The Plaza Hotel (built 1927) in Camden, New Jersey, is no more.
Heavy equipment started work on razing the building on Tuesday, February 25. The demolition crew anticipates leveling the site in a few weeks.
A local member of the Camden County Historical Society calls the building’s demise another case of demolition by neglect, blaming absentee owners for the loss.
According to an article in the Philadelphia Inquirer, “The seven-floor brick hotel in its heyday featured a German dining room and live music in the ballroom. Its proximity to the RCA recording studio made it a common place for visiting musicians to stay.”
Which valentine to share?
I decided on hearts AND flowers.
First, I selected one of the earliest in my grandfather’s collection. These two cherubs apparently want you to know that time is of the essence in letting your valentine know how you feel! “Valentine Greeting”
Shamrocks float through the air to bring you luck and forget-me-nots surround the clockface, where the hands mark the time as twelve. (On the other side, the postmark on the one penny Benjamin Franklin stamp indicates it was mailed at twelve noon on February 13, 1908 from Fairhill Station in Philadelphia.)
The card, printed in Germany, was addressed to Master Paul White, Tylersport Post Office, Pa. and sent by “Wm. Mergner”
I also couldn’t resist sharing this rose and horseshoe postcard. The graphic quality appealed to me, and was such a contrast to the busy floral sweetness of the Valentine Greetings cupid card.
The text says;
Business Improvement Asso’n Carnival of Camden, 1908
Compliments of Anthony Kobus & Sons, Boots and Shoes, Fourth and Spruce Streets, Established 1858
On the other side “Pub by Philadelphia Postal Card Co., in Germany.” It was never mailed, so was perhaps hand-delivered when the Whites visited with the Belz family of Camden.
I was curious about Anthony Kobus & Sons and did a little digging. The Shoe Retailer and Boots and Shoes Weekly (Vol. 55, No. 6, Boston, Wednesday, August 23, 1905) highlights all the news that’s fit to print in exciting shoe and boot doings. In the Camden, N.J. section Kobus lands the lead story.
Anthony Kobus & Sons An Enterprising Firm of Shoe Retailers – Their Magnificent Store
Anthony Kobus & Sons, dealers in boots, shoes and rubbers, 409-11 Spruce Street, Camden, N.J., gave to each of their customers a beautiful fan during the recent hot spell. The fans were decorated on one side with roses and heads of beautiful women lithographed in colors. This firm have a magnificent big store, light and roomy, with separate departments for the sale of men’s and women’s shoes. The show windows are paved with tiling, and the shoes are displayed on stands of natural wood bases. Some have metal uprights and beveled glass tops. The women’s and children’s window has a decorated steel ceiling and the styles are shown on pyramid stands with circular glass shelves, growing smaller toward the top. Many electric light bulbs add brilliancy at night.
Here is what the Camden address looks like today.
I had some unexpected time off in October, while Congress debated and filibustered. I started a project I called “Furlough Mail” which had the advantages of giving me something to do, depleting a trove of vintage postcards looking for places to go, and supporting the struggling United States Postal Service. Oh, and friends who responded to the Facebook post also received something other than bills and window replacement coupons in their mailboxes!
I’ve seen articles in respected publications about the state of letter writing in the world today. Is it a lost art? Is it making a comeback? I can tell you that one thing that hasn’t changed is the smile prompted when receiving a piece of mail with a person you know at the other end. It creates a connection. You hold it in your hands, perhaps more than once, and are pleased that the person remembered you and you are reminded of the past, times you once had. Even if you print out an email, it never really accomplishes all that.
In the early part of the 20th century, my grandfather’s cousins made sure that he would have some mail of his own, a smile, a memory of their last visit. They’d send a glimpse of the great big world to the small boy living on a country mill. He saved them all.
I’m sharing this one from 1909 with you — Uncle Sam sitting down to tuck in to a Thanksgiving turkey. (I guess that’s before the idea of pardoning turkeys at the White House came along….)
What was going on in 1909? Taft was president. British explorer Ernest Shackleton reached the South Pole, while later in the year Robert Peary and Matthew Henson reached the North Pole. Workers started pouring concrete for the Panama Canal. And to mail this postcard from Camden, New Jersey, to rural Greenlane, Pennsylvania, Cousin Violet licked a one cent stamp featuring Benjamin Franklin’s profile and placed it on the back of the card.
This year, I’m still thankful for the thing and people I outlined in this post — “I’d like to give thanks, and you should, too”
My Edgar Allan Poe-ka dot shout-out to Halloween and historic preservation
It’s an oldie, but a goodie. If you’ve been following this blog for more than a year, this post will seem familiar. But I think it’s good to revisit old classics from time to time, especially on special occasions. Enjoy this building-centric excerpt from Ray Bradbury’s The Halloween Tree.
Happy Halloween to one and all! Stay safe out there!
“There,” he whispered. “There’s the only house in town worth visiting on Halloween! There!”
“Yeah!” said everyone.
For it was true. The house was special and fine and tall and dark. There must have been a thousand windows in its sides, all shimmering with cold stars. It looked as if it had been cut out of black marble instead of timbers, and inside? Who could guess how many rooms, halls, breezeways, attics. Superior and inferior attics, some higher than others, some filled with dust and webs and ancient leaves or gold buried above the ground in the sky but lost away so high that no ladder in town could take you there.
