In the early 1960s, when the Long Branch Daily Record was a popular newspaper in the Bayshore and Dottie Grosser was the editor, I had a page one column called Muriel’s Bayshore Banter. It was basically a gossip column highlighting anniversaries, birthdays, celebrations, trips and more of families in Highlands. Residents would call me and ask me to be sure I mentioned their events in Banter!

There was a far different style in writing in those days. One rarely mentioned a married woman by her first name, referring to her instead as Mrs. (Husband’s) first name and their last name. I never had a case where the wife did not assume her husband’s last name. It was also the custom to name families who were away on vacation, a practice that stopped once editors realized thieves read Society pages to find out which homes were empty and free for the breaking and entering.

Read this column from 1963 and see how many names you recognize and how many families are still very much a part of Highlands.

HIGHLANDS – Bud Steelman of Highland Ave. celebrated another year’s passing recently. Bud is a past chief of the local Fire Department and right now is still an active member of the department.

Also adding another year this week is the new corresponding secretary of the Highlands School Parent and Teacher Association. Kathy Carlstrom (Mrs. Albert Carlstrom) celebrated the event with her husband, Abe, and daughters Terry, Debbie, Kitty and Sandy. The family is now getting settled after moving into a new home right next door to where they have been living for several years.

Several members of the Highlands Fire Department and its Auxiliary helped Shrewsbury Fire Department celebrate the purchase of a new aerial truck at wet down ceremonies Sunday. Assistant Chief Francis Schmedes and his wife, Eileen (she’s president of the Ladies Auxiliary) Mr. and Mrs. Henry Anderson and children Michael and Cathy, John Franklin, Harold Foley, Sivert Walstrom, Al Lyon and his son Steve, Mr. and Mrs. Ted Chodnicki and their daughter, Jody, and Mrs. David Patterson can all vouch for the fact that the purchase of a new truck was duly celebrated.

Helen and Wade Davis and son, Dean, are off on a several week vacation during which they are seeing many different states and visiting relatives on both sides of the family. Right now, they’re in Fort Arthur, Texas visiting Wade’s brother, Oscar. From there, they’ll travel to Florida where they’ll stop to see Wade’s sister in Jacksonville and Helen’s mother in Orlando. They’ll return to Portland Rd. some time around the middle of June.

There isn’t anyone around who doesn’t love the Sandy Hook Lighthouse and know at least five different facts about it. But now the Department of History and Anthropology at Monmouth University is offering something pretty exciting that proves once again that with History, there is always some current Happening. The Lighthouse, for those who may not be aware, is the oldest working lighthouse in the entire country. Built in 1764 and designed by Isaac Conro, becoming the work for which he is best remembered, it remains the oldest standing navigational aid in the entire country, and was built so solidly that in 1852, a Congressional inquiry determined it to be one of the three best-built lighthouses in America. A half century before, General Washington had written the walls were so thick they were impenetrable. When built, the lighthouse stood about 500 feet from the tip of Sandy Hook; over the centuries the Hook grew through littoral drift, and while the lighthouse didn’t move, it’s now close to a mile and a half from the tip of the Hook. Because of this, the earth beneath and around the Lighthouse holds marvelous secrets, and Dr. Richard Veit’s inquisitive archeological sleuths are hopeful of uncovering some of them. And even better, Dr. Veit is inviting all interested curious workers who want to try their own hand at a bit of the dig to join in! Beginning Saturday, May 28, and for every Saturday during June, from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m, these industrious and inquisitive college students will be combing the earth for a two acre area around the Lighthouse to see what treasures they can uncover. Dr. Veit noted the possibilities are endless: this was the first land Henry Hudson saw in 1609, it has always been the gateway to New York and the eye for navigators on the water and could hold remnants of ships that were tossed, turned, or spilt their goods along the shores of the Hook. It was home to many Europeans in the early part of the 1700s, and a British stronghold during the American Revolution. As such, there were many Loyalists who sought refuge on the Hook from the enthusiastic retaliation of American Patriots; runaway slaves sought out the Hook to work with the British and hopefully gain their freedom. It was there for the Spanish American War in the 19th century when Fort Hancock was established, and through the 20th century, playing important roles in every war from then through the Cold War era and Nike Missiles until its closure in 1974. At a meeting last week of the Fort Hancock 21st Century Advisory Committee, Dr. Veit said the general public is invited to drop in any of those Saturday mornings a bit after 9 a.m. and he could put them to work learning something about archeology and how to search for hidden wonders. Guests are invited to stay as long or as short as they’d like, he said, adding with a smile that “of course the students will be there from 9 to 4.” Reservations aren’t needed and no experience is necessary, but the memory of a day on a dig could last a lifetime. The students, under Dr. Veit’s tutelage, and with the blessing of both the Advisory Committee and the National Park Service, are doing their dig before construction work starts on the foundation of the Lighthouse, which is in need of serious work. The professor said some of the two acres laid out for the archeological work includes some of the land that was at the water’s edge in an earlier era, but most of it is land that was trod, fired upon, lived on, and part of someone’s everyday life. Dr. Veit said the late Dan Seitz’ Hartshorne Papers, which the Hartshorne descendant bequeathed to the Monmouth County Historical Association, have been a treasure trove of information. For instance, from the Hartshorne Papers, Dr. Veit learned that at one time there were five different lighthouse keeping cottages on site, so “who knows what could turn up from everyday life from that era?” Whatever artifacts are found or uncovered, of course, remain the property of the National Park Service, but be they buttons or badges, coins or glass, china shards or belt buckles, they all hold a story of the people who lived or visited there in an earlier time. The lighthouse on the land known as Refugee Town during the Revolution may have been on a US postal stamp in the 1990s, might even have been the backdrop for a soap opera in the 20th century. The land under it may have been purchased from the Hartshornes with funds raised through a national lottery. But now, in the summer of the 21st century, today’s historians, archeologists and just plain folks who love Sandy Hook, can have the opportunity to hunt, in the name of the Park Service, for bits and treasures that hold the stories of the centuries.

