 300 tons of honey annually.
While reading the daily newspaper in Austria one Saturday morning, I was startled to see a picture of my sister, Ann, kissing some kind of monster! Upon reading the caption, I discovered that the "monster" was Ann's son and my nephew, Max, covered from head to foot with millions of honey bees! The feat netted him a place in the 1989 "Guinness Book of Records" -- and one sting. Later that day, I showed the article to a friend who responded with, "Is your entire family crazy?
My sister, Margie, came close to being born on Route 40. Between Christmas and New Years, Mom told Pop that he had better take her to the hospital if he didn't want to deliver a baby. His pickup truck had a flat tire on the way to Elmer Hospital and there was no air in the spare! Not desirous of giving birth to her baby on a busy highway, Mom got out of the car and tried her luck at hitch hiking. Alf Wentzell was making deliveries with his fuel oil truck and stopped to ask if he could be of any help. He agreed to make a detour to the hospital.
Pop and Mom had to watch their pennies raising eleven kids, so most of our clothes were of the cheap "Cowtown" variety. Cowtown is the invention of Howard Harris, who started out selling cattle at auction in Woodstown. Eventually, peddlers of fruit and vegetables began to rent space, and it soon became a popular bazaar-type market. There was little room for expansion in town, so the Harris family moved its operation to Sharptown on Route 40. Motorists can see Cowtown's huge statue of a cowboy a mile away. Vendors come from Philadelphia, New York and other states to sell their wares at Cowtown on Tuesdays and Saturdays. It has became one of the most popular shopping places in South Jersey, earning the nickname, "Sharptown Mall."
I wanted to wear genuine Levi jeans, but they were too expensive. Pop told me, "When you earn your own money, you can buy whatever clothes you want, but if I am paying, you get what we can afford."
I took the hint and decided that getting paid to work certainly beat working at home without pay. I got a job working for a neighboring farmer, named Stephen J. Williams. Most people called him "Jay" or simply "Governor."
After the State of New Jersey allowed casino gambling in Atlantic City, taxes were supposed to drop and the economy to flourish. Thousands of tourist busses loaded with gamblers converged daily upon this resort city, which until then had been known mainly for its sandy beaches and the annual Miss America Pageant. Money began to roll into the casinos but New Jersey residents saw no benefits whatsoever. They were and are still convinced that the only real winners are the Mafia and crooked politicians. Taxes and insurance rates continued to escalate even faster than before the casinos opened. South Jersey farmers, whose hard work gave the "Garden State" its nickname, complained loudly about high taxation, but their complaints went unheeded by New Jersey law-makers.
Being an educated farmer, Jay asked in a 1974 Township Meeting at Pole Tavern, what the legal procedure for succession would be. The following day, a brief article in the local newspaper, Salem Sunbeam, was titled, "How to Secede from North Jersey". By the end of the week, Jay was entertaining reporters from all over and soon became South Jersey's most celebrated resident. He correctly predicted that the proposal of secession would get nearly 100% support from the residents of Southern New Jersey. Jay argued, "We have agriculture, atomic energy, tourist trade and the casinos. We can cut taxes and surely, farmers can do a better job of running the State!" People who knew Jay laughed at his newest practical joke, but lawyers began to earnestly study their law books to see if such a thing was feasible. Word has it, that concerned State politicians were making long distance phone calls to Washington. It never happened of course, but Jay became a celebrity whose reputation as a practical joker was only surpassed by his fame as "Governor of South Jersey."
