There it is

625 Jefferson Ave. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—In cahoots with an annual Thanksgiving gig with south Jersey relatives, I returned to my childhood, also in south Jersey. It will probably be my last time; I’m almost 75.
My first 13 years were in this house in Erlton (as in “Earl”), a small sleepy suburb in NJ east of Philadelphia. 625 Jefferson was built new in 1943 (I think — records are imprecise); I was born in 1944. It was my father’s move out of urban life, Camden, NJ, across from Philadelphia. His parents lived in Camden. My father was first-born; as am I. I think it cost him $5,000 — he sold for $18,500 when our family moved to Wilmington DE; he got a better-paying job.
Five years ago our house sold for $235,000. WOW! Of course, a dollar ain’t worth much any more.
So here I was driving east toward Erlton on NJ Route 70 — we called it “Marlton Pike,” and it was U.S. Route 40 back then. Marlton Pike was a main route to the Jersey seashore in the ‘40s and ‘50s. I consider myself a “child of the ‘50s.”
Garden State Park horse-racing track was gone, replaced by various commercial outlets, including a glitzy Wegmans supermarket with a huge parking-lot. —Wegmans is based in Rochester, but is expanding all over the northeast.
The gigantic wooden grandstand at Garden State Park burned often. About the only thing that gave away the location was the large girder railroad-bridge over Marlton Pike erected years ago to get the Pennsylvania Railroad’s seashore service into Philadelphia without ferries. It may have been a grade-crossing at first.
I remember my mother slamming on the brakes of our ’41 Chevy, and throwing out her arm to hold back my sister and I standing in the front seat.
I passed the Grove Street intersection toward Haddonfield — it was no longer a traffic-circle (they call ‘em “roundabouts” now). Marlton Pike narrowed to the same four lanes through Erlton as years ago separated by a wide grassy median.
There was the Edison Ave. traffic-light that caused so much consternation when installed. And I also saw Dr. Gleason’s office building, with its once-frigid exam rooms, still at Grant Ave. But Dr. Gleason is long-gone. (“Drop your trousers, please” = penicillin-shot coming.)
My mother refused to use Dr. Gleason because he was Catholic (we were Baptists), until I got hit on my bicycle by a maroon ’47 Ford, and Dr. Gleason was the only one to assist.
I turned down Madison Ave. —The streets were much narrower than I remember. Then I turned left on Jefferson, and suddenly there it was! The house where my life began.
Across the street was “The Triangle,” an open field where my parents tried to get me to play baseball with the neighbor-kids. I always was the last one picked, assigned to right-field. I thought “sink-out” meant leave the game.
“The Triangle” seemed much smaller than I remember, and the entire area more grown in. The old sycamore tree my mother and a neighbor saved by not allowing town-workers to treat it for “cancer-stain,” which killed all the sycamores, was gone. When I visited 20-25 years ago it was still alive — one of the few sycamores not killed. But now a large oak lives nearby.
Plus the old sidewalk I used to play on has been replaced, including the crack where I used to operate my toy dump-trucks. That sycamore was between the sidewalk and the curb, and also caused the crack.
The house appeared tiny, much smaller than originally perceived. I had the front bedroom before we moved, and my parents the bedroom over the garage. I think the car pictured might fit in that garage, but cars are bigger now. I remember giant late-’50s tailfins sticking out partially-closed garage doors.
Our ’41 Chevy fit, as did the first car I remember, a ’39 Chevy my father tore into one afternoon in a rage. Valve-gear, carburetor, distributer, etc. all over the street — he had no idea what he was doing.
He also painted that car with a paint-brush, after a neighbor painted his ’49 Pontiac, also with a paint-brush. My father also hand-painted a long yellow pin-stripe, and did an impressive job. We Hugheses are artists.
My father’s concrete front patio remains, along with its wrought-iron fence cemented in tiny orange-juice cans. That red-tinted concrete has fill-bricks from the 1953 Erlton-School addition.
Prior to the patio we had a yew-tree. I remember my father, raging as always, pulling it out with a rope tied to the ’39 Chevy’s rear-axle. He almost blew the clutch!
We never had shutters, and the garage-door is not original. I bet the front door was replaced too — we had to slam it with full body-weight into a hip. I bet the windows were replaced also.
I didn’t go around back, but realtor Internet photos show the same addition my father designed, built by a friend in 1954 or ’55. Our backyard also seemed large back then, but I’m sure would seem tiny now. Back then people burned their trash, and my father built a stone fire pit. What a joy it was to incinerate exploding aerosol cans.
My next stop was Haddonfield to the south, where my mother did grocery shopping, banking, etc. Haddonfield is an old Revolutionary-War town. I drove along Cooper Crick (not “Creek”) toward Kings Highway, then up the hill (Kings Highway) into Haddonfield.
Haddonfield High-School was enlarged, an addition built out front on Kings Highway. My father walked me to a Haddonfield High Thanksgiving-Day football game when I was about 8. That game was a tradition against arch-rival Haddon Heights high-school — I forget who won.
