Mom vs. Deer in Totowa: What Would You Do?

This is the redevelopment project adjacent to Echo Glen in May 2019:
 paved roads, a power station, expanses of dirt -- no trees.

My elderly, widowed mother is fighting her own Battle of Winterfell -- and she needs our help.

Call it The Battle of Echo Glen, which is a residential subdivision of Totowa, NJ, that abuts a formerly abandoned asylum.

Unlike the fictional "Game of Thrones" blood fest, this combat is real and began quite innocently. It has evolved into a story of pinwheels and soap flakes.

Our noble quest? Protect the flowers in Mom's beloved garden.

Here's the story of how we arrived at this desperate place.

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"Bobby," said Mom on the phone several months ago, "there are reindeer visiting me in the backyard!"

Her voice was breathless, full of awe and wonder. One deer, a buck with regal antlers, seemed to her a particularly magical sight.

The Developmental Center main entrance in 2016.

I can't be precise about the date of this call, but it was likely around June 2018, after construction began to level the North Jersey Developmental Center, a 188-acre compound of buildings permanently closed in 2014.

I've written about this abandoned asylum before.

This center had opened in 1928, preceding Echo Glen's construction by 30 years. Originally called the North Jersey Training School, by 1953 the center served 625 women with neuro-developmental disorders and included a 275-bed nursery, making it the only one in the state that housed children. The total of residents dwindled over the years, numbering 190 before the center was shuttered.

Last May, 35 buildings on the site were demolished to make way for a 257,000-square-foot data center for J.P. Morgan, a 590,000-square-foot assisted living facility, a medical office, a research and development facility, and associated parking lots.

This demolition was the opening salvo of The Battle of Echo Glen, since it was followed by the leveling and removal of countless trees. The woods there had not been cut or disturbed since the property was acquired in 1916, more than 90 years ago.

The Developmental Center main entrance in 2019.

On a recent Sunday, after a visit to Mom, I saw newly paved, open roads at the site, so I took a brief detour and was astounded by what I saw. There's now hardly a tree to be found. It's as if every square inch of the property is being developed, as the Boro of Totowa seeks as much ratable property tax income from the site as municipally possible.

When the trees disappeared here, displaced deer began foraging in neighboring Echo Glen.

As the months have passed, these deer have ruined my mother's prized garden and other plantings. This has left her heart-broken.

She is not a lone casualty, either. Deer infestation is now a constant source of chatter at the weekly Monday meetings of Totowa's senior group.

Neighbors have devised their own strategies to fight back. One popular tactic has been to shave cakes of mint-scented Irish Spring soap and scatter the flakes on leaves and branches.

Bottom branches chewed away; plastic ivy on the shed.
(And, yes, ironically, that's a decorative ceramic deer.)

Mom's weapons have ranged from inexpensively hopeful (installing twirling pinwheels from the Dollar Store in her garden to try to frighten the deer when the wind blows) to disappointingly costly (a monthly fee to have her lawn and garden sprayed with deer repellent, and to have deer droppings removed). Not to mention two strategically placed $69.95 solar-powered devices that are supposed to emit a deer-offending sound undetectable to humans.

All to no avail.

Families of deer routinely find gaps around the low fences in her neighborhood to feast on her garden. Along Mom's back fence, arborvitae branches have been neatly chewed clean from the ground to the jawline level of a deer. The natural green ivy that once graced Mom's back shed has been replaced with plastic green ivy she purchased at Hobby Lobby.

Mom's resolve is not broken, however. On a recent Monday she heard a rumor at the Totowa senior club that deer do not like the taste of vinca. She now intends to purchase an arsenal of these flowering plants at Home Depot to restore some color to her garden.

As Mother's Day 2019 approaches, I vow to better serve at the side of The Queen of Echo Glen and Protector of Her Realm as she fights this never-ending battle.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against deer. Can we all get along?

Laurel Grove Cemetery elk.

The Boro of Totowa has nothing against deer and other wildlife either:

• On the other side of town, local firefighters rescued a deer whose head had become stuck in the gates of Holy Sepulchre Cemetery on the eve of Halloween 2016.
• One of the most notable memorial sites at another nearby cemetery, Laurel Grove, features a large, majestic elk that overlooks Route 80.
• During a "Mother's Day Clean-Up" last week, well-wooded Laurel Grove (where Dad is buried) even issued this gentle reminder: "Please remember, resident deer live on the property and feed on flowers that are not deer-resistant."