I grew up within earshot of Route 40. "Smokey" Wentzell, the brother of Alf, named above, owned a
40's style diner at the Pole Tavern traffic circle. He also loved his cars, a sleek red Jaguar XK 120 and a restored Indy race car. When he closed the diner after midnight, I could hear him wind them through the gears for three miles to his home in Elmer. Several decades ago, the diner was replaced with a modern diner-restaurant which is now named "Point 40 Diner". The old diner was moved to a nearby field and left to rot. A Cleveland Ohio company that restores old diners discovered it years later with trees growing in and through it. They trucked it to Ohio, where it received a frame-off restoration. It found a new owner in New Hampshire. You can see pictures of it here:
I need to say more about the Kountry Kitchen because it is closely related to Smokey's diner. Smokey divorced his first wife and married one of his waitresses. She later left him and opened the Kountry Kitchen in partnership with Smokey's first wife. You see what I mean by "closely related." There is a large billboard in the parking lot of the Kountry Kitchen that shares pertinent historical information about Route 40.
My first bike was a well-used Rollfast. My father put a new fender on it and after painting it, I got it for my birthday. I promptly took the fenders off and mounted a car steering wheel in place of the handle bars. My bike had no gears, but it was easy to ride no-handed.
As early as I can remember, my greatest interest was in cars. At thirteen years of age, I read just about every automotive magazine that was sold. I regularly rode my Rollfast to the Pole Tavern Traffic Circle, where there were always plenty of cars. At fourteen, I founded a car club and had calling cards and bumper stickers printed which read, "Circle City Customs." The guys at the circle loved the idea and bought my stickers for their cars. The name "Circle City" stuck to this day.
Where the WAWA stands at the Pole Tavern circle, there was once a store called Mickle's Market. When only 15, I helped my father put a new roof on the market. He overheard me naming the make, model, type of motor and transmission of each car that passed. Pop called up from below, "I'm not paying you to look at cars; keep your eyes on your work!" Another worker had difficulty convincing my father that I wasn't looking at the cars, but identifying them by their sounds. Pop watched in disbelief as I continued to correctly identify the next four or five cars. Then he said, "Well stop it anyway; it slows down the other men when they look to see if you are right!"
I liked to hang around the traffic circle even before I owned a car. One night, a drunk drove into the Esso station. He had just bought a 1935 Ford coupe and was bragging about how fast it could go. Several guys started to kid him, and I decided to get in on the fun. I walked over and asked if he wanted to race against my bike. He gave me an angry look and said that I had better not make fun of his car. Seeing the others standing there, gave me more courage than I would normally have mustered. I challenged him again, saying that I would race him around the circle and beat him. The other guys encouraged him to take me up on the offer and even started taking bets on who would win! He finally agreed to the race.
Three times, we were flagged for the start and all three times, his car stalled. On the third try, the inebriated driver was so angry that he slammed his fist through the windshield! By this time all of us were beginning to wonder if it might really be possible to ride a bike around the circle faster than driving a car. One of the guys agreed to try with his car. I actually won the race and became the hero of the night!
Soon after my fifteenth birthday, I spotted a lovely '40 Ford coupe for sale. It was sitting at the Pole Tavern Sunoco station and the owner was asking $200. I had more than enough money and in my imagination, I had already "customized" the body and "souped up" the flathead V8 engine. When Pop heard of my plans, he promptly vetoed the idea. "You can't get your drivers license until you are seventeen", he argued, "You are not buying a car!" I attempted to explain that it was only to work on and not to drive, but my arguments fell on deaf ears.
On October 2, 1954, Pop came home from work with an impish grin on his face. That grin usually meant a special treat for someone and this time it was for me! He said that if I was really serious about getting a car "just to work on", he had found the ideal project car. It was a 1924 Model "T" Ford. The owner was Merle Foster, who owned the John Deere tractor and farm supply at Pole Tavern. He claimed to be sentimentally attached to his "tin Lizzie" but would be willing to part with the treasure for only thirty dollars. It was clear that I would either wait until I turned seventeen or take advantage of this opportunity. I chose the latter. After all, a Model "T" roadster, a coupe or even a pick-up truck could make a fabulous "hot rod"! I agreed to Pop's offer and we drove to his farm right after supper.
