The Oddfather

I’ve come to the realization that absolutely nobody in north Jersey knows how to drive.  I’ve determined that every single person behind the wheel is on drugs.  The speed limit seems to be just a suggestion, the police are the worst offenders, and I’ve now gotten the finger five times from people so old they should be decaying by now.

I got up early this morning because I had had a particularly odd dream in which Ed had been mauled by a bear, and upon confirmation that this hadn’t, in fact, happened, set off for my first destination of the day--Clinton Road in Passaic County.  I was excited about this because a whole slew of terrible and shady things allegedly happen on it, not the least of which was a regular assembly of Satan worshippers, KKK meetings, and more than a few murders.  There were also rumors of witches covens, roaming packs of wild animals, mysterious chanting, Voodoo symbols carved into the rocks, and the ghost of a floating dog.  There are also some rumors that if you turn your car off on the road, it won’t start again, and that driving down the road will make you supernaturally nauseas.  Oh, boy!

Clinton Road is right off of Route 23, and it started being a problem right away in that the ramp was closed.  Of course, the GPS didn’t know the ramp was closed and kept trying to make me go there anyway.  Almost in tears, I drove around a residential area for 20 minutes until I saw an old biddy walking her dog.  I pulled over; old biddies know everything.

The old biddy told me that I was actually only a few miles from Clinton Road and that it was “that way.”  I thanked her and told her that I was on an Odyssey of Weirdness.

BIDDY:  Oh, there’s lots of scary stuff about Clinton Road!  There are a lot of murders!

ME:  A lot?  How many is “a lot?”

BIDDY:  Oh, I don’t know…dozens.  There are also some haunted rocks and a haunted stone fence.  Beautiful scenery, though.

ME:  Did you ever hear any chanting?  Or see any Satan worshippers or KKK members?

BIDDY:  I’ve heard funny noises near the bridge.

ME:  Cool!

I drove off to where she had directed—there it was!  All excited, I slowed down and got the camera ready to see some weird (possibly evil!) things.  The very first thing I spotted appeared to be…the suspicious Voodoo carvings!

So, it's..."8/18/64" and what appears to be the name “NED.”  Well, if it was supposed to be Voodoo, it was very boring Voodoo, and I doubt it seriously jeopardized the soul of Ned, whoever he is.  However, right by the carvings was a very pretty creek (which my mom always pronounced “crick,” sending me into fits of apoplexy):

 I spotted some other obviously non-Voodoo-related graffiti about fifty feet later, commemorating the eternal burning love of Jim and Steph, who (I like to think with my cynical mind) have probably broken up by now anyway:

  

A bit further on, I saw what had to be the haunted stone fence:

 Nothing scary or even unusual was happening near it, but it was pretty. 

Just as I was about to give up on experiencing any weirdness on Clinton Road, I saw this sign, tacked onto a tree on the side of the road:

Really?  Is that really a big problem in the woods of Passaic County?  Is there a secret Al-Qaeda cabal or home-grown terrorist cell located somewhere among the Satanists and the Klansmen that I don't know about?  Is this something I should worry about?  I would have certainly reported any terrorism if I had suspected it, but in the half an hour I spent on the road I didn't even see any other human beings.

 Obviously, I had turned off my car at all of these places, and it had no problem starting up again (I would think that if that particular rumor were true, it would be very inconvenient for the people who actually live on the road).  However, I could easily see how people would be nauseas, though it was hardly supernatural—if you’re prone to carsickness, you don’t want to be driving on any mountain road.

I stopped several times with the window open to listen for the chanting (whether of the Satan worshippers or the KKK wasn’t made clear), but the only thing I could hear was the sound of the creek and what sounded like an owl.  Bummer.

  

So, again, something supposedly ridiculously haunted proved to be a disappointment on the supernatural end, but a satisfying photographic experience.  Not a bad morning, all considered.

 As I tooled my way back down Route 23, I was treated to this amusing roadside sign at a self-storage facility:

Isn’t that cute?  With the little play on the word “space” and the rocket?  I thought so, too.

