BEHIND THE SCENES
SALVATION ASBURY
DECEMBER 21, 2006 -- His musical tastes run from Bruce Springsteen to "Onward Christian Soldier," and you're just as likely to find him plowing through a rope course with troubled Asbury Park teens or greeting homeless residents on the boardwalk as delivering a Sunday sermon.
Like many people, my image of the Salvation Army was largely limited to picturesque bell-ringers at Christmas and gleeful forages through thrift shops. But that was before I met Majors Jeffery and Jessica Bassett in spring, 2004, less than a year after they'd taken over the Salvation Army sanctuary and social services complex at 605 Asbury Avenue. The city was looking for summer recreation programs, and the Bassetts offered an evening camp for kids aged 6 to 16 that included dinner, recreation, optional Christian education, and - most important - safety from the streets. That program - staffed by volunteers from several area churches - is now in its third year. But the Bassetts' commitment to city kids didn't end with summer: They contracted with the YMCA to offer after-school tutoring and recreation, and with the Monmouth County Park System to offer arts and crafts, athletics and team-building programs. In addition, the Salvation Army's Tuesday night supper club feeds neighborhood kids and offers them a weekly video, and local kids can take free lessons in brass instruments, singing, dance - even mime. And that doesn't include the summer boot camp - now in its second year - that Major Jeff semi-literally roped me into in July, 2005. Started by Bassett and former Asbury Park Police Director Lou Jordan with support from Asbury Park Public Defender Ron Troppoli, the Monmouth County Superior Court, and the Asbury Park Police Department, the program is a one-week, sleep-over boot camp for male Asbury Park teens. For most of them, this court-assigned program is their last alternative to jail. This summer, the camp was held at the Boys & Girls Club, and participants were treated to everything from anger management courses, job training, and high ropes courses, to drug and alcohol training and "scared straight" talks with law enforcement officers and attorneys. Members were given summer jobs and offered extended job placement opportunities through the city's Asbury Works program. Not every teen made it, of course, but Bassett still gets excited to find program graduates working in community businesses. Of course, the Salvation Army isn't just about kids: The center offers a weekly seniors program and lunch, and provides meeting space for Narcotics Anonymous, a Rainbow Alcoholics Anonymous, and the Most Excellent Way, a Christian support group. And, on the fourth Sunday of every month, Bassett offers a 4 p.m. "recovery service" for drug users, alcoholics, prostitutes and the homeless. The religious service is optional; the free meal that follows is open to all. But Bassett isn't the type who waits for people to come to him, as anyone who has ever walked down (or crawled under) the boardwalk with him can tell you: He knows most of the regulars by name. This spring he hopes to take his mobile canteen down to the boardwalk on Friday nights from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. to offer food and hot drinks to the homeless people and prostitutes who frequent that area and other, less-visible parts of the city. His goal? To get them to life-changing places, like the respected drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, half-way houses, and veterans' homeless shelters run by the national Salvation Army. "We're not judging them or condemning them," Bassett says of his efforts. "We're just loving them." That love extends to a mobile food pantry which the Salvation Army offers to impoverished pre-natal patients at the Jersey Shore Hospital Clinic on Wednesdays and Thursdays. There, a bilingual Salvation Army employee offers food baskets and social service referrals to expectant mothers and their families. So how did someone who reminisces about driving a '72 Camaro with Springsteen music blasting from the speakers wind up in the Salvation Army? It obviously runs in his genes. Bassett's great grandmother visited the Salvation Army during the Great Depression, seeking food for her five children. She fell in love with the organization, and her daughter - Bassett's grandmother - later became an officer. In turn, her son - Bassett's father - recently retired as the Salvation Army's National Commander. Bassett admits that his religious vocation wasn't a given. "I rebelled. I had years of college rebellion." But then he met Jessica - a Methodist by birth - and the two decided to attend the Salvation Army seminary together, becoming ordained in 1987. He is currently studying for a Master's degree in organizational leadership. Which brings us to Jessica, the quieter but equally effective member of the pair. Although