The Bread Crumb Trail

This seems like a good time to thank my daughter Rebecca, who set up and edits this blog for me. I am especially appreciative, since most members of my immediate family, as well my small circle of pre-Newburgh friends, consider my Newburgh venture to be a complete folly.

Some worry about my safety -- my wife Susan's best friend suggested that I wear a "thank you for not mugging me" t-shirt. Others, more reasonably, suggest that I will never recover the vast amount of money that I have poured into the purchase and renovation of the old mansion at 297 Grand St.

So, before proceeding with my various ideas for saving Newburgh, I would like to retrace the daisy chain of my reasoning process -- I sometimes call it the "bread crumb trail".

I had been focusing on Kingston, another Lost City some 40 miles to the north of Newburgh. I had heard, via a Brooklyn grapevine, that it was the best turnaround candidate along the river. Many a weekend would find me crossing the Newburgh-Beacon bridge on U.S. 84, and heading north on Route 9W, which wends its way through a patchwork of smaller communities, strip malls, aging motels and other businesses, interspersed among stretches of woods and open space, along the western side of the river. Now and then, I would take a small detour through Newburgh, which I found dispiriting, although I had begun to notice the ornate Victorian mansions alongside the boarded-up buildings and small, wood-frame houses with crumbling porches.

A somewhat random conversation was the first step in changing my perceptions. Looking for an obscure piece of equipment, I had stopped in a woodstove and pool supply store on 9W, and had gotten into a conversation with the two middle-aged brothers who ran the place. While far from sophisticated, they had lived in and around Newburgh all their lives and we commiserated over its decline. When I asked if they had seen any improvement in recent years, one of them mentioned the changed waterfront. I was unaware that a few years earlier, an area of abandoned warehouses and loading docks had been transformed into a tidy row of new restaurants and bars, with a walking path and small park. Weekends during the warmer months bring large crowds from the surrounding suburbs, drinking and eating in pleasant proximity to the flowing waters of the Hudson.

The waterfront is sadly unconnected with the core of the city, but it indicated the possibility of revitalization.

As I circled to leave the waterfront, I noticed a sign for "Washington's Headquarters", with an arrow pointing up the hill to a neighborhood I had not yet visited. I am a history buff, and the possibility of a revolutionary war headquarters that was completely unknown to me was a thrill. It turns out that Newburgh was the last and longest headquarters of the revolution. The site includes the graceful Dutch-era stone cottage where Washington lived and worked, surrounded by a lovely park-like setting, including a large lawn with sweeping views of the Hudson. This under-visited gem would be remarkable anywhere; in Newburgh it is an serene oasis, blessed by location and sanctified by history.



But something I saw on the way there had a greater impact on my view of Newburgh and its potential. As I drove up the small hill at the base of Washington St, with the iron railing of the fence surrounding the headquarters on my left, I arrived at an intersection: the corner of Liberty and Washington. To my left the headquarters, to my right a boarded up brick building. Across the street on the right, a nondescript storefront. But across and to the left, a carefully restored nineteeth century brick building, sporting an elegantly understated wood sign -- I had found the Caffé Macchiato. A European style cafe, and not a chain, in the heart of the gritty, forlorn Newburgh. Looking back, I suppose that was my epiphany, the unmistakable message that someone else had seen possibilities that were invisible to the rest of the world.

A couple of years later, after I had sunk much of my net worth into one of the largest old homes in Newburgh, I jokingly told Barbara, the owner of the Macchiato, that it was all her fault. She did not smile -- in fact her eyes took on a hard look. Running a small business is difficult anywhere. Doing so successfully in Newburgh takes a very special person. She has unflattering things say to say about the way the city is run. I will return to this subject in later posts.

Barbara is an urban pioneer, a determined and courageous soul. I salute her. And if you haven't visited Washington's headquarters or the Machiatto, I suggest you do so soon, before the crowds find these places. Which I believe they will.