It depends on to whom you are speaking as to who has the responsibility of “Heap Hill.”

Yet while upper echelon powers argue it out, the pile of junked cars, together with the hazards and ugliness of it, grows larger and more unsightly. Heap Hill is an approximate one block area located between the Twin Lights and Henry Hudson Regional School. Since May, according to Air Force personnel, or for the past two years, according to borough residents, it has become a haven for cars which have long since served their purpose. After numerous calls, several interminable waits, and uncounted transfers and referrals this reporter learned the following: In Highlands, Mayor Cornelius J. Guiney Jr. said the borough can’t take any stand since it is federal property. He did say, however, the borough owns the right-of-way through the area and any cars on it would be removed immediately. He added, “We’d like to see them cleared” and added “it would be interesting to see what would happen if the road were closed.”

Police Commissioner William McGowan reiterated the Mayor’s statement, saying “if it were up to us, we would get rid of them right away.” He added “We haven’t had any cooperation up there.” Police Chief Howard Monahan said he had a man go up there and look at the area and he agreed to dispose of the cars. But in the meantime somebody, presumably on the federal level “got the idea they should get money for the cars and the guy wouldn’t touch if after that.” Monahan also questioned the thought behind the state statute governing the auction sale of junked autos. “We have to hold them too long before we can do anything about them.” On the Air Force Side, COl. Ralph W. Frank, Commander of the Highlands base, explained the property had belonged to the Air Force but was declared surplus and as such fell under the jurisdiction of the General Surplus Administration in New York. He added that the base had contacted Highlands police , notified them of the condition, but then received word from Army headquarters to “get out of the business” since it was now GSA property. A spokesman at the civil engineer’s office at the base also said it was a GSA property and has been surplus property for approximately two years. The spokesman said his office had contacted the GSA office several times concerning the state of the property and added, “We’re concerned here because we have friends in the area and we know it is unsightly and hazardous. Somebody’s dragging their feet.” And the GSA in New York? We found it difficult to get them to talk., After one New York call, three waits and three transfers, we heard from a spokesman who refused to be named that “the head Air Force people were told to take care of the property until it is sold. “We are not responsible for the protection, maintenance and repair of it.” The spokesman also said he would contact Col. Frank and clarify the matter. He offered further that the property is in process of being transferred to the Henry Hudson Regional School district. When asked whether the transfer would be ‘with or without the cars,’ the spokesman laughingly answered, “that’s a good question.” At the Henry Hudson Regional School Board of Education Secretary Sal Giovenco said he had received word June 25 from the GSA office stating the New York Office was aware of an “eyesore and hazardous condition,” had no custodial responsibilities but would take whatever action is necessary to clear it up. The letter also informed the school board that a transfer of the property to the school district is anticipated in the near future. Residents in the area say the Heap started about two years ago with seven or eight cars. A quick count yesterday showed 52, some upright, others completely overturned. All are without tires, most with broken windshields, no headlights, and vandal gutted insides. One was the scene of a fire last week and residents say oftentimes the night’s silence is broken by sounds of the cars being dismembered or wrecked. Even daytime quiet is pierced by loud and abusive language emanating from the area together with banging and the sound of breaking glass. Where are the cars coming from? This also remains unanswered. Col. Frank said to his knowledge there was only one car belonging to Air Force personnel there and “we made him move it as his own expense.” Other than this, no one seems to see them come or know their origin. But Heap Hill continues to grow. Visitors to the Historical Museum at Twin Lights have but to turn from their breathtaking view of the ocean to see an ugly problem no one seems to be able to care to solve.

