Places From Where We Came

This was an odd, yet mesmerizing place. I headed north on a road, or what was once a road, following the handwritten, step-by-step directions that had been provided to me.

The largest still standing structure is the remains of the old Taft Complex. It takes up most of the block. From there, head north out of town until you get to New Frenchtown Road, I think the sign might still be there, about a half mile from the edge of town, and make a right. Your grandmother’s house was the last one on the left. If you hit the creek, you’ve gone too far. Hopefully there is enough road left to get you there.

Good Luck.

My original inquiries via email and telephone for the location of the house had been meant with swift denial. The land, locked in a 72 year battle with the bank, local developers, county officials, and lawyers, was off limits to me. In my somewhat failed attempt at research, I had come across articles on hunters who were caught poaching deer in the remains of the small, forbidden former town. Other than those few lines in the police blotter of the area’s online newspaper, the village of Taft, New Jersey was nothing more than a forgotten blip on the state census record.

In an impressive coup by mother nature, the land had become an inadvertent wildlife sanctuary and was now three square miles of the Earth reclaiming her pre-Columbian heritage. The ground beneath me was a collection of broken chunks of asphalt torn apart by roots, dirt, weather, and the forgotten touch of humanity. Several remains of brick and metal structures could be seen popping out between webs of overgrown greenery.

As I continued north per my handwritten instructions, a bustle in an abandoned brick building to my left drew my attention. A small brown chipmunk, epically loud in this empty space, scurried down a branch and into a pile of decaying leaves. The branch was actually the visible portion of a tree that started inside the building and escaped to find sunlight through the remains of a large third story window frame. The tree now pressed on towards the sky, leaving the building to rest below in the shade.

This was my grandmother’s town. I tried to picture her as a child, running down Main Street, waving to fellow residents who all knew her name. I learned through an old newspaper article I found in a nearby library that her father owned a bakery on Main Street and was locally famous for thick Italian cookies and a decadent Pear Cobbler. I pictured my grandmother eagerly looking to purchase a 2 cent candy that laid behind one of the many clean and shiny storefront windows that lined the road.

However, I knew that any sort of realism obtained by my imagination would strictly be a guess. For one, I knew little of the true history of this town, and two, I had never met my grandmother.

I chuckled slightly to myself at the thought of my conversation with the county records clerk. Much like this town, the County Historical Records Office was a forgotten corner of history. A few years back, the county had completed a project to digitize all records and files after 1953. The remaining paper files were relegated to the bowels of the courthouse building, where they were guarded by Francine, a 72 year old volunteer clerk. The Historical Records Office operated around Francine’s schedule, meaning that I had a four hour window on either Tuesday or Thursday to convince her to release the information I was after.

I showed up at 9:01 AM Tuesday morning, readying two potential strategies; I was either going to charm the pants off Miss Francine, or dive into the true emotional wreckage of my task and evoke a mix of sympathy and pity to get what I needed.

When I opened the door, it felt like I had been thrown backwards in time. Francine sat behind an ancient wooden counter that was outlined by peeling floral wallpaper that decorated the cramped room. The room was windowless, and there were several fake fern trees placed in large plastic planters set around the office. Francine looked up with a start.

“..how can I help you?” She said with a frown. Her tone was a mix of annoyance, caution, and interest.

I had expected a surprise. I had a strong and now proven true assumption that Francine did not get many visitors. Also, this pocket of New Jersey had not progressed much in terms of culture, and my mocha skin tone was noticeably out of place.

“Hi! Sorry to bother you. I’m trying to get some information,” I said with my most proper tone and smile.

“Oh...yes! You!” Clarity spread across Francine’s face. “You called asking for a location on a house in Taft, right?”

I nodded.

“Well I’m sorry you came all this way. I told you on the phone. The bank owns that land and it’s off limits. I can’t give you anything.” She had been arranging notecards in a long, rectangular tin box that sat on the old counter.

“I understand,” I could tell from her tone and posture that charm wasn’t going to work. “It’s just...I didn’t get to tell you why I wanted to find that house. It’s kind of a wild story.”

Francine, as with many of her generation, enjoyed both history and a good story. I could tell that her interest was slightly peaked.

“I was adopted.” I paused for dramatic effect. “I've wanted to meet my bio parents for a while now. I looked and couldn’t find anything at all on my bio-dad, his name wasn’t on the birth certificate, and it turned out my bio-mom died a few years after giving birth to me.”

