Ed & Elaine Zindel Remember Old Oakland

Pleasureland and the surrounding area was a kid’s playground like few others. The primary recreational features were the yet unspoiled Ramapo River and Pompton Lake which provided quality fishing, swimming, boating, and ice skating. We also fished Muller’s Brook, Mitchell’s Pond and Delmar’s Pond for the beautiful wild trout which flourished there. Potash’s Island, which we accessed from Island Terrace, was a great place to explore and had some of the best waterfowling and woodcock flights that I have ever seen. Rotten Pond, which was a poacher’s paradise, was a stiff walk from Pool Hollow, but we fished it relentlessly; by day and by night. We also had two small bridges (“The White Bridge” and “The Pleasureland Bridge”) which we climbed on, hid under, fished from, and jumped off. You will not be surprised to hear that dry feet were as rare in those days as a shiny new quarter.

The Ramapo Mountains and the abandoned farm fields behind Romaine’s junk yard provided a great place to hunt, shoot, explore, and climb. Acorn Street had just the right slope for our home-built soap box racers and an adjacent hill near a place we called THE SAND PIT was a good location to enjoy our sleds and snow saucers. The SAND PIT was also a place where we jumped from high banks to the soft sand below and looked for high quality shell fossils which were surprisingly common. Near the SAND PIT, was a long shallow arm of Pompton Lake we called THE SWAMP. This feature ran from Russel and Dot Seedyk’s back yard to Pompton Lake near Bob Bowitz’s house. “THE SWAMP was the first water to freeze in he fall and our ice skating began there each year; as early as Thanksgiving.

At the end of Acorn Street was THE TREE. This was a tall living oak that had two trunks (one close to the water and one much higher) which leaned far out over the water. We spent hours relentlessly jumping off THE TREE and swimming back to shore.

At the end of Birch Ave was THE BEACH. This great resource was complete with sand, a retaining wall, a diving board, and steps down to the water. Moms brought their kids there throughout the summer for years; until declining water quality made the Ramapo unsafe for swimming. It was at THE BEACH that we learned to swim like fish and do cannonballs, flips, and jackknifes off the diving board. Two feet below the surface, in the deep water about 50′ in front of the THE BEACH, was THE LOG. Kids entertained themselves for years by swimming out and standing on it. Because the river was wide at this point, THE LOG was not so easy to find. This added an element of prestige to kids who could locate it and climb on. Some of the better swimmers could actually dive off he board and swim underwater to THE LOG without surfacing. While the kids were enjoying THE BEACH, the moms sat on their folding chairs and socialized; while simultaneously acting as lifeguards and referees.

At the end of Jerome Ave was a place where neighbors tied up their boats. It was also a great place for kids to fish and get on the ice for skating. We called this place “The Cove” because it was a back eddy along the river which was sheltered from the main river channel. Because this area was relatively shallow and had no current, it was a safe place for skating, which had lots of room and a small island which we loved to race around. When 4″ of ice formed on THE COVE, we abandoned THE SWAMP and didn’t return until the following year.

Interestingly, THE TREE, THE BEACH, and “THE COVE were all located on paper streets which made them public property for local residents to enjoy.

There were also two sand lots where we could play baseball; one of which had a professionally made chain link backstop behind home plate. While we never admitted it at the time, we also loved to wait until dark, then wade across the river between the end of Island Terrace and Pleasureland Park. This crossing got us around the locked gate and gave us access to the Pleasureland swimming pool; high dive and all.

In addition to the memories of Pleasureland, I will never forget Ramapo Valley Road as it passed through Oakland and continued on to Suffern, New York. In Oakland, there was a historic village streetscape that is virtually unseen in the US today. More significantly, the drive along the river corridor, under the spectacular canopy of maple trees was ranked one of the 10 most scenic byways in America at the time. Though I didn’t perceive this beauty as a kid, I was well aware of it before I finished school and moved on.

Additionally, the education system worked well, we enjoyed a close knit family network, drugs came from Sharr’s Drug store in Pompton Lakes, there were few unwanted pregnancies, doors were seldom locked, young kids left for school early in the morning and came home after dark without worrying their moms, neighbors maintained their small homes, helped their neighbors, and worked hard to keep their heads above water.

One of the most incredible acts of selfless charity occurred during the summer that neighbors helped Elsie Barwick raise her house. Elsie, who was widowed and worked as an employee of the Borough, didn’t have the money necessary to raise her house above the floodwater; which all too often came into her house. That summer, the men from the neighborhood came after work and on weekends to donate their time. Elsie paid for the materials and ran cold drinks to her friends and neighbors who completed the project by the end of summer.

I believe one of the primary reasons we didn’t feel poor, was because we accepted our economic status as the norm and, as kids, had no concept of the relationship between the size and location of a home and class status. We were also part of the post-war working middle class which, almost universally, experienced some degree of economic difficulty. I also believe that from my perspective, the abundant resources that I enjoyed made my life rich in spite of the money issues, and additionally defined the things I would enjoy as an adult.