  

Due to some last-minute Odyssey flight plan re-arranging, I found myself with some extra time to kill in Passaic County, so I decided to try to find the supposedly palatial estate of Richie “The Boot” Boiardo, one of New Jersey’s lesser-known Mafia dons.  Richie had risen to the higher ranks of the mob during Prohibition, and had palled around with such reputable characters as Lucky Luciano and Abner Zwillman.  Although Richie passed away years ago at age 93, the estate still remains.

The grounds, which are located in the upscale Rainbow Ridge section of Livingston, is rumored to not only have statues on the graves of various people who…um…”disagreed” with Richie, but in fact has its own crematorium.  Well, I wasn’t about to miss this.

The Rainbow Ridge development was very easy to find, and the Boiardo home was very prominently displayed.  Here are the front gates, with his name right on them and everything:

 However, as I was putting the car in reverse to go through the gates and trespass on a Mafia kingpin’s property, a…”landscaper” in a white 4x4 appeared, seemingly out of nowhere:

THUG:  What are you doing?

ME:  (Oh, God, please don’t let him break my legs)  I’m…lost.

THUG:  What are you looking for?

ME:  (Or dislocate my shoulders)  I…er…Route 287.

THUG:  (points)  That way.

ME:  (Or shatter my kneecaps)  Uh…okay…thanks.

As Ed would say, I left a vapor trail out of the place.  The truly ironic thing was that at the precise moment this was going on, I was actually engaged in a lively and informative conversation with Ed on the phone about the process of putting someone under arrest.  Still, if I was going to be whacked, I would rather it be while I was on the phone with a former policeman than anyone else.

As I was speeding away from the Boiardo compound, I suddenly saw…this:

 Now, the Rainbow Ridge area is very clearly an Italian neighborhood, as pretty much all of the mailboxes have names on them which end with vowels (not to mention capo di tutti capi over there), so I couldn’t understand why on earth any of them would want lawn statues of a Mexican boy with his burro.  There were absolutely no other decorations on the lawn, and the fact that the supposedly “Mexican” child is in such bad need of a paint job that he looks only slightly darker than the alleged albino cannibals from last night makes the whole thing even stupider.

I checked the map and discovered I was only half a mile away from The Brau Kettle in Sandyston in Sussex County.  The Brau (German for “brew”) Kettle is…well, it’s a hole. 

The main reason I went to see the hole is because of a joke my father and I have.  When he was serving in the Navy from 1950-1954, he was stationed in, consecutively, Bermuda, Trinidad, Jamaica, and Casablanca.  My mom and I used to refer to his tour of duty as his “four-year pleasure cruise,” since people now spend thousands of dollars to go to places that the Navy paid him to go.  Because he was in the Seabees (construction and engineering), all he did was build things, and often had to wait for weeks for the building supplies to come—which he spend messing around on the beach with his best friend, Jack.  In any case, whenever Mom and I would mention this, Dad would just say, “It’s a hole.”  Eventually, we all began to refer to every supposedly beautiful and exotic location as “a hole,” and, in fact, whenever I go on vacation I send postcards back home saying nothing but, “You were right.  It’s a hole.”

In any case, this particular hole was supposedly the site of many mysterious disappearances.  No one had been murdered or had died there—people just disappeared.  No one knows whether they were pulled into the sucking vortex of the hole or were set upon by albino cannibals or what, but apparently, several people had journeyed there who had never come back!  *Ominous music*

The hole was on Old Mine Road, which is so steep that I had the gas pedal floored and was still only going about 30, and it felt like I was dragging a body.  I managed to find the hole relatively easily, though in the process I found out that my Saturn isn’t really, made for off-roading.  Here is the hole in question:

I stared at it a few minutes…nothing happened.  The longer I stared at it, the longer nothing happened.  Sort of let down, I took pictures of this waterfall and this stream which were on the other side of the road from the hole:

So, aside from almost ending up in cement shoes at the Boiardo family home, it was actually a pretty uneventful day for weirdness.  However, as Scarlett said, tomorrow is another day.