It could well be called Maryknoll volleyball diplomacy. Two high school students from Red Bank Catholic High School in Monmouth County, N.J., working through the school’s Maryknoll Affiliate chapter, have shown that teenage girls can bridge the gap between countries and foster new friendships through sports. The New Jersey teens—Catherine Curtin of Atlantic Highlands and Ava Zockoll of Bay Head—spent five days in old Havana, Cuba, last summer using their love of volleyball to develop friendships and help less fortunate students on the island nation 90 miles from the United States. The trip was the idea of 16-year-old Catherine, a member of the school’s Maryknoll Affiliates. She organized the trip, with the help of her parents, Daniel and Tricia. It included teammate Ava and her mother, Nancy. The students took volleyballs, nets, game shirts, and love and enthusiasm with them on the trip, which took place the last week of June. In Cuba they met fellow volleyball enthusiasts from an informal community group called Barrio Habana Community Project, led by the husband and wife team of Pavel Garcia Valdez and Sandra Sotolongo Iglesias. “We went to Cuba to show teens there our way of life and to give them a better understanding of American people, as well as to see how we could help them,” Catherine said. “We came home with new friends and the realization of how very nice and friendly

I opened the tin, looked inside and immediately a flood of happy, wonderful memories came back. A friend who was moving and downsizing gave it to me because she didn’t want to simply throw it away and she thought perhaps I could use it. Buttons. It was a Button Box. A tin where a thrifty and thoughtful mom had kept buttons of all kinds…big ones, small ones, new ones, old ones, all colors, all designs. It reminded me that more than 70 years ago, my mother had a button box. It was wooden, with a shiny lacquered wood, about half the size of a shoe box. My mother kept all the buttons inside that she carefully cut off shirts or dresses or suits no longer bearable. “You never can tell when you’ll need a button,” she’d say, as she added to the collection. I loved rainy days when I was five or six. My mother would let me play with the button box, going through it, lining up the buttons that looked alike, laying some out on a checkerboard, gluing some to a ribbon to make a fancier hair bow. There were the little light blue buttons from my favorite blue dress that I had outgrown; there were the buttons from my red and black jacket that got torn beyond repair when I got caught up in some rose bushes. There were my brother’s fancy buttons from his first tuxedo, my sister’s buttons from the red dress she hated but wore because my mother always said how good she looked in it. There were buttons from my dad’s tan sweater, my mother’s pretty silk dress, my brother’s summer shorts. When I was older, even though I still ran the buttons through my fingers and loved the difference in texture and size, I also sought out buttons. I needed some little white ones when I lost the buttons on my school uniform blouse. I needed just the right size button to fit in the first button hole I made on a sewing machine. I picked out a very fancy gold button for the hoop skirt I made in Girl Scouts. I learned my mother’s habit of cutting buttons off discarded clothing and added to the button box. I didn’t remember having a button box when I left home and got married. I didn’t think I had one. In my early years of raising children, I don’t think I even saved the last two on a sheet of six buttons I bought when I needed buttons four for my daughter’s sweater. Over the years I forgot about the button box; I don’t even know what happened to the one my mother had when I was a child. But when my oldest daughter was a young bride, and I mentioned to her my friend had given me a button box, she exclaimed, “You had one when we were little! It was round, and made of straw!” As I murmured I didn’t remember it, she babbled on. “I used to play with the buttons, I used to put them on a checker board, I used to like to see all the different colors. It was always fun.” Fascinated by her memory, I asked my son. “I remember the button box,” he said, “It was made of straw and round. You kept it on the floor in the front closet next to the louvered doors.” I don’t remember that straw basket at all. But when I opened the gold tin my friend had given me, the tin that once was a fancy gift box filled with chocolates and then served a second life holding buttons, it all came back…the happy memories, the rainy days, the pretty dresses, the hair bows. Not of my daughter and son’s button box. But of mine when I was a child. It brought back special memories of my mother, raising four of us on an extremely limited budget after my dad died. It brought back memories of my mother teaching me how to iron correctly, ensuring those uniform blouses were ironed perfectly and the buttons could fit perfectly through the button holes. I could almost heard the laughter of me as a youngster, the happiness of me as a teen, the camaraderie of my mother, my sister and me with the button box. It all came back. And it was good. Then I thought of the woman who had given me this new button box. And the woman to whom it belonged before her. Neither one knew what it meant to me to get this button box. Maybe they both knew the dreams, hope, laughter, and occasional tears that are caught up in a tin of mismatched, unconnected, variously shaped buttons of all sizes. Or maybe they didn’t. I know now that my daughter and my son, as adults, spouses and parents, remember THEIR button box, the one I couldn’t remember having when I was a young mother. And they had their own special memories, their own hopes, their own dreams. So now I’m keeping that button box with its already made collection my friend gave me. And I’ll be adding to it. And creating new memories. This time not of me as a child, but me as an older adult who still recognizes the magic of a button box…and the love of the women who owned it first.