When I saw the car, my heart sank into my shoes. It had some rust, but that didn't bother me at all. With utter dismay, I registered the fact that the car was a 1924 4-door sedan! In my estimation, 4-door cars fell into the same category as cars with mud-flaps, winged hood ornaments and giant dice hanging from the rear view mirror. I didn't even like 2-door sedans, but 4-door cars were only for families with kids and "hillbillies" (that term is no longer politically correct, so we now call them "rednecks"). I knew that I would be ridiculed by my friends when they discovered that I had purchased a 4-door car, but it was too late to back out.
We pumped up the tires, which amazingly held air. Then we towed my "prize" (my father was more elated with the purchase than I was) home, parked it in front of the garage and covered it with a tarp so my friends would not be so likely to see it. I laid awake most of that night imagining their reaction when they discovered that I had bought a 4-door, Model "T" Ford! As I contemplated the matter, I decided to restore the vehicle as an antique. This would not only diminish the importance of the body style, but if I did a good job, the car could be sold for enough money to buy a "real" car!
I spent many hours working on the car. My father had owned several Model "T" Fords and his experience proved invaluable. Soon I owned a second Model "T", this time a 1922 wood-sided taxi that someone had irreverently converted into a delivery van. Since there was little left to restore, it served for spare parts. The restoration did not turn out to be as professional a job as I had anticipated, but for a sixteen-year-old, it was a commendable effort. Those efforts were more than compensated by the many people who spotted the car in our yard and stopped to admire it. I discovered that an antique car could attract as much attention as a custom or hot rod, but there was one big drawback -- it was not nearly so fast! Nevertheless, my restoration project helped me to gain a respect and appreciation for historic vehicles which remains to this day.
While in Woodstown High School, located directly on Route 40, I joined the FFA, or "Future Farmers of America." I had no intention of ever becoming a farmer, but there was a large workshop in the FFA Department where farm boys could learn to weld, rebuild engines and do other interesting things. I found working with my hands to be much more satisfying than studying Algebra, World History and Social Studies. In those days only boys belonged to the FFA, but today it’s mostly girls with horses.
In the FFA classes, an instructor teacher welded a sparkplug into a piece of pipe and fit this over the end of a tractor's exhaust stack. He then proceeded to show that exhaust gas contains unburned particles of fuel. When he sent an electric charge to the sparkplug, a blue flame shot out of the pipe. In that moment, an idea was born in my mind. At home, I was restoring my Model-T Ford, which used "ignition coils." These coils could be wired to send a continuous charge of electricity to sparkplugs!
My best friend, Paul Trumbull, volunteered his 1946 Studebaker for the experiment. Looking like two airplane cockpits welded end to end, the Studebaker was an ideal car for our undertaking. The six-cylinder engine even had a "split manifold" and dual exhaust system. To heighten the effect, we installed cable-controlled muffler by-passes using "cutouts" on both exhaust pipes. This not only allowed for a maximum amount of unburned fuel to reach the sparkplugs, but also provided the appropriate sound effects! A nut with the same thread pattern as the sparkplugs was sliced in half with a hacksaw and one half of the nut welded into each exhaust pipe about six inches from the end. One terminal of the Model "T" coil was connected to the car battery and the other to the sparkplugs. An electrical switch on the dashboard turned the "afterburners" on and off.
Paul lived on Route 40 and a short test drive gave us the satisfaction of a job well done! Our experiment worked better than we could ever have anticipated. The blue and yellow flames were quite impressive at night. Now, we were ready for some fun!
Our first excursion in the flame-throwing Studebaker was to the stock car races at Alcyon Park in Pitman. Paul parked the car on the infield near the pits just opposite the grandstands. It was dark when the races were over, and Paul started his car, opened the exhaust by-passes and revved the engine to about 3000 rpm. When he let off the gas pedal, the "suck-back" in the exhaust pipes sounded like amplified machine-gun fire! A thousand astonished eyes were locked onto that Studebaker as Paul switched on the "afterburners" and sped for the exit.