Also, this:

I would walk by the Stop & Shop,

Then I'd drive by the Stop & Shop

And I liked that much better than walking by the Stop & Shop

I had the radio on.

Odyssey out.

Fear and Loathing in Morris Plains

If I had to sum up today’s Odyssey experience in one word, it would be “unsettling.”  It’s not that I didn’t see any cool stuff—I did.  In fact, I saw one thing that I kind of think I hadn’t.

It was also a day for interaction with really dumb employees.  When I asked the front desk person at tonight’s hotel if the Charlie Brown’s was still here (as the GPS insisted it was), she said, “Yes, but they tore it down.”  Well, then, it’s not still here, is it?  At dinner a few moments ago, the waiter came to my table a few minutes after I had ordered and said, “Your food will be ready in just a few minutes!  Would you like me to bring it out?”  I was so tempted to tell him that that wouldn’t be necessary—I’d eat it out back by the dumpsters with the winos and the junkies.  (I also got "ma'am"ed to death again).

I had a late start today because I misplaced my Bluetooth in the hotel, and by the time I actually got on the road it was time for brunch.  For some reason, I decided that ribs at Applebees would be a good first thing to put in my stomach.  As I was licking the sauce out from under my nails (being sure to leave enough for a midnight snack), the waitress noticed my copy of The Guidebook and all of my maps.

“Oh!  Are you a researcher for Weird NJ?” she asked, very excited.

“Well, not officially,” I explained, and told her about The Odyssey.  She thought this was just the coolest idea she had ever heard and asked me where I was headed next.  When I told her I was bound for Shades of Death Road in Warren County, she delightedly told me that it was very near her house, and, because it was still terribly foggy, it was the perfect weather in which to visit it:

   She called her brother over (who was also a waiter there) and the two of them drew a shortcut on my map.  I was psyched—it was only about eight miles away.

Shades of Death Road is so named because there have been a lot of…well, deaths there.  The trouble allegedly started in the 1920s, when squatters, defending their “home turf,” killed anyone and everyone who came down the road, in a very Sawney Bean-type fashion.  Other rumors say that a vicious pack of wildcats (in New Jersey?) attacked and killed a group of people camping there.  Still others say that in the 1930’s, a man was murdered by his wife, who then buried his head on one side of the road and his torso on the other—I have no idea what she did with his other bits.  In any case, the whole thing is supposed to be haunted, and more than a little spooky.

Thanks to the waitress and her brother, I was able to find it with no trouble.  They had warned me that there wouldn’t be a street sign because local teenagers kept stealing it, but that there would be no doubt what it was…and they were right.

The road wasn’t so much spooky as it was horribly depressing.  I can absolutely understand why there would be rumors of ghosts and other unpleasantness.  The very first thing on the road is this abandoned cottage:

 Things got even more gloomy and dismal about a hundred feel further down the road:   

Even without the shambling remains of farm buildings, the road is pretty miserable.  It’s a one-lane road with an alarming 8-10 foot embankment on either side and absolutely no place to turn off.  If another car had been coming the other way, I’d have been screwed.

Halfway down the road, I found this “bridge” going across one of the embankments leading to…whatever that thing is.  It’s approximately as wide as two balance beams, and I wouldn’t trust it with the weight of a nine-year-old, let alone mine:

 And the water you’d fall into is particularly nasty looking:

 And only a few yards away from a sewer pipe:

 There was a very lovely collection of ancient and rusty industrial oil barrels on the other side:

 The whole thing was so unbelievably sad that I headed out as soon as I saw a viable exit.  Of course, there were some more abandoned shacks on the way out:

 Man, this was depressing.  Just as the road was about to end,  I came across this:

 For some reason, this was the creepiest thing on Shades of Death Road for me.  I think it’s because it reminds me of the movie Don't Be Afraid of the Dark in which Kim Darby ignores the advice of The Wise Old Caretaker and unbricks a fireplace in her new house which, of course, is filled with tiny, monstrous, demonic creatures.  There’s a long, related story I could tell you here about a time when I was ice-skating with Timothy Hutton at Rockefeller Center in 1984 and wound up helping a paramedic cut off his pants after he sprained an ankle after falling, of which you will be mercifully spared at this time.