The thing is, I love Mom more than I love deer, and more than Totowa loves deer. Also, I now fear that Mom might get bitten by a tic when she ventures out to try to repair her garden.

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So I'm enlisting your support.

What do you advise that we do in this situation?

Like Jon Snow, I'm struggling to do the right and honorable thing. I already know I can't save the trees. I just want to help Mom -- in fact, help all the residents of Echo Glen.

They deserve a better fate. All their property tax dollars saved by the massive redevelopment of a former asylum should not be spent instead on mint-scented soap, pinwheels, ultrasonic sound machines, vinca plants and deer repellent.

Mom's garden last year, before the war began.

Any suggestions?

In Memory of Anne Buckley

Anne M. Buckley, the retired editor-in-chief of Catholic New York, died April 23, 2019.

I've mentioned Anne here before, reprinting a column she wrote about the courtship and wedding of Bob and Nancy Varettoni.

Anne's reporting of it was typically wonderful, and I've previously bemoaned that since much of her career was in the pre-web days, much of her work can't be found online.

So I'm happy to report that, in Anne's memory, CNY editor John Woods is now reprinting a number of her Editor's Report columns on its website. (The photo here, by the-one-and-only Chris Sheridan, is the familiar one printed for years alongside her CNY columns.)

Here's "Two Fathers, Two Sons" about Steven McDonald, the hero NYC detective who was shot in Central Park and paralyzed from the neck down. And here's "The Double Standard" about the hot-button issue of religion and politics. 

I won't... I can't... recount the many accomplishments of this trail-blazing Catholic journalist, writer and editor. But there are many details in the obituary in The Star-Ledger, which also includes a full reprint of her CNY obituary.

Here's a personal insight, though:

With Nancy due to be out of town with our daughter last night, I had been debating how I would spend my evening alone. A few days ago, before Anne's death, I told Nancy that I might attend a concert by Dan Schutte, a popular composer of liturgical music who was scheduled to appear at a parish in Roseland, NJ.

Reading up on Dan, I discovered that he's an ex-Jesuit -- and that my favorite song of his, "Here I Am, Lord," has been characterized by some as a rebellious anthem. Which only makes me like the song even more.

So it did not surprise me that at the funeral Mass for Anne Buckley yesterday in Caldwell, NJ, we all stood to sing "Here I Am, Lord" as her casket was carried into St. Aloysius Church.

After Mass, Nancy and I spoke to former colleagues -- most who continued at CNY for years after us -- about Anne's lasting impact. In a Facebook Messenger group chat, some of us even recalled colorful phrases she had used in her columns when we all worked together more than 30 years ago: "As clean as a convent parlor..." "Like eggs on a Teflon pan..." "Delft-saucer eyes..."

Here's a 30-second snippet from the 10-minute memorial video posted by Prout Funeral Home. It features photos of Anne, later in her career, surrounded by awards and CNY colleagues:

Finally, here's another personal story:

When I originally posted Anne's column to mark Bob and Nancy Varettoni's 30th wedding anniversary, Nancy was uneasy about it. She told me something that I never knew: that when she told Anne she was going to marry me, Anne expressed reservations.

She thought Nancy could have done better.

As always, Anne was right about that too.

About Those Photos...

Today, I returned to Sacred Heart in Newark to take my 50th photo of a church in New Jersey. Below is a collage of all of them, all taken since last Easter. I've posted these, along with three churches from others, on Instagram at either @bvarphotos or @foundinnj.

Also last week, I posted the photo on top of this page on Facebook. It's about an exhibit I participated in as part of the Black Glass Gallery, which, according to its website (where you can view great photos from a collection of photographers), is...

"A dynamic, social media-based photography community. Founded in New Jersey, we gather weekly for meet-ups at locations that offer inspiring settings. We showcase the beauty we discover through our lenses on both Instagram and Facebook. A diverse and friendly group, we have varying levels of photography experience: amateurs; hobbyists; professionals. Follow us on our photographic journey and see the magic we capture."