she's authorized to conduct services and officiate at weddings, she prefers to keep the wheels turning behind the scenes, working with a legion of volunteers to prepare toys for their annual Christmas distribution or to organize their annual sale of clothing and household goods. You can bet she played a huge role in the facility's holiday distribution earlier this week, when 270 families received toys, turkeys and food vouchers to make their Christmas memorable. A free Christmas Eve dinner for 200 people is also planned. (And, yes, the Salvation Army could use additional donations - in whatever amount - to underwrite those programs.) After the birth of their children Jonathan, Jennifer and Jacqulyn - aged 20, 18 and 15, respectively - Jessica was also the inspiration behind their decision to adopt Jared, now 8, who had been put up for adoption by his drug-addicted mother. Raising an African-American child has given the Bassetts a whole new understanding of what inner-city children - and their parents and caretakers - face, and how black and white society interacts. Given my abysmal ignorance about the Salvation Army - I wasn't even aware that they conducted Sunday services before I met the Bassetts, for example - I asked Major Jeff if the Salvation Army was considered a church. His answer probably said as much about his own philosophy as it did about the group. "We're part of the church, we're Christian, we have worship services, and some of our members refer to us as a church," he said, "But I like to see us as a movement. "Christ has gotten a bad rap because of the way the church sometimes lives him out. But just look at his life: He was nonjudgmental, loving and cared about the poor. Take away the theological debate and you can't argue with that kind of life." And that's a show-stopper for even this former Catholic, quasi-Buddhist, hippie girl. So Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah and Happy Kwanzaa to all this season, and please be extra kind to those local bell-ringers this year. They're working for us.
We were slugging our way through an all-day beachfront negotiating meeting - with the specter of a three-hour council meeting right behind it - when City Manager Terry Reidy discovered that Governor Jim McGreevey was coming to town.
It seems that McGreevey was holding a town meeting at an Asbury Park gallery, and the intended audience was female elected officials and business leaders from Monmouth County. The odd part was that his office hadn't invited Asbury Park's sole councilwoman - me.
"What should I do?" I asked Terry.
"Go," he said. "I'll tell them you're coming."
And so it was that I showed up at 3 p.m. wearing the overly bright smile of the not-really-invited.
I don't particularly remember McGreevey's comments that day (which oddly had to do with conservation in northwest New Jersey), but I'll never forget the setting: The gallery was running an exhibit of nude figures, and I watched fascinated as a state photographer desperately angled his camera to avoid catching the governor with naked bottoms on either side of his head.
When the question-and-answer period began, I gamely raised my hand.
"Tonight we're voting on whether to accept RCA (Regional Contribution Agreement) funds from Tinton Falls," I essentially told him. "If we vote yes, Tinton Falls will give us money to help poor Asbury Park residents repair their homes.
"But that also means that Tinton Falls and other wealthy towns can avoid building their fair share of affordable housing. How would you vote?"
McGreevey didn't blink an eye.
"Well," he said, "you really wouldn't want to put affordable housing in towns like Rumson. There aren't any jobs there."
In my mind's eye, I leapt heroically across the table, pushed his head through the open window and screamed, "Do you see any jobs out there?"
In reality, I sank silently to my seat. "Don't do it. Don't do it, Mellina," I told myself. "We're still hoping to get some of that Atlantic City casino money."
I probably should have done it.
In retrospect, all of our Asbury Park "McGreevey moments" were pretty odd: Every time the city hit a major redevelopment milestone - like rebuilding the boardwalk - he would suddenly materialize for a press conference, dragging aides, bodyguards, and legions of bored-looking reporters and TV cameras.
And while he'd pontificate about the great strides the state was making in Asbury Park, the local people who had actually worked on those projects were herded to the side like unwanted kids at a cocktail party.
Of course, this being Asbury Park, things didn't always go as planned.
There was the day of the boardwalk dedication, for example, when the city manager proudly announced that Asbury Park had obtained its first-ever bond rating. When the New York Times played up the bond-rating angle rather than McGreevey's appearance, the governor was - well - not amused.