It was fresh fruit and vegetables they sold, but it was love, happiness and the thrill of old-fashioned marketing they brought with the produce to Highlands every Thursday for many years.

It started out as father and son, Mr. Solomon and his son, Harold. Once a week, their open-backed truck with the colorful awning covering the baskets and boxes of everything from apricots and watermelon to asparagus and zucchini depending on the time of year would come down every street in Highlands.

Summers when there was no school, they really didn’t even need the bells that alerted the neighborhood that the vegetable truck was there. The kids in every neighborhood always saw it coming and immediately ran home to tell their moms that Mr. Solomon was there.

The weekly visits continued for years as the senior Mr. Solomon, who was elderly when he first started, was continually growing older and less able to help Harold with the actual deliveries. But he managed to ride along anyway just to see all the people who were so eager to see both of them and exchange friendly greetings.

We only had two daughters those last years of the 1950s when we lived on Huddy Avenue across from the Highlands Marina. Both girls had their own favorite people in the neighborhood. Both loved Aunt Pauline and Uncle Andy, the Homiaks who lived close enough the girls learned to visit them on their own, bringing their dog Chicken with them, Mr. Eickel, the friendly Dutch gentleman from down the street and around the corner who walked past our house every day, always bringing a piece of chocolate or a lollipop for each of them, in spite of my occasional objections.

Then there was Mr. Solomon whom they adored. Somehow, they knew he loved them, too, even before he gave them each a fresh peach or a banana. When our son was born, the girls introduced him to the Solomons and Jimbo then became their favorite, the handsome little baby with the big smile.

When we moved to Highland Avenue, all three youngsters were delighted that Mr. Solomon even went up the hill with his fruits and vegetables and they would still see him every week.

They all knew the truck as soon as it made the turn at Miller St. to come down Highland Ave, always sure to stop in front of our house, then a little way down by the Ryans where Francis Monahan would come from her house across the street as well. They stopped again down by the Perez and McCalls, before stopping in front of the McGraths and Dempseys, by this time followed by any number of kids all eager to help if they could, but simply happy to be near both Mr. Solomon in the back of his truck and his father often sitting in the passenger seat up front.

The kids would worry if Mr. Solomon wasn’t there by a specific time, thinking he wasn’t coming that day. But he always did. And they always got a piece of fruit or a carrot or tomato. And that big smile and deep voice calling out a special hello to each, knowing every one of their names.

When our youngest was born, like her sisters and brother, she was still in a carriage when first introduced to Mr. Solomon. Once again, it was love at first sight. By this time, the senior Mr. Solomon had stopped making the trip, so Tracie never got to know him. But when she was baptized a few weeks after her January birth, Harold and his wife were there for the baptism and celebration and continued to shower Tracie and the older three with more of their magic and friendship.

Jimbo especially would be sad if he thought he missed Mr. Solomon because of Pop Warner practice or some other activity. But he would smile broadly and be happy again when he heard he had not yet come…but would be there, for sure. And he always was. Jimbo always remembered the scales hanging on the back of the truck, and was fascinated how Mr. Solomon could put the balances on one side, the produce on the other, putting in the right weight to get the price, then always throwing in an extra whatever was being ordered. A Baker’s Dozen has nothing on a Solomon Scale.