Our second annual showcase opened earlier this month at the Middletown Arts Center (36 Church Street). It's available for viewing any time through April 26. Stop by if you're in the area... no tickets needed. All photos on display were taken at one of our meetups.

Here are the six photos I chose to exhibit, and a little bit about each.

This is my sentimental favorite because it's the from the first meetup I went on with the group, at Liberty State Park. I can thank the Snapseed HDR filter and the New York City skyline for this sleight of hand... since I'm clearly outmatched in photography skills by others in the group. A few months later, I was invited to display a large print of this on a wall near the men's room of a bar called The Iron Room in Atlantic City -- until it mysteriously disappeared one day. But that's OK. I like mysteries.

This is just a typical Jersey Shore sunset from the time we went to Island Beach State Park. The group had arranged for a bonfire, and some night photographers who escaped notice by packing fishing poles took great photos of the Milky Way. I got thrown off the island by a park ranger for not being a fisherman, who are the only people technically allowed in the park after dark. To me, this is a reminder that all "typical Jersey Shore sunsets" are beautiful. I also like the reminder that I wasn't jailed that evening!

I work a lot in Manhattan, so I felt I had the home field advantage during this meetup -- which featured a private tour of the Woolworth Building and a visit to The Oculus and surrounding neighborhood. While walking down the street, I turned to Suzanne, our intrepid leader, and quipped, "The photos here just take themselves!" -- before grabbing this reflective image with my iPhone.

This was in Princeton. I wandered away from the group and went into the chapel and up to the choir loft. I don't know if I was really supposed to be there. But this photo tells me I was.

This was in Brooklyn, in the DUMBO section, near the bridge. It was twilight, and the light was just right. Thank you, Brooklyn.

I wandered away from the group again one evening when we were in New York. Did I ever tell you? I love New York.

A Year of Inspiration in New Jersey

Yesterday, on my @foundinnj Instagram account, I posted a 52nd consecutive Sunday photo of a church in New Jersey.

You can see all 52 in this Google Photos folder, or by searching the #njchurcheverysunday hashtag in Instagram.

I was inspired to do this last April, after visiting Newark’s Cathedral Basilica of the Sacred Heart (pictured here). I had been taking photos at the Cherry Blossom Festival in nearby Branch Brook Park and took the opportunity to visit, for the first time, the church where Mom and Dad were married in 1955.

That magnificent church is one of New Jersey’s true treasures. Aesthetically, it rivals the cherry blossoms. My fascination with churches over the past year has centered around how the two things — one natural, one man-made — differ so radically.

The fleeting beauty of the cherry blossoms mirrors our lives. On Saturday, I attended a memorial service in Philadelphia for a work colleague, Joellen Brown, who I wrote about last week. On Sunday, I took Mom to place a palm wreath beside Dad’s gravestone in Totowa, NJ.

“I’m getting tired, Bob,” she said to the ground, not to me, for both our names are the same. “I want to go home.”

In real life, nothing lasts forever.

Meanwhile, our church buildings aspire to permanence, which is something unobtainable. No matter the religion, churches are monuments to longing and redemption and our innate belief that love lasts forever.

Next weekend, I plan to visit Branch Brook Park again and consider the fleeting beauty of the cherry blossoms. I also plan to visit Sacred Heart again, marvel at its architectural grandeur and existential folly, and say a prayer for Mom and Dad and Joellen.

This, I hope, will become an annual pilgrimage, as I seek just one more year of inspiration. Again and again and again.

In Bushwick, Where Everything Is Temporary

This mural is part of The Bushwick Collective, an outdoor gallery featuring works from some of the world's best street artists.

I visited there twice in 2016. After the first visit, I wrote about a work colleague who had died too young, Robin Flowers.

We had begun our PR careers together, and in 1987 we found ourselves stationed in Bushwick after a devastating fire had destroyed telephone service.

The defining characteristic of the place, even back then, was how temporary everything seemed.

One example: With our company under pressure to restore phone service quickly, our Marketing department had arranged for T-shirts for the workers on site that read, "We're working as fast as we can!" The grizzled operations executive leading the recovery efforts opened the first box of shirts and said, "We can’t use these!" -- since the phrase could mean the exact opposite in a unionized setting... a work-to-rule excuse. As soon as he uttered those words, our PR vice president grabbed the box from Robin's hands and hurled it into a nearby dumpster.