Later that night, we located a long hill with typical single family development houses lining both sides of the road. We drove the Studebaker as fast as it would go up the back side of the hill. Once over the top, we picked up speed rapidly. As the first houses came into view, Paul shifted the car back into first gear and overdrive, something that can probably only be done with a '46 Studebaker! The engine was internally hemorrhaging when he opened the exhaust by-passes and turned on the coil which fed the sparkplugs. The noise was deafening and two gorgeous blue flames blasted several feet out of the exhaust pipes, illuminating fences and bushes as we passed.
While Paul drove, I watched through the wrap-around back window. One porch light after another came on as people rushed from their houses and onto the street. At the bottom of the hill we turned off the "afterburners" and drove back to Circle City, laughing uncontrollably all the way! To this day I often wonder what those people concluded about the visit of our "unidentified flying object!" For the next few months, I was swamped with orders for "Flame Throwers".
For some reason, I was always infatuated with convertibles. Even as a small child, I dreamed of the day when I would have one of my own. Shortly before my seventeenth birthday, I began to shop around for my first convertible. I wasn't really particular about the car as long as it was a Ford "ragtop" from the '30s or '40s.
After running down several leads from newspaper ads, I decided to check out some junk yards. I planned to rebuild the car anyway, so it wouldn't need to be in A-1 condition. When I finally discovered my car, it was love at first sight! I located a 1946 Ford convertible in a Mullica Hill junk yard that had been involved in a head-on collision. The engine was gone and the junk dealer agreed to sell me the remainder for $50. My parents and neighbors shook their heads in disbelief when I towed the car into our driveway. To them, my treasure was nothing more than scrap metal and belonged where I had gotten it.
I spent every waking hour working on that car and every sleeping hour dreaming of what it would be like when finished. I soon located fenders, hood and a bumper in another junk yard. My cousin sold me a beat-up '39 Mercury coupe for $20 that had a later-model Ford V8 engine. I dropped the engine in my ragtop and junked the coupe. Then I re-did the interior in pink and black imitation leather. The rear end was lowered until it nearly scraped the ground and fender skirts were added. After removing most of the chrome trim and filling the holes, I sanded until my fingers were blistered. When I was certain that there were no uneven places, I drove the car to a shop to have it painted a bright coral pink color. I was allowed to watch the process and asked many questions. After that, I painted my own cars. A neighbor joked that I painted my cars more often than I washed them!
I loved the feel of rushing wind in my face and the sense of freedom that only a "ragtop" can provide. I suffer from rheumatism today, probably because I drove with the convertible top down in winter.
In August of 1955, Hurricane Diane blasted the eastern seaboard, doing over 500 million dollars worth of damage and causing 184 deaths. I decided to see if my car could also sail. I found a long, straight stretch of Route 40 which ran parallel to the wind. After raising the canvas top to its highest point, I opened both doors and attained the respectable speed of 45 mph with the ignition turned off!
My main interest was cars, a subject that girls could seldom relate to. Although girls liked boys who drove flashy convertibles, they would usually insist on putting the top up to keep the wind from ruining their "hair-do."
It seemed like farmers along Route 40 were intent upon soaking convertible drivers. Although a lot of precious water was wasted, the farmers always positioned their irrigation pipes so that passing motorists would get drenched. If there was only one sprinkler next to the road, I could stop and wait until it turned before driving past. But more often than not, the farmers placed an entire row of sprinklers next to the road!
After getting wet several times, I figured a way to get even with the farmers. I had driven tractors often enough to know that cultivating young corn or tomato plants was a tedious job. Whenever I passed the field of a farmer who was cultivating, I would slow down, honk my horn and wave frantically. The farmer could usually be distracted long enough to plow out several rows of plants.