Solomon was there for all the family celebrations, truly a part of the family with his wife for every birthday party for the youngsters, there to cheer them and praise them for gold stars they would show him from tests in school, or badges from girl scouts for activities they had completed. Even the family dogs went out to greet Solomon, and he abided the little one like Freckles, but was a bit intimidated by the stature of the St. Bernard, Cosma. And when we had a family of ducks living in the back yard, Solomon always had some greens or pieces of fruit for them as well.

I don’t know exactly when Solomon made his last visit, saying he was retiring from the hard and strenuous work of getting his produce, loading it on to his truck, always in the same, precise way, then making his trip from his home in Asbury Park to Highlands to share so much more than fresh produce with an entire neighborhood. But it was a day for sad goodbyes and for the kids, by then some in high school, it was the end of special times to remember.

For us adults, he was simply Solomon. But to the youngsters, he and his dad were always Mr. Solomon. First friends as babies, fast friends as they grew, and memories they will hold for a lifetime.

I sometimes think that’s why each of my children, even as adults, loves fresh fruits and vegetables so much.

They were different times in Highlands in the 1960s. People felt safer, apparently, because kids in a neighborhood could all play in the street, marking their hopscotch games with big colored pieces of chalk on the street or sidewalk, knowing that drivers through the neighborhood would be on the lookout and driving slowly to give the kids enough time to get out of the way.

For those living on Route 36 and Highland Avenue it was even easier after Our Lady of Perpetual Help School was built; the parking lot was also a playground at lunchtime. So after school, it was a great place for the kids to play on the games not chalked, but actually painted on the parking lot near the fourth grade classroom, play with the Tether Ball on the post by the garage, or jump rope or use their hula hoops. The boys could throw softballs and tease the girls, but everybody felt safe.

From that neighborhood to the Public School and no bus service meant every child had to walk to kindergarten. My older girls had walked from Huddy Avenue up the hill to kindergarten, always with a group of friends they met by Johnston’s Hardware Store. They were delighted when we moved to Highland Avenue and they were going to OLPH, because walks up hills were ended, and they could almost roll out of their beds and into their classrooms. Jimbo always got the award for being the last to get to school, but rarely late…he didn’t leave our house across from the third grade classroom until the first bell rang, but that gave him enough time to get in the line of students in the parking lot and walk into the classroom with the class.

Both Jimbo and Tracie went to kindergarten when we were living on Highland Avenue, so while it did not mean walking up a hill, it meant walking along the sidewalk every day the half mile or so to the school. Jimbo made the trip with TR Dempsey, Bobby Wicklund, Patrick O’Neil, Jimmy Kovic and those other great boys that made living in that neighborhood a great place to raise children.

When it was Tracie’s turn, it was she and Priscilla O’Neil, whom she’d meet at the corner next to church, who walked together to get to kindergarten. As parents, neither Sis O’Neil nor I ever worried about the girls making the trip at five years of age alone and adjacent to a busy highway. Both moms knew there were neighbors along the way who would have their eye out for the girls, wave them a cheery good morning, or perhaps hustle them on their way if they seemed to be lagging a bit.

No matter where they played after school, it was always fun. The girls all loved to go to Kovic’s house further up the hill. That clan’s dad, Mike, an incredible builder and a great dad, had built a gorgeous playhouse for his daughter Christine in their backyard, and the younger kids were so amazed at how realistic it was, how it had wood and shingles and windows and a door, just like on real house.

Or all the kids would go up to Hartshorne woods and either wander through the woods, especially in the spring when the dogwood was in bloom and some of the kids would break off a branch or find a branch with flowers on it on the ground and bring it home. There were always paths to explore, flowers to pick, birds to watch and games to play. And there was always the five o’clock fire whistle to let them all know they had to rush home and be in time for dinner and homework.

All along Highland Avenue everyone waved to Mr. Higgins, Bob to all the adults, Irene’s husband, who lived on Valley Avenue and ran every night keeping in shape. A fireman in New York, Bob was always a favorite among all the kids, because he always took the time to pay special attention to each one of them. The younger kids also remember when one or more of Bob’s daughters would be running alongside him.

The Highland Avenue kids loved Mrs. Waters…out of her earshot they did call her by her first name, Gussie, Buddy Waters’ wife. She had a terribly overweight dachshund, Peanuts, that she would walk on a leash, and who could barely make it up the curb to the sidewalk without skinning his underside, making him yip with the sudden unexpected pain.