On another occasion - the only one I remember when council members were invited to join in the photographs - McGreevey was raining praise on his staff for doing such great work in Asbury Park (huh?) when one of my perpetually late colleagues showed up and grabbed the microphone.
"I want everyone to know that it's not safe to park in this city," he told the startled reporters and more startled governor. "I just had all the stereo equipment stolen out of my truck!"
That show-stopper was McGreevey's last appearance in the city, but it wasn't our fault: He resigned shortly afterwards.
Two years later, we're being treated to the sad spectacle of Citizen McGreevey pushing "Confessions" - his "tell almost all" biography - on the Oprah Winfrey Show, the Today Show, The View, Larry King Live, NBC Dateline, and in newspapers, magazines, bookstores and gay centers everywhere.
There's McGreevey, claiming he'd marry his new partner in a heartbeat if the state permitted gay marriage. (Yeah, right: Isn't this the same governor who turned his back when Attorney General Peter "See No Evil" Harvey threatened to send Asbury Park employees to jail for accepting gay marriage applications?)
And there's Kean College hiring him - and helpfully padding his state retirement fund - as an expert in international affairs. (Oh, I get it: International affairs! Golan Cipal...!)
And, no, I don't buy him as the heroic poster-boy for gay coming-out stories: Even while he was in office, gay elected officials were aware of his reckless, behind-the-scenes escapades and expressed disgust at his unwillingness to be honest with his family, the public - or them.
And, in an all-time low, McGreevey revealed that he even cheated with Golan Cipal as his wife lay in the hospital, recovering from their daughter's birth. You'd better believe that he did the same thing to us that he was doing to them.
As he himself writes, "Some things I'd done, or allowed to be done in my name, were morally repugnant to me...I had my people strike back-room deals I kept myself in the dark about or forced from my mind if I learned too much. Obviously this is one root of my memory problems."
Memory problems? Try morality problems, bud - and over-taxed and under-served New Jersey residents are still paying for your dubious amnesia.
Last month, Rupert Murdoch's company announced a new O.J. Simpson book and television special entitled "If I Did It." That deal died in a firestorm of criticism.
In contrast, McGreevey's book could have been titled, "Yes, I Did It" - and he became the darling of the talk show hosts. What gives? (Ironically, in these scandal-loving times, Simpson's book would have been the much bigger seller.)
I recently read that McGreevey had his official governor's portrait painted larger than that of any previous governor. Appropriately, current Governor Jon Corzine is forcing him to wait until after the book tour to hang it in the state capitol building.
I have a much better idea: Let's hang it in McGreevey's house. At least his biggest admirer will get to see it every day.
If that tourist's hotel has a copy of Smith's Directory, then it's probably "shop 'til you drop" time.
In the days before telephone numbers, Alexander Warren Smith's 1885-86 directory was a combination white pages, yellow pages, and tourist guide. As the introduction crowed, "The merchants of Asbury Park have built and stocked stores which would seem to a stranger far too considerable establishments for the locality. They are not."
First stop, of course, would be "The Largest Stores in the State" - Steinbach Brothers at the corner of Main and Lake in Asbury Park, or on Broadway in competing Long Branch. Jacob and John Steinbach offered "fancy goods," bathing suits, clothing, millinery, shoes, lace, household goods, wallpaper, carpets, and more.
For more exclusive service, Asbury Park boasted at least eight dressmakers, several "merchant tailors" and milliners, and numerous boot and shoemakers, including William Bell (whose work "needs no puffing" and who'd fit your shoes with skate plates) and Luke McNally (who advertised "easy fits for deformed and tender feet").
Bell and McNally set up competing shops at 118 and 110 Cookman Avenue, respectively. Today, those addresses would be a block from the ocean but, as McNally's ad describes it, the 100 block was then located between Main and Bond Streets.
Those not into sartorial splendor could wander into smaller shops like Goodenough's or Tibbals & Sons' to check out the latest in books, magazines and stationery, or visit one of at least four purveyors of "Japanese goods".