Although some of the vehicles I owned were fast, there were plenty of cars around that could have wiped me out. I didn't like to race because it was too easy to blow an engine or drop a transmission. I earned money repairing damage done to other cars while racing and was not eager to repair my own.
My reputation for having fast cars came quite by chance. I was sitting in Smokey's Circle City Diner one evening, finishing a Boston cream pie and chocolate milkshake, when several hot rods pulled into the parking lot. The drivers climbed out of their roadsters and coupes and began to examine my car. After paying my bill, I left the diner and sauntered over to my pink convertible as though I owned the world. One of the strangers noticed a dual carburetor manifold lying on the back seat and asked if the car was fast. I lied to him, saying that the manifold had just been replaced by a triple carb manifold. He pointed to his fenderless coupe and asked if I wanted to drag.
Police cruisers routinely patrolled Route 40, but the long and straight Elmer-Shirley Road was not far away. Without batting an eyelash, I heard myself saying, "Title for title!" It was too late to back down now I wondered what in the world had possessed me to make such an offer! Except for a racing cam and high compression heads, my engine was basically stock. The exhaust system however, sounded like pure power! I slipped behind the wheel, turned on the electric fuel pump and started the engine. It had a rough idle due to the cam, and must have scared the stranger. I gave him a side glance through the window and asked with an easy drawl, "Are we ready?"
By this time several other guys had gathered. The stranger asked, "Are you serious about that title business?" I turned to one of my buddies, who was looking on and asked, "Tell him if I'm serious!" He played the part better than I could ever have expected. Pointing to his own car, he said, "I just bought my car back from him yesterday!" Fortunately for me, the stranger said that he needed to make some adjustments to his engine first. He climbed into his rod and drove off with tires screeching. I discovered later that he owned what was probably the fastest street rod in South Jersey! It was a reputation that he didn't want to risk losing. Word spread rapidly, that my car was even faster!
One lovely Sunday morning, Pop was driving Mom and ten of the kids to church. The eleventh (me) was following the family station wagon on Route 40 at slightly above the speed limit. I spotted the radar trap next to the highway, but since they let Pop go, I didn't bother to slow down. When the State Troopers pulled me over, I protested, "Why didn't you stop that station wagon? It was traveling at the same speed!" The policeman continued to write the ticket, at first ignoring my question. When he was finished, he handed me the ticket and explained, "That man had a car full of kids; he obviously can't afford to pay for a speeding ticket!"
After church, one of the youth who had a rather fast ’55 Chevy, decided to drive out to where the radar was set up to ask a favor of the police. He approached a State Trooper who was reading the meters and asked if he would be so kind as to check his speedometer. "Why certainly, son," the officer replied, "I would be glad to!" The youth then drove through radar at 75mph! When he returned, the ticket was ready and waiting. "Here, you have it in writing, son," the officer grinned! That youth later became President of the First National Bank.
I developed a keen eye for patrol cars and radar traps, but the spectacular paint jobs and loud mufflers of my cars seemed to have a magnetic attraction for both Municipal and State Police. According to New Jersey law, one could lose a drivers license after collecting twelve points. My points piled up so fast, that I had accumulated 22 points by the time my license was finally revoked.
It was popular during the fifties to "de-chrome" a car. The DuPont Company came out with fantastic fiberglass putty that became like steel when mixed with a hardener. I was one of the first in our area to try the new product on cars. I found it to be much easier to fill holes with fiberglass than to braze them shut and smooth them over with hot lead.
I also learned how to "chop a top" (cut a horizontal section out of the top of a car, welding it back together again); to "Z" a frame (cut and weld a car frame, to make it lower); "channel" the body (set the chassis down around the frame instead of on top of it) and much more. As I gained experience, friends started to ask for advice. I was beginning to feel like an expert! Within five years of graduation from High School, I had owned 25 cars! Three of them were even pictured in car magazines.