And Kay Dominguez…she was Aunt Kay to everyone, in her house across from school on the top of the hill, whom everyone knew and loved and who had the cheeriest laugh and the loudest voice with her New York accent when she wanted to get your attention. Kay’s house was another with an open door policy and everyone, young, old, male and female, would gather in her kitchen for words of wisdom from Aunt Kay.

There were Ryans on both corners, Hubie and Rose near Miller St., and the whole Larry Ryan clan at South Peak.

When OLPH started Bingo, Thursday nights offered something special. All the kids at OLPH had to get their homework done early, because at least one of their parents, in many cases, both, would be in the school hall on the second floor working the Bingo that raised the funds to pay for the cost of building the school. Father Delzell was one of the favorite callers, along with Luke Penta and Jim Smith, sometimes Ben Ptak.

Rose Penta and Gerry Ptak, along with Vi McConnell and Dot Lahey were always among the women in the kitchen brewing the coffee, serving the cupcakes and staying to clean up after 10 when the games were over and friends were gathering and laughing outside over their wins and losses. The camaraderie and companionship of the time was contagious.

Dogs. There were always lots of them around. Rarely on leashes, other than Peanuts. Always obedient to whoever told them to get out of the way or move. All but Cosma.

Cosma was our St. Bernard dog, a dog we got from the SPCA who weighed in at over 125 pounds. Cosma loved to lie right smack in the middle of Highland Avenue. At first, cars going up to Henry Hudson would beep at him, trying to get him to move so they could continue on the road. But Cosma never moved. Sprawled out in all her glory across the street, she somehow knew every driver would see her and everyone would swerve to be sure they missed her. There was the one day a New York driver was coming down the street just as Cosma was walking out to her resting place. They stopped to wave to her, and she ran right smack into the side door. Cosma backed off, shook her head, and laid down. The driver also stopped, was assured she was OK, and laughed when he saw the dent her head had made in the side of his car.

She was truly a part of the family for many years and a ball of fluff and softness that more than our own kids would use her to cuddle, to cry, or to just play with.Jimbo was enroute to the Marine Corps when Cosma was ten years old or so and had cancer.

The vet gave us the choice of having her front paw amputated or putting her down to ensure she would not always be in pain. Thinking it would not be fair to have a big, heavy old dog learn how to walk on three legs, we made the sad choice of having her put down. I was with her at the vet’s office when the terrible deed was done, and did not have the courage to tell our children what we were doing.

They did not know it for years, until they were all adults and I finally admitted the one time I had not been completely truthful with them.The vet and I had put her in two burlap bags, he helped me lift her into the back of my car, and Doreen, a dear friend at The Courier, helped me dig a big hole in a friend’s spacious back acreage.

Cosma remains there today, buried under beds of daffodils that bloom in the spring

All the talk about Critical Race Theory and teaching children in school about the differences, not the similarities among people is disturbing to me. It brings to mind my one and only mistake in bringing up our children in respecting people for their humanity and nothing more or less. Our children all learned every person was created by God, all are equal in God’s eyes, all had different talents and blessings and all contribute to making the world a better place and helping us all attain heaven at the end of life.

It was when Jimbo was in the fourth grade at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School and the Coast Guard base was an active base on Sandy Hook, where all the children of families living there and at Fort Hancock either went by bus past the Highlands schools to the Navesink school and High School or paid tuition and went to OLPH for elementary school.

Jimbo came home one day all excited about the new boy in his class, Byron. As the days went by, we learned more and more about Byron and how wonderful he was. Byron could throw a ball further than anyone else, Byron always got 100 on his spelling, Byron brought cookies to school for everyone to share. I heard so much about Byron I pictured him wearing a halo. When Jimbo wanted Byron to come over and play after school, it meant calling his mom, introducing myself, asking if Byron could visit, which also meant she or her husband had to drive over to our house at the end of the play date to pick him up and bring him home.

Mrs. Joyner was sweet and wonderful. She told me Byron had been talking about Jimbo all the time as well and she wanted to invite Jimbo over to their house on the Coast Guard base. It seems the boys were just natural with each other, she said. Like brothers.

We agreed the first playdate would be Byron coming to our house so all the permission slips were written so the Sisters and the bus driver knew Byron would not be going home after school but spending the rest of the afternoon at the Smiths.

