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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Happy Fourth of July!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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As wonderful and busy as the Atlantic Highlands First Aid Squad is today, it has a history of always answering the call and being there for every accident, major pr minor. A story from 1938 should remind all of us how badly volunteers are needed, and how much more sophisticated and efficient is today’s squad over decades ago. The Squad of 2021 still needs volunteers, not only as EMTS, but also as drivers, and volunteers to help in a variety of ways.

Back in 1938, the Atlantic Highlands First Aid Squad was as busy as it is today, and just as today volunteers were called on to join and be part of the group who are always there to help someone in need.

Busy for the 1938 squad was handling seven alarms in four days and administering first aid and transport service to more than ten persons. The climax of that busy week was a Sunday afternoon when a car owned and driven by Martin Schneider, of Brooklyn, leaped the curb on Memorial Parkway after a tire blow out. It first collided with a parked car owned by John J. Salter, also of Brooklyn, and lots of injuries resulted. Besides Schneider, Rubin Goldberg and Shelby Levy, of Brooklyn, and George Kaufman, of New York City, all required first aid treatment for numerous cuts and bruises and later were transported to Monmouth Memorial hospital in the ambulances of Atlantic Highlands and Highlands. According to Chief of Police Sterling Sweeney, who investigated the accident, the Schneider car was demolished and the car owned by Salter was badly damaged by the impact. That car accident was after Friday night’s accident when Ada Miller of Verona, and Charles Dean of Caldwell were driving toward the borough on West Valley Drive and their car was in a collision and all had to be taken to the office of Dr. Frederick Bullwinkle by a gentleman named John Borden. The ambulance was then called to transport them to Monmouth Memorial hospital.

Earlier that same night William Brittingham, jr., of Wesley avenue, was struck by a car driven by O. Richard Lichtenstein, of Mount avenue, and had to be taken to the hospital for treatment of a fracture.

On Monday, Timothy Red of Avenue D, was taken to Hazard hospital, after it had been found he was suffering from a broken collar bone caused by a fall several days earlier. More seriously, a fatal accident occurred early Tuesday morning on Route 35 just north of the Keyport intersection with Route 36, when a car driven by Harold Speakman, thirty years old, of Middle Road, was hit by a truck driven by Robert Hasselman, of Springfield. Speakman was killed instantly. The truck driver was held by state police on a technical manslaughter charge. Just as they continue to do today, the local squad went far beyond his border land to help and serve other squads also in need.

Anyone who has been around the Bayshore any length of time certainly knows the name and the legends about Jim Egidio.

Jim Egidio the high school athlete; Jim Egidio who played semi pro ball in three sports after high school, baseball, basketball and football. Jim Egidio, whose name in high school sports was right up there with Keyes and Conover. Jim Egidio the soldier, Jim Egidio, the police officer, Jim Egidio, the Police Chief.

There was that one year the Atlantic Highlands club football team won the championship. After that, Jim joined the army and played with the military team, and most sportswriters carried an entire litany after his name every time they mentioned him in their columns..which was often.

In later years, whenever they referred to him and his coaching, the litany ran like this…private, police officer, baseball players, umpire, fireman, first aid official and sportsman…

There were other stories in the 1940s, too, of the great combination of Bishop, Carhart and Egidio umpiring basketball games at Fort Hancock and Fort Monmouth. Then there’s the story when the army team played the New York Giants, and Jim was one of the officials. Fooling, he gave his name as Jimmy Smith. And that’s the way it went down in the books.

And another story when the Army’s Camp Shanks beat Fort Hancock’s team and Jim was plate umpire for the game.

Coaching his alma mater’s team the Atlantic Highlands football players won the 1948-49 championship, Jim continued officiating at football and baseball games, something he had been doing since 1938. He was still clocking for the NJ football organization in 1976, though two heart attacks kept him from more active field work with football.

Of the three sports, Jim feels he had his greatest successes in basketball coaching and years later still belonged to basketball organizations.

Nothing ever really stopped Jim Egidio’s love for athletics and sports.

When he became Atlantic Highlands Police Chief in 1965, he had already been fire chief in the 1950s when he was a police captain, and president of the First Aid Squad in 1961 in which he had been a charter member, his smile was always so apparent they called him Smiling Jim, and his chief’s office at headquarters was decorated with trophies, plaques, mementos and memberships, all living testimony to his abilities in athletics.

Jim and his wife Vivien (she was a star basketball player when she was Vivien Therkelsen at Atlantic Highlands High) had two daughters, Elaine Hueneke and Roseann and when their grandson Christian was six years old, rumor had it he was taking after his grandpa. The photo on him on the chief’s desk in those years had him decked out in baseball regalia.