As I stated earlier, Upper Pittsgrove Township is one of the few "dry" areas in America. For a while I earned easy money on weekend nights, driving people to "Red Tavern," which was located on Route 40 in the next county. Passengers would pay me $5 to taxi them the round trip of about twenty miles. In those days, gasoline cost 15 cents per gallon and $2 worth filled the tank! If I taxied several people at a time, I could earn more in half an hour than in two days at work! I quit transporting drunks, however, after a couple of the drunks threw up in my car.
One of my classmates was killed when his car flew out of a curve and wrapped itself around a tree. Another classmate lost his arm in the same accident. They had been drinking. Another tragic incident involving alcohol was even more of a shock. A normally docile teenager murdered my former Sunday School teacher. She operated a small cafe and was well liked by everyone. After consuming several beers, a 19-year-old entered her store and demanded money. My guess is that she probably tried to tell him about Jesus, but he pulled a knife and stabbed her a total of 19 times! After these experiences, I vowed that I would never touch alcohol.
Some of the stunts I pulled as a young person were not much different from those of any normal youth. Like the time I "borrowed" a large sign from a junkyard in Vineland and placed it in front of the Elmer funeral parlor. The sign read, "Good used Body Parts."
Many of the pranks we pulled as youth were somehow associated with Route 40 and the traffic circle. In the little town of Elmer, there was a dangerous curve on Route 40. Homes located in this curve were often mistaken for "drive-ins" by sleepy, drunk or careless drivers. Once, several of us posted ourselves under a street light in the curve, standing on both sides of the highway. Whenever a car approached too rapidly, we bent over and pretended to pick up a rope, bracing ourselves in a fixed pose as though we were stretching the rope across the street. The reaction of drivers varied. Nearly all stopped or slowed to a crawl. Some became angry and threatened us but others simply laughed. In any case, we remained in our position without smiling or speaking until the car passed out of sight.
I wasn't always that safety conscious. Some things I did were downright dangerous. Like the time I tied the steering wheel of my car and let it idle around the Pole Tavern circle all by itself. The circle was perfectly round in those days. Every few minutes, I had to run along side of the slowly moving vehicle and jump on the running board to make a course correction. This took place during the wee hours of the morning when few cars were on the road. Still, it was a risky thing to do.
On another occasion, a friend and I taped two sealed beam headlights to a broom handle and wired them to a car battery. We carried this contraption out to a long, straight stretch of Route 40, where I stood with the lights turned on until a car appeared in the distance. As the car approached, I ran off the road with the headlights bouncing. After rolling the broomstick end for end, I turned off the lights and joined my friend in a corn field. The drivers inevitably stopped to look for tire tracks. Someone apparently reported the incident to the police, for they came and searched the area with spotlights. Fortunately, they were not looking for footprints!
Several of us worked nights in the two Pole Tavern service stations, pumping gas. It didn't pay much, but on summer weekends, there was always something going on at Circle City. Whoever pumped gas was certain to have plenty of company.
Once, a friend named Norman, who stuttered, was manning the pumps. A big black Chrysler pulled in to get gas. The driver rolled down his window and said, "F-f-f-fi-fi-fi-fill er up!" Norm dutifully placed the nozzle in the tank and turned it on. He then returned to the driver's window and asked, "Sh-sh-sh-sh-shall I ch-ch-ch-ch-check the oil?" The driver thought Norm was mocking him and became angry. He shouted, "W-w-w-w-w-wise guy!", threw his car into drive, hit the gas and disappeared into the night. The gas hose was ripped from the pump and dragged several yards before it fell onto the road. Norm just stood there totally confused holding the gas cap in his hand. He asked, "Wha-wha-what was e-e-eating hi-hi-him?" The rest of us were laughing so hard, our stomachs hurt!