Having had enough of the depressing awfulness that was Shades of Death Road, I chartered a course for The 300 Stone Steps of Morris Plains.  There are two opposing stories regarding the origin of the steps.  The first is that George Washington’s army constructed them in order to establish a lookout on the top of Watnong Mountain.  Another theory is that they were actually the work of local Native Americans, possibly hundreds of years before Washington did any sleeping there.

What I didn’t know is that Watnong Mountain, particularly the park in which the steps are located, is also the site of Greystone  Psychiatric Park, at which Ed worked as a Department of Human Services police officer in the 1980’s.   He knows a lot about the history of the building, which he’ll tell you apart in the comments section.  So fixated was I on finding the 300 Stone Steps that I literally didn’t notice the monolithic former administration building looming out of the fog at me until I was right on top of it:

 I have to do something here that I don’t do very often, so therefore I’m not very good at it; I have to not be funny.  When I saw that building—the size, the design, the color, the effect of the fog—I got an overwhelming sensation that the place was somehow “wrong.”  I wouldn’t go as far as to say it was actually malevolent or evil, but I can only think of a line from Pet Semetary—“the ground has gone sour.”  I felt a presence—several presences—and I didn’t like it one bit.  It was macabre and frightening, and suddenly all I wanted to do was get out of there.  I no longer had any desire to see the 300 Stone Steps, or anything else in the vicinity.

Because of that weird psychic thing I have going on with my friends, Ed called at the precise moment I finished taking pictures.  He knew exactly where I was, and was able to navigate me to the old police station.  I was so freaked out by this point that I mindlessly snapped pictures of other buildings, which I assume Ed can identify:

And another unsettling shot of the main building:

 Nothing—absolutely nothing—has affected me this way in a very, very long time.  It was actually physically distasteful.  All I could think about was what must have gone on on the premises.  Even though logic was telling me that the vast majority of the patients had gotten treatment, recovered, and went home, I thought obsessively about the others who had spent decades trapped in their own mental prison and subjected to things like electroshock and hydrotherapy and experimental drugs and procedures.  I’ve been close to more than one person suffering with a mental illness, and the idea that if they had lived only fifty years in the past they would have been entombed in such a place just makes me shake.

I told all of this to Ed as I tried desperately to get off the grounds, and he told me that not only did he understand, but he also experienced similar feelings when he went back to the grounds.  Trying to shake it off, I set off for Split Rock Road in Rockaway. 

Not that Split Rock Road has a necessarily more cheerful history.  It is, however, more colorful in that it’s supposedly the location of a gang of albino cannibals (see what I did there, with “colorful” and “albinos?”  Nothing?  Okay).

Here’s where Ed made not one, but two albino cannibal jokes that he wrote off the top of his head, and which I grudgingly admit are pretty hilarious.  You might want to skip directly to the comments section and read them before I continue, because, really, you need a laugh after dealing with my Greystone experience.

Aside from the presence of the albino cannibals, there also had supposedly been several murders on the road.  I’m not sure what I was expecting, considering that the murders were decades ago and it was highly unlikely that the police would have left the bodies there.  However, I did have to pass Ghost Lake on the way.  Ghost Lake, as the name suggests, is a small lake over which ghosts supposedly float.  No one allegedly died there, nor was there any legend of foul play, but it was still supposedly haunted.

Due to the fog, I wasn’t able to see any ghosts particularly, but I did get a nice shot of its gloominess.  Notice how I didn’t line up the third frame of the panorama:

  

I proceeded to follow Split Rock Road to its end, but, alas, there were no albino cannibals.  Honestly?  I’m sort of relieved nothing happened, after the emotionally draining Greystone visit, and hope that tomorrow is less disturbing.  I really, really need a shower.