This last category mystified me, but apparently Japanese designs - on pictures, wallpaper, pottery, fans and more - became the rage in Europe starting in the 1860s and 1870s, and helped satisfy the Victorian need for clutter both there and in the United States.
Those wanting to make the ultimate statement could order a personalized burgee from sail maker Stephen Hemmenway on Cookman Avenue - a burgee, of course, being a pennant announcing their affiliation with a particular boat or yacht club.
And after a hard day of shopping (or - in my case - checking out Internet explanations of burgees, Japanese goods, and more), visitors could consult Smith's Directory for the nearest confectioner, eatery, ice cream shop, or cigar dealer.
Among the plentiful choices, Kelsey's Restaurant and Ice Cream Saloon (conveniently located next to McNally's shoe shop, to minimize wear on those tender feet) offered "Meals at all hours. Chops and Steaks cooked to order. Oysters in every style. Imported and domestic segars (sic)."
Athletic types fitted with William Bell's skates probably stopped at William J. Cooper's for ice cream, frozen fruits, ices, or "fine confectionary". Cooper's business was located on Second Avenue near Kingsley Street ("one block from the ocean rink"), and featured an ice cream garden lighted by electric light.
Similarly, Brower's Cigars and Tobacco on Mattison Avenue lured weary shoppers with fruits and confectionary, cool sarsaparilla, root beer, ginger ale, and "fresh roasted peanuts every day."
Up on Main Street, Theodore H. Beringer offered "smokers' articles in every variety" for dad, and marine shells and fancy goods for mom and the kids. And those finding romance on Mr. Bradley's beach could take advantage of Beringer's Justice of the Peace services with a ring from Fred Wiseman's jewelry shop and a festive bouquet from William Wyckoff, florist.
And still there was more: Summer visitors could sign up for music lessons with R. Albert Tusting, and could rent a piano or organ from him or his competitors. Those with artistic ambitions could purchase supplies from Helen E. Miles and study at Lillie Mackowne's art studio, both on Cookman Avenue.
Finally, the whole clan could be happily captured either by portrait painter Edward D. Marchant, who lived at Fourth and Heck, or by one of several local photographers.
Of course, Asbury Park was not just about out-of-towners, and Smith's Directory notes that "there is no place where the housewife can arrange her purchases with less inconvenience. Marketmen, grocers and huxters (sic) go in procession to the kitchen door, where orders are taken and deliveries are made."
With bountiful merchants supplying the borough's 800 hotels, boarding houses and cottages, local families could patronize grocers like B.L. Jackson who offered everything from milk, butter, eggs and lard, to foreign and domestic fruits.
Residents also had easy access to butchers, fishermen and seafood markets offering beef, lamb, veal, poultry, smoked meats, fresh fish and oysters. (And, yes, men like William P. Corrigan - who listed his occupation as "shucker" - probably worked for one of Asbury Park's three oyster dealers.)
Tradesmen were also in generous supply: As Smith's Directory notes, Asbury Park had progressed from a "white clover land, noted for the excellence of its springs" and a favorite summer grazing ground for cattle farmers, to a built-up "phenomenal health resort" in 15 short years.
Thus, the directory includes a wealth of cabinet makers, carpenters, carriage makers, masons, mantel makers, upholsterers, mattress makers, wallpaper hangers, painters and kalsominers - kalsomine being another name for whitewash.
Many African-American laborers also lived across the tracks in West Asbury Park - a separate settlement that did not join the larger town until 1906.
Alarmingly, the most frequent occupation listed for Asbury Park women was "widow" but - then, as now - Smith did not include married women in his residential directory.
Smith gives no clue as to how many Asbury Park businesses locked their doors when the summer's 25,000 residents shrunk to a winter population of 3,000.
But, eight years later, Stephen Crane - the city's famed literary son - wrote of the off-season: "There is a mighty pathos in these gaunt and hollow buildings, impossibly and stolidly suffering from an enormous hunger for the public."
No doubt, many in that departing public were forced to pay a hasty visit to the borough's busy trunk makers before contacting one of the many stage and porter services to transport them and their groaning luggage to the train station or to Long Branch's Iron Steamboat Co. which promised "No change. No dust. No hot railway cars."