When things got dull at Circle City, we could usually think of crazy things to do. Tomato farmers used to park their trucks and wagons loaded with tomatoes at the circle. There was a weigh station there, and the farmers could get an early start to the cannery by lining up for weighing the night before. One summer night, neither station was pumping much gas. One of us walked over to a truck and fetched a basket of tomatoes. At first, we just ate them, but then one of us threw a tomato at the guys in the station across the circle. Within seconds, an all-out tomato war was raging. After several baskets of ammunition had been expended and we were all dripping red, a customer drove into our station. He took one look at us and was ready to notify the ambulance and police. We were able to convince him that there was no need for concern. We spent the next hour hosing down the stations and each other.
I graduated from Woodstown High School on June 8th, 1955. The ceremony was uneventful compared to that of my brother David. His graduation took place in the football stadium. John and Dan were on hand for the occasion, but they were not in the grandstand with the rest of us. They were hiding in the bushes on the opposite side of the stadium. They had set off a couple of sky-rockets the previous day, to determine exactly how much time elapsed between igniting the fuse and detonation. Now, they were calculating the time it took for each student to approach and ascend the platform before receiving the diploma. The rocket was scheduled to explode at the precise moment David received his diploma, but something went wrong. Having received insider information, I was sitting in great anticipation. David too, walked slowly to the center of the platform, waiting for the rocket to take off, but nothing happened. We wondered if the boys had gotten caught or perhaps "chickened out".
The last student received his diploma and a local minister began to read his prayer, when an ear-shattering blast filled the air above the stadium! The befuddled minister lost his place, paused and only after muffled laughter and murmuring in the grandstand had ceased, was he able to finish his prayer. Few people were listening, least of all my younger brothers. They had left the scene after lighting the fuse and were quite disappointed that the rocket seemed to be a dud. No one was more surprised than they, when it finally exploded.
My graduation took place in the school gymnasium. After receiving my diploma, I ripped off the ribbon and found myself holding a blank piece of paper! All the male graduates found the same. The school Principal soon explained the reason. It seems that in previous years, many boys had not turned in their graduation caps and gowns. He said that we could keep the tassels, but would not get our diplomas until we turned in our garments. After the graduation, a couple of friends and I had planned to drive to Atlantic City and parade the Boardwalk in our caps and gowns. It was raining and this news almost caused us to change plans. After some discussion, we decided to go ahead with plans. We still had until the following day to turn in the robes and "mortar board" caps.
I was probably the only person in our class who got to keep his graduation cap as a souvenir. I wrapped a square piece of cardboard in m robe before turning it in and no one noticed that the cap was missing.
In 1955, we were building an addition onto the First Baptist Church of Elmer. Pop asked if he could use my car to drive to the lumber yard. He said that he used to own a '38 Ford and thought it would be fun to drive one again. My car was not a sedate family sedan like the one he had owned, but a fire-engine-red roadster. I had altered so much on the vehicle that there were few similarities to the car he once owned. When he returned an hour later, his face was as red as the paint. He was reluctant to share details of his brief acquaintance with my car, but swore that he would never, ever, drive it again!
I heard the rest of the story from a reliable witness.
It was a lovely October day and the convertible top was down. At the town's main intersection, the car stalled and refused to start. A group of teenage girls on their way home from High School stood on the corner and watched with amusement, as my father attempted to restart the engine. He remembered that those older cars usually had a hand choke and pulled it out, but the "Ahoogah" horn sounded instead. He then accidentally stepped on a button "Bermuda Carriage Bell". When the engine finally started, he somehow activated the "Wolf Whistle," which operated on vacuum from the intake manifold. The girls were giggling and waving by this time. Pop got nervous, gave the car too much gas. Squealing tires added a lovely soprano to the deep-throated dual exhaust system!
Since all these things occurred, we lived 38 years in Europe, but when we retired in 2002, we chose to buy a house along Route 40. It is a block away and surrounded by trees, so the noise of traffic doesn't bother us. It's less than an hour to the Jersey Shore and Philadelphia Airport. We love our home and the location!
Ralph V. Harvey