The house beckoned with its towers, invited with its gummed-shut doors. Pirate ships are a tonic. Ancient forts are a boon. But a house, a haunted house, on All Hallow’s Eve? Eight small hearts beat up an absolute storm of glory and approbation.
But they were already crowding up the path. Until they stood at last by a crumbling wall, looking up and up and still farther up to the great tombyard on top of the old house. For that’s what it seemed. The high mountain peak of the mansion was littered with what looked like black bones or iron rods, and enough chimneys to choke out smoke signals from three dozen fires on sooty hearths hidden far below in the dim bowels of this monster place. With so many chimneys, the roof seemed a vast cemetery, each chimney signifying the burial place of some old god of fire or enchantress of steam, smoke and firefly spark. Even as they watched a kind of bleak exhalation of soot breathed up out of some four dozen flues, darkening the sky still more and putting out some few stars.
“Boy,” said Tom Skelton. “Pipkin sure knew what he was talking about!”
“Boy,” said all, agreeing.
They crept along the weed-infested path toward the crumpled front porch.
Tom Skelton alone itched his boney foot on the first porch step. The others gasped at his bravery. So, now, finally in a mob, a compact mass of sweating boys moved up on the porch amid fierce cries of planks underfoot, and shudderings of their bodies. Each wished to pull back, swivel about, run, but found himself trapped against the boy behind, or in front, or to the side. So with a pseudopod thrust out here or there, the amoebic form, the large perspiration of boys leaned and made a run and a stop to the front door of the house which was as tall as a coffin and twice as thin.
They stood there for a long moment, various hands reaching out like the legs of an immense spider as if to twist that cold knob or reach for the knocker on that front door. Meanwhile, the wooden floorings of the porch sank and wallowed beneath their weight, threatening at every shift of proportion to give way and fling them into some cockroach abyss beneath. The planks, each tuned to an A, or an F, or a C rang out their uncanny music as heavy shoes scraped on them. And if there had been time and it were noon, they mght have danced a cadaver’s tune or a skeleton’s rigadoon, for who can resist an ancient porch which, like a gigantic xylophone, only wants to be jumped on to make music?
But they were not thinking this.
Henry-Hank Smith (for that’s who it was) hidden inside his black witch’s costume, cried: “Look!”
And all looked at the knocker on the front door. Tom’s hand trembled out to touch it.
“A Marley knocker!”
“You know, Scrooge and Marley? A Christmas Carol?” whispered Tom.
And indeed the face that made up the knocker on the door was the face of a man with a dread toothache, his jaw bandaged, his hair askew, his teeth prolapsed, his eyes wild. Dead-as-a-doornail Marley, friend to Scrooge, inhabitor of lands beyond the grave, doomed to walk this eearth forever until…
“Knock,” said Henry-Hank.
Tom Skelton took hold of Marley’s cold and grizzly jaw, lifted it, and let it fall.
All jumped at the concussion!
The entire house shook.
Its bones bound to ground together. Shades snap-furled up so that windows blinked wide their ghastly eyes. Tom Skelton cat-leaped to the porch rail, staring up. On the rooftop, weird weathercocks spun. Two-headed roosters whirled in the sneezed wind. A gargoyle on the western rim of the house erupted with twin snorts of rain-funnel dust. And down the long shaking serpentine rainspouts of the house, after the sneeze had died and the weathercocks ceased spinning, vagrant whisps of autumn leaf and cobweb fell gusting out onto the dark grass.
Tom whirled to look at the faintly shuddering windows. Moonlit reflections trembled in the glass like schools of disturbed silver minnows. Then the front door gave a shake, a twist of its knob, a grimace of its Marley knocker and flung itself wide. The wind made by the suddenly opened door almost knocked the boys off the porch. They seized one another’s elbows, yelling. Then the darkness within the house inhaled. A wind sucked throughthe gaping hole. It pulled at the boys, dragging them across the porch. They had to lean back so as not to be snatched into the deep, dark hall. They struggled, shouted, clutched the porch rails. But then the wind ceased.
Darkness moved within darkness.
The excerpt spooked its way here from The Halloween Tree, by Ray Bradbury
Photo by Sabra Smith and was originally Henry Mercer’s Fonthill before it became the House o’ Haunts.
Our summer expedition took us to the Adams National Historical Park in Quincy, Massachusetts. The site includes the birthplaces of two presidents: John Adams (second President of the United States) and John Quincy Adams (sixth president). And, just as Abigail would have demanded, the interpretation remembers the ladies and tells the stories of the savvy women behind the men. Visitors also meander through “Peace Field” — the home John Adams retired to following his presidency, and home to four generations of the Adams family.
The teenager rating? He says that he learned a lot and was amazed by the Adams family’s long legacy of public service and scholarship. The visit changed his estimation of John Adams and his descendants. He was impressed by Peace Field and feeling of experiencing the many generations who lived there through the objects, the changing technologies, and the stories about the individuals.
It was one of the most muggy of summer days and we were thrilled to discover air conditioning inside the library barn. Don’t leave the structure without finding out the secret of the tile floor.