Another summer season had ended.
(Special thanks to former Atlantic Highlands mayor Bob Schoeffling, proprietor of the Book Compound, who generously loaned me his personal copy of Smith's Directory.)
Yes, I know: This week's column was supposed to be about Asbury Park in the 1880s. And I definitely wrote that column the minute we returned from Thanksgiving dinner with mom and dad. (Honest! You can ask Dave!)
But then I opened the Sunday Asbury Park Press and learned that the City of Asbury Park has begun work on a $525,000 project to give the 20-year-old Transportation Center a new roof and new heating and air conditioning systems.
I also learned that the work is being funded through a hefty $650,000 bond that was originally intended to cover improvements at city hall - but won't.
And so I put aside my 1885 Asbury Park column for a week to make the following timely public service announcement: Please, somebody, stop the madness!
It's not that I don't sympathize with Asbury Park's growing commuter population: I do. And not all of them are those new Manhattanites that some longtime residents irrationally deride.
But, hey, I've also done my share of commuting in the past two years, and it ain't like those other towns have much to be proud of: Long Branch is indisputably the train hub of Monmouth County, and their train station is worse than ours, with one tiny unheated booth and another small enclosed one that offers no amenities and is sometimes locked.
I know - I've spent several late evenings shivering on their platform when my connecting train was late.
And these days I typically leave from the Allenhurst station - because parking is easy, those late-night returns feel safer, and (lazy me!) I don't have to buy my ticket in advance.
But even prosperous-looking Allenhurst offers only a small unheated booth that most commuters avoid because it typically smells like something I'd rather not think about.
New York is hardly better: The subway station I use is directly across from the famed and sophisticated Museum of Modern Art. But visitors from around the world are forced to drag their belongings up an endless escalator (when it's working), followed by a long flight of stairs punctuated by mold-covered walls that look like something from a '50s horror movie.
Even I can't hold my breath that long.
Which brings us back to those long-suffering Asbury Park souls who daily endure too much heat, too much cold, and a roof that leaks buckets: Yes, I'm talking about city hall employees - including the entire police department - and the hundreds of people who visit there weekly.
On one of my first days as councilwoman, I found City Clerk Steve Kay dragging soggy records out of a closet on the first floor that had been clobbered by a leak on the second.
And, on rainy days during beachfront redevelopment negotiations, we'd entertain ourselves by betting which unsuspecting attorney or developer would plop down under the steady leak in the city council chambers. They never sat there twice.
Then, of course, there's the legendary city hall heating and air-conditioning system. Some parts of the building are so hot during the summer that even visitors scramble to get out. I know - I've made more than one quick (and grateful) exit when employee offices heated up to Purgatory temperatures.
Alternatively, some parts of the second floor become so unbearably hot during the winter months that employees are forced to pry open windows and aim fans at their desk - to very little avail.
Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not minimizing the importance of throwing out the welcome mat for Transportation Center visitors and commuting residents.
In fact, I sincerely applaud Councilman Ed Johnson for nudging NJ Transit into installing a Transportation Center video system and cameras that are connected to the police department. I wound up standing there alone one night at 11 p.m. when the train doors failed to open in Allenhurst, and it wasn't pretty.
And while I know that Asbury Park's police department is already overburdened, I always felt safer at the Allenhurst train station when one of their police officers would briefly pull in to greet late-night trains and play his lights on the parking lot until everyone was safely in their cars.
And, yes, the Transportation Center should be kept clean and well-lighted, and access to coffee, an ATM, and the morning newspaper would be nice - even if other towns don't provide it.
But to spend over half a million dollars - now - for improvements that only a handful of people will enjoy for a few minutes a day, while 200 employees and police officers are suffering from identical (or worse) conditions 40 hours a week?
To bond for $650,000, while Fire Department members are squashed into temporary trailers because the city's only fire station is literally collapsing? While the members of the under-staffed police department are shoe-horned into an area meant for a much smaller department?
No - I'm not buying it. I'm not buying it at all.