Revisiting Bushwick in 2016, I was struck by the area's change and revitalization in barely two decades. The once-impoverished community had become home to vibrant street art and commerce.

I carved Robin's initials into one wall there as a makeshift memorial -- my life's only attempt at street art. I was delighted and encouraged to find the "RF" still there a few months later when I returned to take photos on my own.

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Three years later -- last Saturday -- I returned to The Bushwick Collective a third time and saw that Robin's initials had long ago been painted over.

I was with a group of talented photographers from New Jersey's Black Glass Gallery, but I didn't have the heart to take many photos. The street art was just as compelling. Here's a site where you can see the great photos my friends took that day.

But me? Just hours earlier, I had learned that another work friend -- Joellen Brown -- had been been in an accident and was in an intensive unit in Philadelphia with a head injury.

I wandered aimlessly around Bushwick on my own, preoccupied with thoughts and prayers for Joellen, until I came to the corner of Johnson and Gardner.

There, I stopped in my tracks, and took photo after photo of the mural that accompanies this post. It's a work by Michel Velt, an urban artist from the Netherlands. The wavy-haired model, according to Michel's Instagram site, is Nathaly Smits.

It wasn't the mural's beauty that transfixed me. It was a rare sense of familiarity and recognition. When I returned home and compared my 2019 photos to my 2016 photos, I realized that this was the only mural that I had photographed in the neighborhood that had survived for three years.

That’s the thing about Bushwick. As beautiful and poignant and playful and life-affirming as the street art is, it is meant to be temporary. That's the point of it all. The murals here survive for six months, maybe a year... but then they are painted over... and the cycle begins again.

Nothing lasts forever.

In Bushwick, everything is temporary. Except maybe this mural.

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The very next morning, I learned that Joellen had died.

My friend was a wonderful writer, but sometimes there are no words.

I took this photo of Joellen when she visited Verizon offices in New Jersey around Christmas 2017, right before she retired, so that it might be included in "Verizon Untethered," a history that was published last spring. She's included in the acknowledgements: "Joellen Brown, part of the Verizon executive communications team for more than 30 years, helped to provide historical context and research materials. She also reviewed the text for accuracy multiple times."

She isn't listed as one of the book's authors. If you look back at any of the half dozen speeches she wrote that were published over the years in "Vital Speeches of the Day" (a prestigious monthly collection of the best speeches in the world), you won't find her name there either.

Instead, you'll find a transcript of Bell Atlantic executive Ray Smith at the Simon Wiesenthal Center in Los Angeles. In 1999, he talked about hate speech on the Internet. Joellen titled the speech, "Civility Without Censorship." She wrote: "Instead of fearing the Internet's reach, we need to embrace it -- to value its ability to connect our children to the wealth of positive human experience and knowledge... We need to fight destructive rhetoric with constructive dialogue -- hate speech with truth -- restrictions with greater access."

In 2010, at the Economic Club of Washington DC, Verizon executive Ivan Seidenberg used Joellen's words to sound more presidential than a real-life president: "We need accountable leaders in government, as well as in the business community, who reject the false choices between job creation or deficit reduction, growth or sustainability, serving consumers or investors, managing for the short term or the long term, being profitable or doing things right. Real leadership isn't about making false choices; it's about finding solutions to real problems."

In 2016, I asked Joellen to contribute a blog post to the fledgling website of the New Jersey Chapter of the IABC (International Association of Business Communicators). She readily agreed, and what a treat it is to have a record of Joellen's observations about speechwriting in her own words. That post has been widely re-distributed in the PR community, and you can read it here.

Here too is more of Joellen in her own words, speaking about her endowment to Ohio Wesleyan University in honor of her sister.

If you want a sense of her life, please read her obituary in The Philadelphia Inquirer, which includes loving detail provided by her good friend, our former colleague Jay Grossman.

If you want to make a meaningful difference in Joellen's memory, please consider donating to Philadelphia Young Playwrights.

Finally, if you are looking for life lessons, I urge you to visit The Bushwick Collective. You will be reminded there, amid all the beauty and the chaos, that nothing lasts forever. There is no refuge in art. And sometimes there are no words.

The only thing that may transcend time is our impact on the lives of others after we are gone.

This is how Joellen Brown will be long-remembered.