So I first met Byron over milk and cookies after the two boys raced across the street after school, ran up to Jimbo’s room and changed into play clothes then raced out to the back yard for a while, before meeting up with the other boys in the neighborhood for a game out on the street. It was a joyous several hours of plain fun for all, the neighborhood kids glad Byron could stay a while, Byron happy to be able to play with his classmates, with so few his age on the base for everyday play.

Byron’s mom came to pick him up at the prescribed time, the boys traded books and toy cars as we chatted and got to know each other better and she told me how wonderful it was living at Fort Hancock and how their children loved going to OLPH in Highlands. After goodbyes and promises of the next after school date, Byron and his mom left.

Living in Highlands in the 1960s and 1970s there were either no or very few black families living there, certainly no youngsters in the school system or at OLPH. It was only through Pop Warner the kids were became great pals of the Keyes, the Wiliams, the Lanes and some of the other black kids who lived in Middletown or Atlantic Highlands and were on the teams or cheerleaders.

So as I prepared dinner, and Jimbo told me once again how much fun it was to play with Byron, I said, “I didn’t know Byron was black.” And my fourth grader innocently gave me the only lesson I ever really needed to learn on discrimination. He looked up and said innocently, “is he?” Jimbo had not noticed any differences between the two.

Jimbo and Byron were friends for many years; it was their personalities both boys always showed, and what each always saw.

If you lived in Highlands in the 1970s, 80s and beyond, then you knew Bob Higgins. If you lived on the hill in Highlands in those decades, then you knew Bob as the runner, often with his daughters, around the streets, keeping fit and healthy whether he was a fireman on the job in New York, later a court officer in Monmouth County, or just a dad enjoying the company of his wife, Irene, and kids. Bob was the kind of guy who made you feel good just for knowing him.

But there was one incident back in 1980 when this everyday hero scored one for the common man with the Motor Vehicle Agency. Granted the Motor Vehicle at that time was a lot less courteous and helpful then than they are today. But a fighting fireman like Bob, a loving and caring father like Bob, wasn’t letting that agency of that time get away with anything.

In true Bob Higgins character, he did not want his name known at the time, but wanted his story to show that things can be done and can be done right if public servants are challenged.

When I wrote the story for the Courier in May, 1980, he was simply Joe Marathon. Bob Higgins, hero to his family friend to all, died Dec. 11, 2017. Here’s The Courier story from 1980.

A modern day David took on the mighty Goliath of the state Motor Vehicle Agency on Route 36 last month, and struck a blow in favor of all who have ever waited in long lines there, have been treated to the surly dispositions of some employees or gotten a taste of how little the employees care about the value of some one else’s time. For his trouble, he was arrested and hauled into court. Another blow for justice was struck in the court room. He was found innocent of the charge against him. For the sake of anonymity, let’s call him Joe Marathon.

Joe Marathon is a normally mild-mannered, good looking, hardworking family man. He’s a big city firefighter by profession and has been recognized for valor and cool professionalism on the job. He’s an avid promoter of all local involvements for his kids, and is active in Little League, Pop Warner, Booster clubs and school PTAs. Joe Marathon is the kind of guy you’re happy to have as a neighbor.

If was for one of his kids that Joe Marathon was at the inspection agency a few weeks ago. One of his daughters had taken her driving test, and in order to save time and mileage on another trip, he planned on getting the necessary applications for a moped license for his 15-year old daughter. In the maze of applications over the years for various civic and athletic memberships, Joe had inadvertently lost her birth certificate and came to the inspection station with a baptismal certificate from his parish church which clearly showed the daughter was well over 15 years of age.

Joe had read the manual for moped users closely and figured that where it said proof of age could be “birth certificates.” a baptismal certificate would qualify under “etc.” But to be absolutely certain, he asked one of the female clerks in the officer before he got into the long line. Yes, she said, it would be OK. So Joe got in line and waited an hour and a half. He got the necessary moped application.

But then Joe went into the exam room armed with his application and baptismal certificate and was told by the clerk there it wouldn’t do. Birth was needed, not baptismal, she said.

Now Joe had already waited 90 minutes, he had had already been assured he had a qualifying paper, he wasn’t going to take no easily. He explained all this to the clerk, said it wasn’t right he would be given two different stories, and left, his blood pressure up just a wee little bit.

