By Richard Mabey Jr.

Back in the far etched memories of the deepest caverns of heart and mind lies another time, another place. For myself and my endearing neighborhood friends, a most deep and powerful truth was granted unto us, at such an early time in life. For it was in late August of 1967, that the good Lord showed me all I had to be thankful for, all I had to be utmost grateful for. It was an endearing spiritual lesson, unfolded before my very eyes, that to this very day, still looms a most eerie and haunting quality in the deepest chords of my very heart.

To say that we were all neighborhood friends, does not quite define it. For the four of us were more like brothers. For in truth, we shared a spiritual closeness that even most brothers are not quite acquainted with. It was the romantic era, the days of innocence, the summer of all for one and one for all. We would play baseball in the old back field, at the end of Mabey Lane, for hours and hours. We rode our bicycles down Main Street, for the mile-long ride, just to buy a bottle of Dad’s Root Beer and a Snickers bar at Moe’s Sweet Shop. We camped out in each other’s backyards. We explored Hook Mountain, just south of Route 202. We fell in love with the same neighborhood girls. We walked the wooded path to the old Morris Canal. We cut the palms of our hands and pressed them together to become blood brothers of the wind, the earth, the moon and the sun. But it was in late August of 1967, that a sacred moment of truth came to us all, from which our lives would never quite be the same. 

My cousin Edward, lived right next to me in the carriage house along Mabey Lane. Sadly, it no longer remains. George Yost lived right across the street from me, along historic Route 202. And, Joey lived to the left-hand side of George. We were all relatively close in age, we were all filled with a love for life, a sense of adventure, and our hearts were filled with all of the longing, desire, and exhilaration to experience all that life could grant us. And now it was late August, the magical time of Summer would soon fade from us, and we would have to face the drudgery of classrooms, teachers, white chalk on blackboards, homework, and the bullies of the schoolyard. But for now, this moment, we still had the few remaining days of late August to cherish and bask in, beneath the sweltering sun.

Jose Hernandez was a part of the larger circle of our neighborhood gang. He was one of a good dozen boys, to whom the core four were friends with, but to whom we never let be known the sacred, secret handshake of the core four. We were always kind and cordial to the rest of the neighborhood boys, but we instinctively knew that the brotherhood of the core four, could be watered down by being extended out to too many others.

We knew very little about Jose. None of us knew him from school. Jose carried with him, a certain mystical, mysterious quality that for the most part, remained unspoken. When we played baseball at the backfield at the end of Mabey Lane, Jose would come running from the path in the northern woods and just join in with us. Jose never had his own baseball glove, so he would borrow one of ours, when it was our team’s turn to be at bat. 

Jose spoke broken English. He taught us some words in Spanish. We all assumed that he lived in Towaco, across the canal, across the railroad tracks. We all figured that he lived in the apartments that once abounded at the end of Bellows Lane. There was a certain unspoken rule of kiddom of the 1960’s that you just didn’t ask a fellow kid, a thousand and one questions.

It came upon us in the early morning of late August 1967. Jose told us that his mom was cooking chicken enchiladas for lunch. Jose told us that he had told his mom all about his wonderful friends, who lived in Lincoln Park. Jose always referred to us as his “friends who lived in Lincoln Park.” It’s the main reason that we assumed that he lived in the apartments at the end of Bellows Lane. At any rate, Jose told us that his mom had invited us all to have lunch with him and his mom. We were all elated. None of us had ever had enchiladas before. In fact, we had no idea what they were!

So, without further ado that morning, we chose up sides for yet another baseball game. We played ball until the town whistle blew, announcing that high noon had arrived. And, then Jose, led us down the wooded path to the old Morris Canal. When we reached the canal, Jose led us to make a left along the canal path, heading west, to the border of Towaco and Lincoln Park. There in the midst of the woods along the canal, just to the west of the remains of Incline Plane Ten East, was the sighting that would change our lives. 

Jose led us to a village of sorts. This forested village was a clearing filled with tents and make-shift wooden shacks. Despite all of our adventurous sojourns to the old Morris Canal, we had never walked this far to the west. Most of the time we walk the path to the easterly direction to end up on Beaverbrook Road. 

Jose led us to his wooden shack. It was a small, wood-framed home, that seemed to have been built in less than a day. Outside, Jose’s mom was cooking the chicken for the enchiladas in a big, black, cast-iron skillet above an open flame. The heavy skillet rested upon four cinder blocks, all strategically placed to balance the big skillet. 

There were old folding chairs abounding in the area. Two old card tables served as the dining room table. Jose’s mother spoke little English. But enough so that we could understand her. And, when we could not grasp what she was saying, Jose would be her interpreter. The four of us sat at the two chipped and worn card tables, with Jose and his mom. 

Jose and his mom explained that Jose’s dad was a migrant farm worker, working at one of the local farms. After lunch, we all most properly thanked Jose’s mother for making lunch for us. Then Jose explained that he had to help his mom clean up, but that he would be up to play ball with us later on. We all left the little encampment. 

We then walked the easterly canal path to the point where we would head up through the forest path, to our open field. We all said very little, as we walked the forest path. The sorrow in our hearts, loomed like the haunting aura of clouds passing by a full moon. 

We were never to be the same again. We all held an unspoken tide of compassion for Jose, from that time on. In September of 1967, I started my freshman year at Boonton High School. Eddie, Joey, and George were all soon to complete their days of attending middle school. We never formally said goodbye to Jose. He just seemed to fade from our lives, before the first snowfall came upon us that winter. None of us were ever to see Jose again. 

Richard Mabey Jr. is a freelance writer. He can be reached at richardmabeyjr@hotmail.com. Please put on the subject line: My Life Publications.