16 Poems for World Poetry Day

Dorothy meets Christina. Used with permission: www.Laurenbee.com 

I once dreamed of a poem and wrote it down within minutes upon waking.

Once. It was a magical experience, and it happened when I was in college.

I immediately submitted it to The Juggler, Notre Dame's literary publication, and it was immediately rejected. Undaunted, I convinced a night editor to let me publish it as classified ad in The Observer, Notre Dame's student newspaper.

This proved even more magical, as it caught the attention of someone who has since become a lifelong friend.

"The Wizard of Oz" was her favorite movie. In addition, and having nothing to do with the poem, "Christina's World" was her favorite painting.

So when I recently saw an image of Dorothy in Andrew Wyeth's world on Lauren Bee's Instagram site, I thought of my friend... and I thought of my poem... and I thought I should share it and several others here in honor of World Poetry Day.

UNESCO (the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) proclaimed March 21 as such in 1999. Perhaps because it's the first full day of spring, but also because "poetry reaffirms our common humanity by revealing to us that individuals, everywhere in the world, share the same questions and feelings."

What follows are 16 original poems: six in free verse, five sonnets and five haikus (accompanied by original photos). Some poems date back to Notre Dame when, emboldened by "For Dorothy," I enrolled in Sonia Gernes' class in poetry writing.

One even references old-fashioned news print, in homage to The New York Daily News, which  my Dad arranged to have delivered to my dorm room, so I wouldn't be homesick in Indiana.

"Ford to City: Drop Dead" read The News' most famous headline during that era. Bob Brink, son of the editor who wrote that headline, was the night editor at The Observer who allowed me to print "For Dorothy."

As it turns out, I don't need anyone's permission to print my poems anymore. Enjoy.

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For Dorothy

Salem in Oz.
A witch burns slowly
in the wicked west,
melting like the frost
in the early Kansas sun.

The tin man is crying,
the lion is scared,
and they’ve auctioned
the tigers and bears.
Oh my,

Dorothy,
there's no place like home;
there's no place like home.
I never meant to be this far from you --
alone.

Sonnet 1

There's something in the air, or so they say.

It's certainly not magic or the heat.

It's just the moon, white-full and young -- the way,

like water, people splash and spill beneath.

And you and I remind me of the tides.

We hate and love; we rise and fall. It scares

me that I don't know why or that I find

no fault in us, just something in the air.

So still above us rests the moon, content

and seemingly unmoved. It doesn't hate

or love; it doesn't care -- without relent,

without a passing judgment of our fate.

The moonlight falls like smoke between the mist.

What fools we are compared to such as this.

Haiku (Rutgers Gardens)

Captured, brown and green,

We hold hands in bright colors,

And head for the light.

Lullaby

(For C and M - revised 2/1/20)

I'm so very tired of you,
of your, excuse the expression, baby blue eyes;
your self-satisfied coo;
and innocence, unproved.
I don't know what to do anymore
with your needles and sins enough for two.

I hate this room,
the way the bears in the shadows
hide their claws and teeth,
and stare at me --
silent, stuffed and vaguely amused.
Like you.

Honey, they have their sights set on you.
One by one by one, they're waiting for you.
They'll creep from their lairs,
and adjust to the moon.
Then slip into your shoes,
and eat your food.

Sleep soundly, love, amid the gloom.
I’m bound to stay in this room ‘til you wake,
fulfilling our mutual fate.
Taking shards from the break of day,
I will threaten the bears
with their ruin.

So, say what you won't and cry what you will:
But what would you do without me?
And I – without you?

Sonnet 2

Adam was a madman; and Paradise,

a fraud. In only this do I believe:

the rhythm of your constancy. Oh Christ,

your eyes alone can prove infinity.

It is your love that has unraveled all.

You haunt my sleep. One moment, I balance

with stars beneath my feet. The next, I fall

from you, toward earth -- my dream, a graceless dance.

Before I land, my senses gain control.

Awake, alone, I fear the rustling sound

of insubstantial leaves, like wind-swept souls.

My heart (alive or dead?) seems strangely bound.

This is the slow, uneven beat of Hell:

I have loved you always, but never well.

Haiku (Citi Field)

Rain at dusk in Queens.

Exploding sky to the west.

Gatsby in New York.