Jim was a members of the Police Department for 47 years, until his retirement as chief in 1977. He had succeeded Chief Sterling Sweeney.

Jim Egidio died 39 years ago this Sept. 7. He was 74 years old and a lifelong resident of the borough. He was buried from St. Agnes Church, where he had been a member and communicant all his life, and was a member of its Holy Name Society. He was also a member of the Columbus Council 2858 of the Knights of Columbus and the Eugene Allen Post 141 of the American Legion. He had been a first aid instructor, had continued to take courses in drug enforcement even as a chief, an army veteran and military police officer during World War II, and was a Red Cross instructor for more than a quarter of a century.

Jim Egidio. Truly a legend in his own time!

I wrote this story for https://jerseyshorescene.com/ a web site all about the “Jersey Shore Scene” by Tracey Hall

It’s worth the trip! About eight miles south of the Causeway entrance to Long Beach Island, not far from the bay near the end of Dock St. in Beach Haven, there is a charming, history-packed, fascinating storytelling museum that is the pride of Long Beach Island, Ocean County, and certainly the state of New Jersey.

The Museum of New Jersey Maritime History is the work of historian/diver and author Deborah C. Whitcraft and her husband, former commercial fisherman now charming and knowledgeable executive director (translation janitor and all-around maintenance guy) Jim Vogel. It is an official 501(3) c non-profit historical museum with a board of directors as dedicated as the founders require of those who all volunteer for what is the founding couple’s magnificent gift to those who love maritime history and want to see, touch, and feel it up close and personal.

The museum building itself is an architect’s dream, with its many windows, multi-levels, and two or more floors of museum with an apartment on the top level. Whitcraft and Vogel, apparently, never want to let the building and its tens of thousands of artifacts out of their sight!.

Whitcraft is the true brainstorm behind the museum. A diver on sunken boats, ships, and anything else fascinating several feet under the ocean, she and Vogel’s collection got so large with all the artifacts she found she had no choice but to open a place to store and display them. A busy lady, Whitcraft, besides being a certified diver, is a former mayor of Beach Haven, one of the several small communities that comprise the 18 miles of Long Beach Island. Fastidious to the core, and proud of her town and the people there and throughout the island, she and Vogel wanted to bring something special as well as educational and fun.

The mission of the Museum is multi-faceted. Both a museum and a research facility, its purpose is exclusively educational and it accomplishes that purpose by providing this facility for public display of historic maritime artifacts, photographs, books, documents, artifacts from sunken ships and donations from families who had owned them for very personal reasons.

They also offer special programs for children, to entice another generation into the charm of the past and the importance of remembering it. Their Marine Science Camp for both teens and elementary school-age children is taught by marine biologists and environmentalists, and their website, www.NJMM.org is a treasure on its own, complete with shipwreck databases and maps. photos and their newsletters, together with how anyone can become a member or benefactor of the Museum.

With neither the founders, Whitcraft is president of the Board of Trustees, nor any of the board members or the executive director, taking any salary at all, all money raised through donations, grants, or memorialization’s on engraved brick paving the sidewalks surrounding the museum, are the sole sources of income to keep this unique building and museum thriving. Whitcraft pointed out many of the towns on Long Beach Island have followed Beach Haven’s lead and present the museum with annual grants, and a small gift shop which includes several maritime books, including Whitcraft’s own, also contribute to the upkeep costs, especially since the author takes no gain from her own books.

Clearly, however, the most popular and most comprehensive room of the many specialty rooms in the museum is the one dedicated to the Morro Castle, the luxurious liner that ferried wealthy and hard-working Americans from New York to Cuba for a week’s reprieve from the 1930s Depression. The Morro Castle went ablaze during the early morning hours of Sept. 8, 1934, and eventually floated into public view of the Asbury Park beach, drawing thousands to that city and starting it on the road to fame and fortune through the plethora of food vendors, photographers, newspaper reporters and plain thrill-seekers who wanted to see the smoldering remains and hear the intrigue that surrounded the ship.

In the next several issues, Jersey Shore Scene will bring you closer to the stories of the Morro Castle, from the shock of the captain of the ship who died seven hours before the blaze, to the families who jumped terrorized into the ocean, their feet burning from the flaming floors of the wooden decks to the heroic Bogan family who was first and foremost in rescue efforts and kept the death toll as low as it was. Even the death toll, officially recognized as 137, is in doubt because of the unknown number of Cubans who were regularly smuggled aboard for safe passage to America.

The Museum is open from 1- a.m. to 4 p.m. daily until the end of this month, and weekends, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays at the same hours beginning in September.