Francine, in her routine life, was showing the early signs of complete enthrallment. In my life, I had learned that small town folks often had a difficult time accepting adoption, as family was what kept them rooted to their sleepy towns.

“Anyway,” I continued. “My ...adopted mom...remembered by bio-mom’s mother being at the hospital when I was born. My dad...adopted dad...is kind of a nut with labelling and writing stuff down, and had a picture with her name written on the back in one of my baby books! We’d all seen the picture a million times but everyone forgot my dad wrote her name on the back.”

I paused, shifting the heavy sling backpack I had on from one shoulder to the other. “Did you find her!?” Francine asked eagerly.

“We did,” I said, giving Francine a small wink and smile before shifting my tone. “But just a bit too late. She had recently passed away in a nursing home in Maryland.”

Francine gasped. Given her age, she probably thought about death constantly, and dying alone is one of our greatest fears.

“The nursing home was actually super excited when I called. They were trying to contact her last of kin to fulfil her wishes, but they couldn’t find anyone. Luckily I came along.” I said, shifting back to a smile.

“My grandmother’s only wish was to be cremated and have her ashes spread in the garden of her childhood home. I thought this would be a good way to honor her wishes and connect a bit with my history. I was happy to do it, but it turns out that…”

“She lived in Taft!” Francine interrupted in an excited panic. She slowly climbed down from her tall swivel chair and quickly disappeared through a wooden door behind the counter.

I was a bit shocked. I expected a reaction, it was a sad yet neat story, but I didn’t think I’d scare her away. I stood alone in the musty waiting room, thinking of my next move. Suddenly, the door flung open and Francine burst back into the office carrying a large ledger and a long metal cylinder.

“I have to admit,” Francine said, slightly out of breath. “I was curious when you first called. We get requests from land developers or the rare historian from the community college for information on Taft, but never someone looking to find an actual house.”

She undid a clip around the circular lid of the cylinder and tipped it over. Yellowing, rolled up papers spilled out onto the counter. She carefully unrolled it, using her metal filing tin to keep the town layout in place.

I was amazed. In front of me lay a full topical layout of what was once the coal mining town of Taft, New Jersey. Houses and roads were clearly displayed. As with many small rural towns, there was only one main road in and out.

“Honey, what did you say your grandmother's name was?” Francine was opening the thick ledger.

“Abbott,” I said without thought, shocked by actually getting this far. “Audrey Abbott.”

Francine’s arthritic index finger flicked to the start of the ledger and began tracing backwards up the list of names.

“Here!” Francine stopped. “There were two Abbott households in Taft according to the census. A Robert and Teressa Abbott and a Bill Abbott.”

I had not expected that. There was another set of Abbotts in the same small town?

“The tax records have Robert and Teressa with one dependent in 1936. That must be her!”

I then realized that Francine, although now in her twilight years, was not given this position out of pity or nepotism, but rather due to a keen mind and the remnants of past skill.

She pulled a yellow notepad and a pen out from under the counter and went back to the town blueprints, scrawling neatly but quickly on the notepad. I could see from the top of the paper that the blueprints belonged to the Frenchtown Water Authority.

“Here,” she said, tearing off the top sheet from the notepad and handing it to me. “This should get you there. Good luck.” A sweet smile spread across Francine’s face.

I smiled now, looking at that note. This journey, starting at the age of 12 when I decided I needed to know my birth parents, was coming to some sort of close. Not the close I dreamt of, but a close nonetheless. I kept down the jungle lined road and spotted a different shade of brown among the lively trees. A straight rusted pole wrapped in vines stood out on the side of the road, with a very faded green and rusted sign at the top. I could barely make out the word “French” in embossed letters.

The entrance to New Frenchtown Road had almost been completely reclaimed, yet I fought my way through. I continued walking, hearing the faint sound of running water ahead. I was completely in a forest. Any remains of the town had long left or been covered. Occasionally, I could make out the shape of a collapsed chimney or the moss covered outline of a foundation. I kept walking. The sun, beginning its descent, was slightly breaking through the thick canopy of trees.

In a small grove, behind one of the former foundations, a brilliant white tree sat amongst a sea of green and brown. It was tall, and the branches canopied out beautifully. The air got sweeter as I got closer. I stepped forward and crushed down on one of many sweet scented brown and red fruits that littered the ground.

I removed my heavy pack and took on the metal can that held my grandmother’s ashes. I pulled off the lid, looked at the beautiful Pear tree in front of me, and completed my journey.