Not unless - as City Manager Terry Reidy once smartly suggested - the city converts some of that wasted Transportation Center space into expanded offices for city hall employees or police officers.
But that would have to be carried out now. Not next year. Not the year after, when some mythical federal and state money came through to pay for sheetrock or whatever it took.
I had to smile a bit when I read that the federal government funded an $80,000 grant last winter so that the County Planning Board could propose a $10 million plan to develop the train station into a souped-up transportation hub over the next ten years.
Yes, there's been talk of an "Asbury Park transportation hub" for years now, whatever that means. And, as I noticed during my council tenure, there always seems to be federal and state money available to fund another planning study: Just look at the plans for Westside redevelopment.
During my first year on the council, the state promised us oodles of cash from the N.J. Casino Reinvestment Development Authority to kick-start Westside redevelopment. That money never came.
But about once every year, the state would award us tens of thousands of dollars in unsolicited planning money - to plan what had already been planned - with the stipulation that none of it could be used for actual redevelopment.
So to the city council and city manager, I say: Stop the madness. Stop it now.
And, next time, I'll happily go back to talking about the past.
In the Borough of Asbury Park in 1885, Anna Bridge was a saleswoman at Steinbach Brothers on the corner of Main and Lake. Lemuel Harvey was a lamplighter. And Samuel Klotz of Seventh Avenue cryptically identified himself as a collector. (Antiques? Overdue bills?)
There were shoemakers and boat builders. Fishermen and tobacconists. Portrait painters and blacksmiths. Mattress makers and milliners. Horse dealers and doctors. Shuckers and kalsominers. (Huh?)
And - in bold type, befitting a founding father - there was James A. Bradley, president of the Board of Commissioners, headquartered at Mattison and Main.
When a friend offered to show me a prize from his New Jersey book collection, I was hardly prepared for what he handed me.
"Smith's Directory. 1885-6. Asbury Park, Ocean Grove, West Asbury Park, West Ocean Grove, Ocean Park, Key East and Hamilton, (including the farmers of ) Neptune Township," read the rambling title page. Compiled and published by Alexander Warren Smith of 36 Mattison Avenue, and substantially priced at $2.00, it was a combination white and yellow pages - and a whole lot more.
A scant 15 years after the city's founding, a bevy of hotels, boarding houses and guest cottages with names like the New England Cottage, the Oriental, the Trojan Cottage, and Romain's Commercial Hotel competed for visitor dollars - boasting of everything from billiard tables and telephone connections to "perfect drainage" and (surprisingly often) fresh artisan water from Asbury Park wells.
Perhaps that magical water contributed to what the introduction claimed was the coastal city's "remarkably small death rate."
Of course, if anyone had the bad grace to die within the limits of this "phenomenal health resort", businessmen like J. F. Howland (Undertaker and Cabinet Maker) and James H. Sexton (Funeral Director and Embalmer) were there to lend a hand - and to help surviving family members with a host of unrelated needs including window shades, cornices, picture frames, cabinet work, upholstering, locksmithing and trunk repair.
Sexton's ad also promised "flowers in any design furnished at short notice." We'd certainly hope so.
For vacationers merely needing a boost after 51 weeks of hard labor, there was a choice of druggists including D.R. Reed, a "pharmaceutical chemist" at 42 Main Street, whose ad called "your attention to Crosby's Cholera, Cough and Dyspepsia Drops...for which we are Agents."
Apparently D.R. was into a lot more than dyspepsia cures: Last month, my husband Dave found a handwritten affidavit in a local antiques shop, signed by a man named Charles Case on June 29, 1884 in front of city attorney John F. Hawkins.
In it, Mr. Case described how he visited a certain seller of "hop beer" on Main Street named Fred Bilius (the spelling is a little unclear), who wrote him a "prescription" that he took to Reed's drugstore. There, Case received a half-pint of "intoxicating" whiskey for 35 cents - and returned to use the same "prescription" two more times.
There's no indication of how the case ended, but a year later Reed was still in business, advertising his more public restoratives in Smith's Directory.