Funny Papers

I love you, Brenda Starr.

I love the here and there of your eyes

in the wrinkles of the morning light.

I love your red hair,

and the precise curve of your thighs.

How easily I can read your mind.

I love you, Brenda Starr.

I love the taste of the crumb-shaped freckles

sprinkled sloppily upon your arms.

I love the trace of your wet, warm, coffee-stained parts…

the sticky feel of your colorful Sunday clothes…

your thin and dirty weekday black and whites.

I love you, Brenda Starr.

Your bloodless heart.

I love the tell-tale smell of you on my fingertips

and how, on everything I touch,

you leave your mark.

Sonnet 3

(11 Roses for N)

Alas, alack, I have to disagree

with Shakespeare: my love is rare -- her hair red,

like an Irish setter's, and her eyes green,

the envy of the cat beneath my bed.

I see, in her reflective gaze, nine lives --

defying death (despite devout clichés),

perchance to live forever in this rhyme.

Her form belies my unpoetic ways.

If God's Own eye is something like the sun,

then true love is a flower, I propose.

And my love is a dozen, minus one.

Imperfectly inscrutable: one rose,

one rose, one rose, one rose, one rose, one rose,

one rose, one rose, one rose, one rose, one rose.

Found Haiku

Art all around me.

Fading reveals the beauty,

and rust never sleeps.

12 Weeks in a Playground

Around the world in 84 days,

over and back around.

There's nothing to do; there's nothing to do

on a hot afternoon in New Haven.

On a hot afternoon, a single balloon

is passing the day, floating away --

around the world day after day,

lost in the sounds of the crowd.

It's always the same; it's always the same.

The children are laughing,

while I go insane.

Odyssey in Newark

A siren on a stage

sings soft jazz to the slow lights,

while Odysseus bides his time

with ladies who sip daiquiris.

The syncopated piano

has a distant sound.

There are no memories here.

No one is homeward bound.

Sonnet 4

A never-ending whisper in my dreams

belies my vane attempts at normalcy --

fluttering wings or muffled, distant screams.

Intimate shades of tone, the source unseen.

And yet, this is no disembodied sound.

I recognize some element of pain.

I sense an urgency the darkness shrouds --

an outstretched arm, perhaps… It's you again.

I almost feel your breath upon my face.

I almost see your form beside my bed.

At dawn I find this ghost has been erased,

and wonder fills my silent hours instead.

What alchemy has turned our love to fear?

What god is this that only I can hear?

Haiku That Begins a Suburban Trilogy

Backyard trees peering

over the fence, judging me,

like nosy neighbors.

A Tale of New Jersey 

I summon you tonight, Evangeline.

As I behold the passage of time

In the breath of the bone-chilling cold. 

My old black dog.

Cloudy-eyed, shedding,

Struggles to her feet and

Shuffles to my side. 

I scratch her dry nose,

And open the back porch door,

Exposing the darkness.

The crack in my bones. 

Come, Evangeline,

Hear the scuttling of time.

The claws of the moments we lost.

My words in the bone-chilling cold. 

I long for the warmth of our souls.

I mourn for the warmth of our souls. 

Sonnet 5

I have encased my soul in tempered glass,

displayed it on the mantel in our home.

The frame collects the dust beside a vase

of silk flowers embed in Styrofoam.

Beneath this centerpiece, a hungry fire,

timer-controlled, heats wood that doesn't burn.

The warmth is real, and I am safe. Desire

consumed, I wait alone for love's return.

Then in you walk... Alarms trip. Cats take flight

and lose several lives. A fake church bell sounds.

You flip the light. Night is day; day is night.

Hamlet, without doubt; Ophelia, undrowned.

My kingdom would be bound in a nutshell,

if not for you: our lives, suburban hell.

Three Haikus Walk Into a Bar...*

The first orders beer.

The second, a sparkling water.

The third poem stays dry.

* Special thanks to my friend, the great and powerful Jason Moriber. He led a group of us on a pub crawl of literary Manhattan bars, including the White Horse Tavern, on the eve of The Ides of March. May we not go gentle into that good night.

Also, shameless plug, here's a short story I once posted here.

Finding Religion in Jersey City (Part 2)

St. Lucy's on Grove Street in Jersey City.

Related post: "Finding Religion in Jersey City."