Odyssey out.

He Was a Lumberjack, and He Was Okay!

The absolutely best way to ensure I’m not going to find your house (or anything else) is to use the words “You can’t miss it!”  It’s obvious from today’s Odyssey excursion that there’s something about that phrase that kicks my topographagnosia into high gear and I’ll be wandering around the country for five hours.

Such was the case when I set off this morning to find “Demon’s Alley,” a.k.a. New City Road in West Milford.  The legend of Demon’s Alley is that much like the Roanoke Colony in 1587, the once inhabited (though not densely so) road became completely abandoned.  Allegedly, even meals were left on the table and clothes in the closets.  According to The Guidebook, most of the homes have been demolished, but of course there are rumors of ghosts and mysterious sounds.  Yay!

I drove over 25 miles only to find this:

Well, that was anticlimactic.  Somewhat depressed, I took some pictures of this babbling brook which sounded like an old man peeing in order to cheer myself up.

Still, it was with high hopes that I headed out to the Stone Living Room , which was supposedly only eight miles away right over the Belleville boarder.  It’s pretty much what the name suggests—a mysterious Neolithic structure resembling a living room.  No one knows why it’s there. Exactly how long it’s been there, or what it was for.  It only took a little research to find very explicit directions—there was a park there and everything.

I should mention that, according to the Wells Fargo I passed ten minutes earlier, it was only a balmy 39 degrees outside and there was snow on the ground.  I was determined to not let this thwart me, and I went to the little hut at the entrance of the park.

ME:  Could you tell me how to get to the Stone Living Room?

GUY:  Oh, it’s easy!

ME:  (enthused) Good!

GUY:  Just walk about 100 feet to the left, then you’ll see a trail on your right by a stream.  Hike two and a half miles up the mountain, and you can’t miss it.

I stared.  Two and a half miles?  Up a mountain?  Alone?  In 39-degree weather?  Are you out of your freakin’ mind?  I don’t even want to hike two and a half miles up a mountain when it’s the height of spring.  I wouldn’t do it in the winter even if I had two sherpas, a guide dog, and a yak.  The climb up would be treacherous enough, but the trek down would be worse.  I’m so dyskinetic that I can’t even walk from my bathroom to my bedroom without whacking one of my appendages.  I don’t think there’s been a day in 45 years that has gone by when I didn’t have at least one bruise on my body.

“Screw that,” I said, only I used a much ruder word.  Instead, I took some pictures of a frozen lake, which isn’t weird at all, but still pretty:

 I was a bit disheartened—I was 0 for 2 for the day, but I still had the Giordino family graves (which are shaped like a peace sign and a light bulb) in Totowa to look forward to.  As I drove out of town, I almost drove off the road because I saw this in front of a dry cleaning store:

What the hell?  Why?  Why would anyone put that in front of a dry cleaner’s?  Do the Blues Brothers have some connection with One Hour Martinizing that I don’t know about?  They wore the same suits through the entire movie—I don’t think they even washed their underwear, let alone have anything dry cleaned.

Still, I was excited to have found some bonus weirdness, especially after the disappointments of Demon's Alley and the stone living room.

Before pushing on to the fifth cemetery on my list, I decided to stop for a gnosh.  I was happy to see a Friendly's--site of many wonderful lunches with my parents when I was a kid.  There's absolutely nothing like a hamburger, french fries, and Coke from Friendly's, because they put so much syrup in the Coke that you can eat it with a fork.  I parked, and then saw this:

Oh, man.  Anyone who's around my age remembers those terrifying signs, and I actually did get a chill when I saw it.  Again, not weird, but...disturbing.

Okay, time to cheer myself up by seeing dead people!