As befitting a health-resort destination, Asbury Park also boasted a host of doctors, dentists and homeopathic physicians.
If none of them helped, ailing visitors could take one of two ferries - one from Heck Street and one from Emory Street - across Wesley Lake to visit Ocean Grove's Dr. E.L.M. Bristol who offered "medicated oxygenated air treatments."
Somewhat surprisingly, Ocean Grove also boasted a female graduate of the Boston University School of Medicine named Dr. Mary A. Garrison Pomeroy who had already been in practice for 10 years.
Once revived, vacationers could hit the Asbury Park beach, changing their clothes in one of 2,000 boardwalk dressing houses before grabbing a safety rope and wading out under the watchful eye of the "sturdy and reliable surf men."
For tourists, the biggest challenge must have been determining when Asbury Park's beach was actually open: Bathing hours unaccountably changed every day between July 1 and September 30, sometimes starting as early as 6 a.m. and ending as late as 8 p.m., with multi-hour breaks during the day.
And, yes, this was still three years before city founder James Bradley added so-called "commission hours" to limit the times when black visitors could access the beach.
Those not sufficiently discouraged by the 1882 wreck of the ship "Pliny" - still visible from the "somewhat peculiar" Fifth Avenue pavilion - could take a daily yacht trip on the ocean, and ladies and children were encouraged to travel on the "safe boating water" of the three picturesque lakes.
For those overcome with maritime zeal, Eames & Sons on Main Street ("at the head of Wesley Lake") would cheerfully rent or sell you a boat, and even store it for you over the winter.
Less watery diversions abounded: By 1885, Asbury Park boasted a 1,500 seat Educational Hall, an Opera House, and at least one skating rink.
Mrs. Helen M. Bradley presided over the Library Association of Asbury Park and Ocean Grove, while her husband James kept reins on the budget as treasurer.
Back then, the library boasted of "about 2,000 volumes, Museum of Natural Curiosities, Geological Specimens, etc.," and the Y.M.C.A. maintained reading rooms at the rear of the Mattison Avenue post office.
News hounds could also consult one of nine city papers ranging from The Daily Journal and The Daily Spray, to the weekly Christian at Home and James Bradley's own Artesian Weekly.
Those with non-literary tastes could join the Neptune Game and Game Fish Association (headquartered in Asbury Park) or one of several "secret societies" such as the Knights Templar or the International Order of Red Men. (This last organization was presided over by James H. Sexton, our versatile embalmer/florist.)
Asbury Park also offered a chapter of the Grand Army of the Republic, populated by Civil War veterans.
And, as the introduction to Smith's Directory cheerfully reassured potential visitors, "Rowdies are unknown, and the festive tramp avoids what to him is an unhealthy locality."
Coming up: A shopping spree in 1885 Asbury Park, and more about shuckers, kalsominers, and other career opportunities.
It was a sunny weekday in Asbury Park, and I was driving down the 600 block of Cookman Avenue, headed for...the bank? A Chamber of Commerce meeting? Back then, the only thriving business on that block was a ragtag barbershop whose in-and-out clientele was obviously scoring more than a haircut.
Almost every other building was locked down, boarded up, or literally collapsing in on itself, and the stench of mold was overpowering.
On that particular morning, I barely noticed the furiously pedaling bike rider up ahead - until a speeding black Mercedes sent him sprawling to the sidewalk. Within an instant, the Mercedes driver had leapt from his car and tackled his stunned victim.
"Where is it?" he demanded, yanking at his victim's clothes and slamming his head into the curb.
Panicked, I abandoned my car in the middle of the street. "Help! Someone call the police!" I yelled, but there was no one to hear.
"It's not worth it - you're going to kill him!" I pleaded, pulling futilely on the Mercedes driver's arm as he pummeled his victim's face into the sidewalk.
But he did not stop - even when a city trash truck rounded the corner and I begged them for help. I still remember looking up at them, and seeing them staring expressionlessly down at me, before the Mercedes driver hopped into his car and sped away.