After visiting Art Fair 14C (so named as a nod to the “what exit?” NJ joke about the Turnpike and Parkway) in Jersey City yesterday, I wanted to take the obligatory photo of Eduardo Kobra’s David Bowie mural on Jersey Avenue.

Nearby, I noticed a beautiful church tower. So I turned the corner to add to my #NJchurcheverySunday Instagram collection. It was St. Lucy’s, now abandoned, with plywood covering its lower windows. Built in 1884, the church closed in the 1980s, and its former school next door is now a homeless shelter.

Listed as one of Preservation New Jersey’s 10 Most Endangered Historic Structures in the state, St. Lucy’s might normally be in danger of demolition, especially since the US Supreme Court recently refused to hear a dispute over whether local NJ government can award publicly-funded historic preservation grants to churches.

But there’s a plan, also recently approved, to revitalize the area, construct a new homeless shelter and preserve the church.

That would be a welcome miracle, and maybe we have St. Jude to thank. A shrine to the patron saint of hopeless causes also still stands outside St. Lucy's.

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PS - Nearly five years ago, when I started my Instagram account, I posted this photo of a statue of St. Lucy at Our Lady of Pompeii Church on Bleecker Street in Manhattan. There was no explanation of the image, in which the saint holds a platter bearing two eyeballs.

So, finally, to explain: According to church legend, St. Lucy's eyes were gauged out but God gave her new eyes. So she's the patron saint of the blind. In some versions of this story, St. Lucy plucked out her own eyes and gave them to a suitor who praised their beauty; in other versions, her eyes were removed by persecutors.

Nighttime at the Hoboken Terminal

A part of New Jersey's history quietly turned 112 in late February: stately Hoboken Terminal, in all its Beaux Arts beauty.

When I visited late last week on a cold late-winter's night, the place and its surroundings were practically deserted -- which only enhanced its charm.

Trains and train stations inspire art and romance. Here are a just a few links to some examples:

• the best railway poems
• the best musical pieces inspired by trains
• photos of empty train stations

And here's a more expansive written tour of Hoboken Terminal -- and a detailed NJ Transit publication about the terminal on the occasion of its 100th anniversary.

Finally, here are some images from my visit the other night. As poet Archibald Lampman wrote: "The darkness brings no quiet here; the light no waking."

View of New York City from the adjacent ferry terminal.

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This is a reflection of me on the PATH from NYC to Hoboken... and a photo from the late train home. I post New Jersey-specific images (almost) daily on Instagram at www.instagram.com/foundinnj and on Tumblr at bvar.tumblr.com. Follow me there. I'll follow you back... if you're a real-life, generally fully-clothed person. I also post at www.instagram.com/bvarphotos (where I try my best to use what I learn from my photography friends at Black Glass Gallery), and you can find me on Twitter for posts about work, tech, baseball, books, writing and the occasional penguin at www.twitter.com/bvar.

A Month in New Jersey (February 2019)

I 💓 Tumblr.

It's quirky, and sometimes beautiful and provocative, and often -- at least until the end of last year -- NSFW.

The most SFW site on the platform is "Found in New Jersey," which I've been curating for some time. Mostly, I post my own local photography, or repost other local photographers... and sprinkle in some interesting NJ-focused lifestyle stories from NJ.com or posts from other Tumblrs I 💓, such as The History Girl or New Jersey Gothic.

Looking back at past months, I often think about creating an interactive, multimedia site called "A Year in New Jersey." But then the days pass quickly, and I never do.

So here's a start: five of the most-liked "Found in New Jersey" posts from the shortest month of the year. The first two are related to Valentine's Day, my favorite holiday of the month. The others are just... quirky.

If you like what you see, I invite you to stop by my Tumblr page some day and say hi. Until then...

https://bvar.tumblr.com/post/182817444208/romance-in-clifton-nj-at-the-barrow-house

https://bvar.tumblr.com/post/182803967518/tbt-youve-got-a-heart-so-big-it-could-crush

https://bvar.tumblr.com/post/182905558038/independent-social-club-reads-the-sign-behind

https://bvar.tumblr.com/post/182567077453/where-is-this-rural-scene-its-in-a-city-park-in

https://bvar.tumblr.com/post/183062502238/last-mural-at-an-art-supply-store-forced-to