The Totowa Cemetery in, logically, Totowa, cooperated immensely by having an actual address.  However, when the GPS told me I had reached my destination, I found myself in the middle of a burned-out ghetto—this couldn’t possibly be right.  I went to a place called “Pappy’s Texas Wiener” (Not “wieners” – “wiener,” because apparently he has only one)  and asked the waitress behind the counter.  She told me that there were, in fact, four cemeteries in Totowa alone, because there were actually more dead Totowans(?) than living ones.  That's not unlike where I live in Estell Manor, actually. According to her, none of the cemeteries in town were called simply the Totowa Cemetery.  Lovely.

I drove up and down the main drag in the ghetto for a bit longer and was then delighted to spot a monument store—I figured if anyone in the town would know where the cemetery was it would be those guys—and I was right.  It turned out that the cemetery had been renamed Laurel Grove Cemetery, which is why the wiener lady had no idea what I was talking about.  (Even cooler, by sheer serendipity, I had stopped at the same monument shop that had actually been commissioned to make the exact gravestones I was looking for—Sgobba Monuments).

Of course, Laurel Grove Cemetery was huge enough to warrant its own county, but I stuck it out, and I was rewarded by yet more bonus weirdness!  First, I found the grave of an actual lumberjack that had a log on it  (huh-huh, she said "log"):

But wait!  There's more, more, more!  As I circled around the south end, I came upon this family plot:

Holy Mary, Mother of God, look at that thing!  I suppose it’s not as freaky as if it had had a behemoth armadillo or an aardvark or a platypus or something, but it’s still very pretentious. I'm assuming that the whole family was into hunting, which is kind of odd considering their name is Charity. 

 I explored further and finally found the graves I was looking for!

The stones are carved out of black marble, and are lettered with real gold. According to The Guidebook, it was Sal Giardino’s daughter Laurie that arranged for the lightbulb tombstone to be built.  Tragically, Laurie’s younger sister Kim was killed in a motorcycle accident, and Laurie also paid tribute to her by having her tombstone designed as a peace sign.

A heavy fog was starting to set in.  It was prime zombie weather, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see that scrawny, pale, candy-ass from Twilight come lurching out of the woods, so I decided to pack it in for the night.

Before I leave you, here is some bonus weirdness I actually ran into on Wednesday as I was coming out of a brick oven pizza place:

Wow.  Is there really a demographic for that in the central Jersey area?  Are people honestly torn between brisket and Baingan Bharta that they need to be able to satisfy both cravings at once?  And I can't help but think that anything involving curry that's cooked by Texans, or anything barbecue that's prepared by Indians just wouldn't be that authentic.  It would be like when I was in graduate school and would have "Soul Food Night," which was cooked by entirely upper-middle-class white kids.

There will be another update tonight, provided the hotel I'm at supports Blogger.  Because I really don't want to come to the McDonald's again.

Odyssey out.

Why Do You Need This Much Money? WHY?

I’m delighted to report that tonight’s hotel room (the Clinton Inn in Tenafly) is light years ahead of the flophouse that I stayed at last night.  The phone works, the wallpaper isn’t torn, the windows are solid, and the sheets aren’t technically a biohazard.  Also, there’s a Hoarders marathon on, so it doesn’t get much better than that.  I sort of needed a morale boost today because three out of the five things I attempted to see on the Odyssey weren’t there.

The first place on my itinerary was the former home of Angelo Nardone in Nutley.  Angelo, who apparently never got over the palatial beauty of his home in Naples, assembled a huge cache of Italian statuary in the front yard of his small property at the corner of Hilton and Franklin Streets (it’s amazing how many overzealous lawn ornament people there are).  Not surprisingly, a battalion of little old ladies fought the town for years in an attempt to get rid of his marble hoard.  Before it could progress to the point of litigation, a fire claimed most of the property in 2002, and this is all that’s left:

Well, that was depressing.  Still, it was still early and I had several other things scheduled, so with hope in my heart I ventured off to see the Dancing Man of Hackensack.