Twenty minutes later, sitting on a curb surrounded by police cars, an ambulance and a knot of curious on-lookers, I couldn't stop cursing Asbury Park. After two years of playing Little Ms. Chamber-of-Commerce-Let's-Start-an-Art-Community, I hated the rotting buildings, the open corruption, and the sheer overwhelming meanness of the place.
And early the next morning - after a desolate evening at home - I went back, reopened our gallery and started all over again.
Eight years later, Cookman Avenue is a totally different place - lined with restaurants, galleries, antique shops and condos, and filled with friendly faces at all hours - because a group of people came together and just refused to give up.
I thought a lot about that day two weeks ago when I heard about the fatal daylight shooting on the city's West Side.
It wasn't the first time shots had been fired that week: By all accounts, it was the third - or even fourth - incident in three days. And, while City Manager Terry Reidy warned against knee jerk reactions, the truth is that incidents of gunfire are proliferating in Asbury Park this year - particularly in the long-neglected West Side area south of Asbury Avenue and west of Memorial Drive.
What's going on? In the days following the shooting, the mayor correctly pointed out that gun violence is spreading all over America. But that doesn't make it inevitable, here or anywhere else, as New York City's successful "zero tolerance for crime" program proved a few years ago.
Even in Asbury Park, former Police Director Lou Jordan completely eliminated the spontaneous, violent (and totally misnamed) "Greekfest" during his first summer here with some ingenious behind-the-scenes strategies and no shots fired.
There are some good signs, of course: In recent years, city police officers have been forced to use their own cell phones, both to avoid being overheard by drug dealers using Radio Shack scanners and to avoid being caught in dangerous "dead zones" where police radios won't work. The city council recently appropriated funds for a long-overdue, modern communications system that the city manager says will be in operation by year's end.
Asbury Park also has new allies in key places: A few years ago, a territorial county prosecutor reportedly delayed a federal Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) task force for Asbury Park by six months. The current county prosecutor, Luis Valentin, was hired from U.S. Attorney Chris Christie's staff, and his new chief of detectives is Michael Pasterchick, Jr. - the very man who headed that successful DEA task force.
We can only hope that the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms is also in Asbury Park now, tracking the guns to their source - most likely beyond New Jersey's borders, where our own officers can't travel.
Still, several veteran police officers recently described the city's crime strategy as "reactive" and even Mayor Kevin Sanders told the press that, "Our cops are in dire need of some help." That help, I firmly believe, must come primarily from the mayor, the city council and the city manager.
Foremost on their list should be filling the vital (and currently vacant) police director spot with a nationally recognized expert in gun, gang and drug control - someone with close contacts to federal agencies who can help us obtain additional officers, equipment and back-up support. Someone - and this is key - who can command the respect of both city residents and area criminals.
Where could we find such a candidate? As a longtime city policeman recently suggested, the office of Chris Christie - New Jersey's highly effective U.S. Attorney - would be the perfect source for a top-notch candidate untouched by local and state politics.
Equally vital, the council and city manager must actively support the new director - not only against city hall and police department politics, but against the pubic and private shenanigans of the state police chief's association that made our last director's tenure a needless challenge. (And, yes, I do believe that Mark Kinmon is a solid choice as deputy chief.)
Asbury Park also needs additional police. I've been told that our five "special" officers lack only two weeks' training (and the blessing of the state's civil service department) to become full-fledged officers. If they are willing, it's time to get them there. It's also time to identify a new crop of qualified candidates to send to the January police academy class.
Finally, it's definitely time for the key players at city hall, the school system, and the Asbury Park Housing Authority to overcome their longtime antipathy toward working together. If they do, the community will follow.
Last month's fatal shooting was a wake-up call - to Asbury Park and to the larger world watching us. City residents, business owners and investors must insist that city hall acts now to ensure that citywide revitalization is not derailed, particularly in a weakening real estate market. (And, yes, I would hope that our major redevelopers - both on and off the beachfront - would support that effort with their checkbooks.)
No one seeing Cookman Avenue for the first time today could imagine how it looked and felt that day in 1998. By being proactive now, city hall can ensure that, in the years ahead, last month's events are just as unfathomable.
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