The fact that doctors made house calls (at any hour), knowing they might have to wait for their fee, is just one of many examples of “the way things were”.

The Ramapo, which I so fondly remember, was both clear and clean. It was a productive cobble bottomed “freestone stream” which was free of sediment and supported spawning populations of several fish species.

In the spring of the year, at the same time as the long awaited opening of trout season, (I never slept the night before) large schools of spawning yellow perch could be seen passing under the white bridge. Soon after, their egg masses (which we called ribbons) could be seen all over the bottom. We frequently caught large egg laden females while trout fishing and released them so they could get back to fulfilling their life’s mission.

We also caught beautiful “hold over” trout with fair regularity. These were fish that had survived the high water temperatures of summer and made it to the following year. We could always identify them by their beautiful color, which was much richer than the fish that were fresh from the Hackettstown Hatchery. Additionally, prolific may fly and caddis hatches gave further testimony to the quality of the water which flowed past Pleasureland. Today, the New Jersey DEP classifies water of this quality as TM (trout maintenance), which is the second highest classification in the New Jersey “Surface Water Quality Standards”.

We also caught the occasional small wild trout, which I believe were procreated in Muller’s Brook, rather than in the main stem of the Ramapo. Tributary streams like Muller’s are now classified as TP (trout production), the highest water quality classification.

We also brought rakes and screens to THE RAPIDS, which was a fast moving reach of the Ramapo which flowed between Potash’s Island and Muller’s lower field. One of us would hold the screen on the bottom while the other raked the cobbles on the upstream side. When we were finished, we would have a can full of hellgrammites, (which would bite like the devil when you put them on the hook), but made exceptional bait.

Where, you may ask, is this story going? Well, hang on and I’ll let ‘er rip:

The MUD HOLE was not a mud hole back then. Some unknown benefactor(s), which I believe included Mr. Platy, filled THE BEACH with a large quantity of clean sand which formed a strand above the water line in front of the retaining wall. We could actually play in it and when we went up the steps for another trip to the diving board our feet actually came out of the water clean.

Shortly afterward, the sand disappeared and silt began to build up in its place; beginning on the downstream side of the wall and increasing with each successive year. My best guess is that Hurricane Carol and Hurricane Diane, which also went through our homes in 1954 and 1955, took away our sand. Next we began to see floating masses of algae coming down with the current. I remember our parents debating the cause of this phenomenon and calling it “purge”. We now realize it was caused by excessive nutrients in the water column, which were harbingers of seriously degrading water quality. Around this time kids started to experience serious ear infections. These infections never went away of their own accord and resulted in the inevitable trip to Doctor Davy or Dr. Canavan for a dreaded shot of Penicillin in our little caboose.

Next I watched as long beautiful strands of aquatic weed began to replace the native pond weeds in THE COVE. Once again we had no concept of what was going on at the time, but we now understand that this resulted from the introduction of an exotic aquarium plant named Eurasian Water Millfoil. It soon choked THE COVE and the seasonal die-off settled to the bottom and contributed to the sediment which had gradually transformed THE BEACH into the MUD HOLE.

The earaches continued until parents finally realized that our wonderful resource was now forbidden fruit.

The schools of perch no longer pass under the white bridge on their spawning run, Mitchell’s and Delmar’s ponds are gone forever, Muller’s brook is out of its channel, Potash’s Island is a memory, and our beloved Ramapo, which provided us with so much joy, is now classified as NT (non trout).

In response to Ronnie’s chuckle about my reference to ROMAINE’S JUNK YARD, I have a little story about my experience behind his barn and a few other anecdotes about things which took place in his corner of our neighborhood. Ronnie, this one’s for you!

My father drove a 1952 black Chevy in the early 60’s. The license plate number was EXP 858 and, of course, we kids referred to it as “Experimental 858”. Mom just called it “Old Betsy”. In spite of the fact that Old Betsy took us on some great trips, she burned nearly as much oil as gas and jumped out of third gear all too frequently. Just imagine 5 kids and two parents jammed into this small sedan with the food and gear in the trunk.

When my dad wasn’t fishing (which was not often) he could be found under the hood of the car. He relentlessly adjusted the shift linkage (to stop the gears from jumping) and washed the engine off with an old paint brush and a can of gas. While this gas bath was unnecessary housekeeping, Betsy’s appetite for oil and leaking valve cover gasket resulted in a covering of black sludge which began to form on the engine as soon as he was finished cleaning it off. Incidentally, Dad was buying 2 gallon cans of “drain oil” (oil which was used then filtered) for two bucks at Western Auto in Pompton Lakes.

During one of these maintenance sessions, he discovered a scratch on the windshield that was apparently caused by a bad wiper blade that had been dragging on the glass. The windshield consisted of two pieces with a vertical divider in the middle and the scratch was on the passenger side. He looked at the damage with disappointment and wondered what he was going to do. At this time I recalled seeing a dead ringer to Betsy parked up at ROMAINE’S JUNK YARD. We immediately walked up on the hill to look at the very clean 1951 green Chevy that was parked there; with the key still in the ignition. We verified that the windshield was indeed a match and went to the house to see if we could buy the glass.