The Dancing Man of Hackensack (James Roberson) allegedly dances on the corner of Anderson and River Streets—for fourteen hours a day.  Not surprisingly, he’s considered mentally ill enough to qualify for disability, and is on a great deal of medication.  Still, he’s supposed to be a relatively happy dude, clearly non-violent, and apparently dances for people all day because “commuting is stressful.”  Technically, I suppose he’s no different than a busker, although he supposedly refuses money.

I got to the corner in question and—nothing:

I actually looked at all four corners, and continued not to see Mr. Roberson, so I figured I’d inquire at the McDonald’s across the street—McDonald’s workers know everything.

ME:  Pardon me, I’m looking for James Roberson.  Do you happen to know if he still comes here?

DISGRUNTLED MCDONALD’S CASHIER:  (odd accent)  Who?

ME:  James Roberson—he’s supposed to be dancing on the corner.

DMC:  Oh!  He died.

ME:  Aww, crap.

Well, that was a bummer.  It was shaping up to be a disappointing day on the Odyssey, but I blundered on to see The Big Giant Guy Holding a Rolled-Up Carpet Under the Pulaski Skyway.  I figured he wouldn’t be difficult to spot, and I was right.  Because he’s right on the median of a three-lane highway, I had to pull into an abandoned parking lot to get a picture:

 If you look at his picture in Weird NJ, you’ll see that he now has something weird going on with his hair—he’s either wearing a yellow yarmulke or had a bad due job.  Still, he’s holding that same roll of carpet which apparently hasn’t sold yet, probably because no one wants to climb up there and get it.  That peculiarly shaped brown stain at his crotch is actually an out-of-focus weed that got in front of the camera.

I was encouraged by my success with The Big Giant Guy Holding a Rolled-Up Carpet Under the Pulaski Sykway, so I perked up a little and headed for Jersey City, where I was due to look at a Catholic church with “weird cat eyes” in its belfry.  Now, some of you may not be familiar with beautiful, bucolic Jersey City, so here’s a welcome packet:

Isn’t that homey?  Screw Arbua—vacation here.

The mysterious cat eyes have apparently been appearing at St. Joseph’s Church in 1921, disappeared for a while, then started showing up again in 1954 after a sexton at the church was found dead, reputedly having just whispered the words “I’m going to the belfry.”  The  local residents don’t consider the lights to be malevolent or evil necessarily—they haven’t coincided with any deaths since the sexton’s.  In any case, I took pictures from three angles and didn’t see any lights, cat’s or otherwise:

I was clearly having an off-day.  Still, as it was still daylight, I decided I might as well push on to Devil’s Tower in Alpine.  The story here is that a Spanish businessman, made wealthy from sugarcane plantations in Cuba, built the tower in the first half of the twentieth century, for the above-ground burial of his wife and sister.  When Mr. Rionda died in 1943, all three of the bodies were moved because the company that bought the real estate felt that the people they planned to build houses for wouldn’t want to live near a few bodies that were walled up like Fortunato in “The Cask of Amontillado.”  Aside from being sealed, the Tower remains the same as it did then:

 However, my reaction to the sight of the actual Devil’s Tower could never match the reaction I had when I looked at the houses surrounding it.  Just…look:

   Have you ever seen a more ridiculously disgusting display of wealth?  Seriously, does any one person need that much money?  What can you possibly do with a house that size?  Can you imagine how long it would change the clocks twice a year?  You’d have to start a month in advance.  I’m stunned that their Rich People Spidey Sense didn’t tingle to let them know that a middle-class person was near their marble driveways and shrubbery shaped like George W. Bush and that they didn’t run into the streets with torches screaming “Down with the bourgeoise!”  They can't possibly be happy.  I'm telling myself they all have psychiatric issues and take a lot of medication.

Still, it was a nice note to end day four of the Odyssey, even if the excursions today were anti-climactic.  Tomorrow I’m headed for other sites in Bergen and Passaic Counties, so it will hopefully be a more fruitful day.

Odyssey out.

P.S.  Please send good thoughts to Ed, who has bronchitis and is sweating it out at home.  Feel better Ed!  I need my Mission Control to be in tip-top shape.