A Tale of Two Newburghs

The house at 297 Grand Street is approximately 100 yards from the intersection of Grand and Clinton. Turn right or left and you will find two different worlds.

 

If you turn to the left, a very short block brings you Montgomery Street with its long stretch of historic architecture in varying stages of restoration and/or decay.  Glimpsed between the houses, stunning views of the Hudson.  These buildings are all that remains of what was once an expensive swath of 19th century architecture. The urban "renewal" wrecking ball, which arrived in the 1970’s and demolished entire blocks of such structures -- along with the community that lived in them. These historic landmarks were replaced them with bland-looking low-rise projects and grassy knolls affording no particular charm or utilitarian value. According to local folklore, the destruction would have continued down the entire street, but a local woman lay down in front a bulldozer and brought the demolition to a halt. 

 

When you first reach Montgomery Street, the building on your right is the elegantly neo-classical Captain David Crawford House, built for a wealthy sea captain in 1830.  It serves as the headquarters of the Newburgh Historical Society ( http://newburghhistoricalsociety.com/) and houses a lovely museum, chock full of 18th and 19th century furniture, Hudson River School paintings, and a host of artifacts and brick-a-brac, all managed by one underpaid, part-time staff person and a cadre of fanatically dedicated volunteers.  

 

Hidden away on the upper floors are a library, various collector's items, and a substantial archive of local and regional history.  It is a pristine, lovingly-maintained oasis of Anglo-American civilized values.  The scaffolding around the building indicates an ongoing repair project and continuing need for financial support.  

 

If we go back to the corner of Grand and Clinton, and turn right this time, we find ourselves in a very different place. Another short block leads us to Liberty Street, paved in brick and housing many old homes and churches.  I must describe all four corners of this intersection. 

 

Starting with the southeast quadrant, there is the charred ruin of a burned-down industrial building.  The city is apparently still struggling to clean up the environmental hazards at the site.  Long-time residents still recall the night the building exploded into fire and lit the sky for hours.  It was suggested to me that the company that operated there is still in business outside the city, but has not been made responsible for the cleanup. Whatever the facts, it is now city property and another millstone around the neck of tired Newburgh.  

 

Across Liberty St, on the southwest corner, there is a hodge-podge row of shabby-looking two, three and four-story houses.  In front of the corner building a group that was described to me as  "the Jamaicans" play dominoes at all hours.  They also throw parties on major holidays like the 4th of July, where for an admissions fee (somewhere between $ 10 and $ 20) you can share in the beer and barbecue.  Ganja is extra. Sometimes, they use yards behind abandoned buildings in the general vicinity.  I have heard the music, and once was even invited to attend -- my erstwhile pal and ghetto-guide Freddie needed help with the cover charge.  I demurred, suspecting my presence would cast a pall over the entire party.

 

Continuing our tour, the northwest corner is at the end of a row of once-stately brick townhouses all bestowed with stoops which teem with life, at any time of day or night.  Young women push strollers and cradle infants, kids toss balls, play tag and argue with each other, old women sprawl and look exhausted, and young men push drugs. 

 

Once, I managed to watch a large, complex deal go down.  The cash was passed out of a darkened car window while the party inside remained invisible.  Sentries on two corners exchanged hand signals, and then a cell-phone call was made.  At a house near the corner, a door opened and two men emerged with a large carrying case for a musical instrument, which was brought over and loaded into the rear of the vehicle. 

 

Mostly, it's a retail business.  White kids drive in from the suburbs, park their cars at a distance, and try to look nonchalant.  Middle-aged men cruise by in pickup trucks and make furtive exchanges.  The dealers look like overgrown boys, but they try to seem thuggie and tough.  They avoid eye contact with me.  When I recognized one,   a stepson of Freddie's, he ducked into an alley to avoid being tainted by a friendly gesture. 

 

I believe this is the image most of the world imagines when they read the less-than-positive coverage about Newburgh in the headlines.

 

This leaves me to describe my favorite corner of the intersection.  At the northeast portion, closest to my own Liberty St. driveway, sits a bedraggled bodega at the base of a slummy brick three-story building.  Hoodie types linger in the doorway, and trash is strewn in all directions.  Two young men from Yemen, with perpetually dazed looks on their faces, stock the pathetic shelves and man the front counter. Reigning over his small dominion, Abdul, grayish and closer to my own age, makes sandwiches and watches over the store from a rear counter.

 

Sometimes, I stroll over to the store for a diet coke, if I am hot and sweaty from the garden, or just bored.  At first, I always carried a sharp object, even it was just a garden tool, with a handle protruding conspicuously out of a rear pocket.  But no one messes with me.  If something happened to a respectable white guy, it would bring attention and be bad for the dealers' business. 

 

I have tried to describe two Newburghs -- a pristine preserve of preservationist perfectionism and a deep ghetto, with its vibrant, but lawless atmosphere.   Both within a few feet of the little corner of Grand and Clinton.  But I neglected to mention a small house along Clinton Street, directly across the street from the industrial ruin. 

 

An elderly couple maintain a postage-stamp size yard, with a neatly-trimmed lawn, and tidy borders of flowering plants.  They run a tight little ship, pulling weeds and cleaning up the trash that drifts down from the bodega.  They pay the city taxes which rise mercilessly year after year.  They do not attend the annual high tea or educational lectures at the historical society, nor do they party with the Jamaicans.  They cling to a tenuous, lower middle-class existence, their values enduring while their community erodes around them. 

 

Once I was standing in front of their little yard, looking across the street at the graffiti and trash around the collapsed building.   I felt sad and angry.  These people deserved better.  But how? 

 

My own Newburgh venture seemed like a terrible, hopeless mistake.  And then I had, for the first and only time in my life, a vision.   Not a heavenly visitation like Joseph Smith or Saul of Tarsus or Joan of Arc, but an image so clear I could see it, although I knew it existed only in my imagination.  I saw a gleaming new structure of glass and steel, with greenhouses and brightly-lit classrooms.  It even had a name -- The Andrew Jackson Downing School for the Study of Urban Horticulture.  When I try to describe it to people, they shake their heads and write me off as a nut job.  But the vision persists.  It requires further explaining. That's what the blog is for.  All in due course.

 

My heartfelt thanks to anyone who is taking the time to read my meager effort.