Though I can’t remember for sure, it must have been Al who informed us that it had been owned by a salesman who blew an engine while traveling through Oakand…… and we could help ourselves to any parts we could use. Needless to say, Betsy got a new windshield and we took the wiper arms while we were at it. I always wondered if this Chevy burned oil like Betsy and blew up when the oil ran low.

Another recollection which brings a smile to my face is the fact we enjoyed ambushing cars with snowballs from the hill near Ronnie’s house. We could really fire them from this elevation and when an angry driver tried to chase us, the slippery hill slowed him down enough for us to easily get away. While this may sound perverse to some readers, we really loved this past time; I mean WE REALLY LOVED IT! I guess it was very similar to a live video game with an adrenaline rush when we got chased.

Another memory is of the two copperheads Irv Conklin and Al Mawson killed on West Oakland Avenue not far from Romaine’s driveway. The word spread quickly through the neighborhood and when we gathered to admire the snakes, Big Irv strutted with pride. The snakes were subsequently stretched out and measured, and I remember the bigger one being 30” long.

Another remembrance was of a large sycamore tree with ladder rungs nailed to the trunk. This beautiful old tree grew on a cut bank along the river, just upstream from the corner of Doty Road and Mountain View Ave. Cliff Meima and I went there one day to fish and found an open safe in the water under the sycamore. After retrieving the safe, we began to go through the files; which were obviously soaking wet. The jackets were filled with letters and receipts which were all very boring, but Cliff stayed at and finally hit the jackpot. In one of the files, buried in some papers, were soaking wet black & white photos of a nude woman.

At some point it penetrated our grey matter that the safe was connected to a robbery and we should tell our folks. Joe Woods (then chief of police) came and picked up the safe and we laughed at the reaction the owner would have when discovered the missing photos.

When I got in trouble, which was fairly often, my father would announce my punishment like a judge passing sentence. And the most dreaded words were: “Edward, you’re cooped for a week”! This meant I was relegated to my bedroom, which had neither heat nor electricity, every day for one week. Well, it turns out that during those cherished years, the Ramapo closed for trout stocking each Thursday and re-opened 5:00 AM on Friday morning. And for me, this weekly event was for not just important, it was life’s blood.

One spring, as I serving a sentence in my room, I cooked up a plan that would allow me to fish on Friday morning; with no one being the wiser. The plan, (which I subsequently executed) was to quietly go out my bedroom window onto the porch roof and then climb down the red cedar tree to the lawn below. Next, I would beat feet to the river, catch a mess of fish (which I always did), release them and climb back into my bedroom in time to get ready for school.

As fate would have it, my plan backfired; but in a good way. I began to fish at the white bridge, with plans of working my way upstream to Reed’s pool (which was a bend in the river across from the Romaine house), then quickly head for home. When I got to the aforementioned sycamore tree, I hooked a big one. The fish I landed was an 18 ¼ inch brown, which was the biggest trout I had ever caught. Now I had a serious dilemma. Should I release the fish, which might win the annual trout contest, or bring it home and face another possible week in my room.

The choice was easy. I took the fish home, dropped the subterfuge, and proudly walked through the front door with fish in hand. The BIG V (my mother Verna) jumped all over me, like a bum on a baloney sandwich! “Just wait until your father hears about this”; he’s gonna blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

It turns out that the one thing THE BIG V hated more than tax time was getting no reaction from my father when she breathlessly recited all of the unspeakable things I had done over the previous 12 hours. This was to be a case in point. Dad was so pleased with the fish that he smiled during BIG V’s rant and commuted my sentence to “time already served”. While it seems hilarious all these years later, I had poor V on the verge of a trip to Bellview.

The fish subsequently won first prize in the fishing contest (pre-Ted Proskey’s Ponds Sporting Goods) and a news paper photo was taken of me standing along side the second place winner, Bruce Morgan, who was twice my size. Bruce had taken his fat 16 ½ inch fish from Milt Pulis’s Pond and decades later we would find out that the photographer for non other than John Oldenburg, my wife Elaine’s father. John had kept the photo all those years, unaware of the fact that the brat in the picture was his son-in-law.

Coincidentally, I had dinner last night with Glenn Speakman, who lived at the corner of Jerome Ave and Lakeview. Imagine how surprised I was to learn that Glenn’s father, who grew up on Mountain View Ave, nailed the rungs to the sycamore tree when he was a kid; some 20 – 30 years earlier.

Glenn also mentioned the concrete BBQ and the working water fountain we enjoyed at the MUD HOLE. I remembered both of these features; but only after he mentioned them. Over a good bottle of Cabernet, we coaxed out plenty other memories of our time in Pleasureland, as well as the names and personalities of some of our neighbors. There were plenty of smiles to go around!