Joe re-entered about five minutes later and at the clerk’s suggestion, was referred to “someone higher in authority. “ He then went inside the waist high “door control” and met an armed Highway Patrol Officer seated at another desk. Joe waited while the officer finished his business with a person there, then approached the armed officer and asked why a baptismal certificate wouldn’t be acceptable as proof of age. In his testimony in court later, Joe said, “I couldn’t get any reasonable explanation of why it wouldn’t do, or what “etc.” meant,” He then added the immortal words expressed by thousands who have done business there, “It just seems that no one cares if you wait one or two hours.”

The officers wasn’t helpful, declined to explain what ‘etc.,” meant and Joe left again.

But Joe’s daughters were with him. They wondered why their father couldn’t get a reasonable explanation, they wondered why the manual said one thing and their dad couldn’t be helped. And Joe was determined he’d have the proper answers for his daughters.

So he went back into the inspection station, this time armed with the manual and written proof of “birth certificate, etc.” He again waited at the “door control” and was admitted. Seeing the same officer he showed him the book, again asking for an explanation. The officer took the book from his hand, and underlined the words, “birth Certificate,” and told him quite pointedly that that’s all that would be accepted.

Maybe it was because Joe has always been able to provide answers for his daughters. Maybe it was because of his stint in the Marine Corps when honor, dignity and perseverance were drilled into him. Maybe it was because he knew from daily experiences that that one last determined try is often what squelches that stubborn blaze. Whatever the reason, something in Joe Marathon said he had to have an answer before he left. So Joe asked the officer to see someone else, someone still higher in authority.

By his testimony court, the officer said Joe was instructed to sit in a specific seat by the window. The officer explained he selected that particular seat because “otherwise we could forget him; I think that’s poor business.”

Joe sat, but he dared to call out, “Do I have to wait another one and a half hours to get an answer?” The officer gave him three choices, “sit and wait, leave, or be arrested.” And Joe’s response according to the officer’s testimony, “or what?”

In municipal court the highway Patrol Officers told Judge Avin V. Klatsky that the mild mannered fire fighter was “defiant…irritating …and possibly threatening.’ The armed officer conceded, however, that Joe was “not abusive, ..was cooperative.”

But he grabbed Joe’s arm and led him out of the office and took him to police headquarters where he signed a complaint against him for “disturbing the normal order of business,.” According to court records. Joe was directed to appear in court one Thursday morning at 9 a.m.

And Joe was there, 15 minutes ahead of time, nattily attired, carefully prepared and nervous. It was his first experience with the criminal court. The Judge arrived on the bench at 9:30, a mild-mannered soft spoken and genial man. He explained the court’s proceedings; first guilty pleas would be heard, then matters involving attorneys “to free them for appearances in other courts..” then finally all other contested matters. That’s where Joe’s case came.

At 10:05, Judge Klatsky called Joe’s case, and asked him his plea. As he had advised the court clerk days earlier, Joe said he was pleading not guilty. The Judge then directed the Officer involved be summoned from the motor vehicle agency.

When the officer arrived, still in uniform and still wearing his gun in a holster, the court was in the midst of another proceeding involving attorneys who had come in late. It wasn’t until 12:08 that Joe Marathon’s case finally was called to be heard, after Joe had been sitting more than three hours in the court room.

The officer testified, responding to questions from the prosecutor. He related many of the details of the incident and explained he felt Joe had disrupted business by bursting through the “door control.” He said Joe sat in a wrong chair from the one he was directed. He said Joe got louder and talked in too loud a voice. He said he felt threatened by the family man.

When Joe told his side of the story, he explained he still did not get an answer as to what “etc.” meant. The judge courteously explained that wasn’t within the province of the court. The prosecutor asked that Joe Marathon be found guilty and said his actions were “understandable but not excusable.”

The Judge didn’t agree. He opined that perhaps Joe’s action caused “an inconvenience” and could have created a “physically dangerous situation.” But, the judge said, he had some doubts, and while unfortunately there are “some times we you have to wait,” he ruled Joe Marathon was not guilty of any wrongdoing.

Yet it didn’t quite end there. The officer asked to see Joe Marathon in the hall after court was adjourned. He told Joe he was “glad you were found not guilty,” and said, “we’ve got stuff to put up with all day long. I didn’t have time that day” to make the necessary explanations.

Joe had spent a total of six hours about two at the motor vehicle station, another four in the court room. He still had not received am answer from the agency on what “etc.” means. But he spoke up for every motorist in the area and was hauled into court for expressing what anybody who has waited in lines in Eatontown has said privately. “nobody seems to care how long you wait or how you’re treated.”.