During the ‘40s Erlton residents were still attending Haddonfield High-School. But not me; I was the cusp of the post-war baby-boom. But I’m not a boomer; I’m a war-baby. Fifth Grade for me was double-sessions. Delaware Township High-School opened as I began seventh-grade.
Deeper I motored into Haddonfield, past Grove St. and the majestic Haddon Fortnightly. Plus the Victorian abode of blowzy Mrs. Dager (“Day-grrr,” not dagger), our church organist (Hammond B-3).
Mrs. Dager was my second piano teacher, who terrorized my sister and I with Clementi arpeggios. Her goal was to get my sister and I crying, after which she blew her nose in triumph, then stuffed her soggy handkerchief into the front bodice of her dress.
Next was Indian-King Tavern on Kings Highway. Reportedly George Washington stayed there once. I spoke “Indian King” as I passed.
I crossed Haddon Ave. into Haddonfield’s business-district. The Acme and A&P supermarkets were gone. A&P was where my mother’s father stole plums from the produce bins, despite my mother slapping him. Acme was evil; not where Jesus shopped.
Up Haddon Ave. was the Haddonfield Fire Department that terrorized me with its noon fire-horn test. I was probably more afraid of my mother — if I cried, I got spanked.
Finally I drove up to where the old railroad-crossing was. The railroad is now PATCo rapid-transit on the old railroad grade, but below grade in a trench. Kings Highway bridges it.
I turned east in hopes of finding where my father and I first watched trains. I was age-2 at the time, and have been a railfan ever since.
I passed S. Atlantic, which runs parallel to the railroad. But it was one-way the wrong way. S. Atlantic used to be dead-end, but now it’s through. My first train-watching was on S. Atlantic.
Over the railroad I went on a bridge, then onto N. Atlantic, also parallel to the tracks. I could drive down it, and eventually it turned north into woods. “Mountwell Ave.” —Memories of Mountwell Pool, long closed, a public swimming-pool, but not filtered. My sister and cousin and I swam in that pool — free in mornings.
I crossed “Centre St.,” location of infamous “Centre St. Hill;” three blocks, and near-impossible on my ungeared balloon-tire bicycle. Centre St. was also excellent sledding, but only one block.
Centre St. extends out-of-town to where the railroad once had a wye. Steam-locomotives brought Camden commuter accommodations out to Haddonfield, which returned to Camden with passengers from seashore trains bound for Philadelphia. Passengers bound for Camden changed trains at Haddonfield’s station.
Evidence of the wye is completely obliterated; the area is suburban development. (The locomotives were “wyed,” = turned.)
My father took me to S. Atlantic because that’s where the action was. That location also had a water-tower. Steam-locomotives stopped to take on water. Haddonfield’s grade-crossings were ahead, so engineers whistled for those crossings. My father claimed they were whistling at me.
I was terrified of thunderstorms and camera-flash, but could stand right next to a panting steamer. By 1946 many railroads were dieselizing, but PRSL (Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines) still used steam locomotives. I always tell other railfans I was lucky enough to witness steamers in actual revenue service.
I then drove back up Centre St. into Haddonfield’s business-district — the backdoors of funky shops.
Back toward Erlton, but first the park north of Haddonfield, where my parents took me for walks. The road-bridge we used to drive across was closed, even to pedestrians. A small dam was still adjacent, and we long-go skipped stones on its pond.
I drove back toward Erlton, but past the site of my elementary school, long ago torn down. It was built in 1926 with a coal-chute, “boys” and “girls” on the door lintels. An addition built in 1953 was also torn down.
I still know nine-times-nine equals eighty-one, thanks to Mrs. Marlon in fourth-grade, who excoriated me for daydreaming about Pennsy steam-locomotives out the windows. Mrs. Marlon was the old biddy who badmouthed my friend and I for dive-bombing Japanese ships on the school’s swings.
Most depressing was back in Erlton. I drove up to see Erlton Community Baptist Church, and it was no longer a church. My Bible-beating parents and my next-door neighbor were instrumental in founding that church.
But now it’s a school — which makes sense, since my neighbor’s Sunday-School annex was more like a school = two brick stories attached to an ancient chapel-sanctuary.
What do they do with that, pray tell? It even had a baptismal-font. It’s shorn of its steeple, and a handicap-ramp goes up one side.
Sadly the newer Catholic church so abhorred by my parents still exists up-the-street. Dr. Gleason attended that church.
I left eastward on Marlton Pike. “Ellisburg-Circle” no longer exists. It’s the intersection of Marlton Pike and Kings Highway, also Brace Road. That traffic-circle was replaced by through traffic-lights. Traffic-circles were like bumper-cars: “pedal-to-the-metal, Granny!”
Revisiting my childhood was so depressing I think it degraded my balance, which is wonky already. I was shuffling and stumbling this entire trip.
I had to GPS my cousin’s Thanksgiving gig, about 25-30 miles south. Three wrong turns = three GPS resets. Mostly it was the driver, but there were construction detours. It also helps to live in south Jersey.
Now I’m home with my silly dog. Not as depressed as revisiting my childhood.
Most depressing was discovering Erlton Community Baptist Church had tanked. Must be its cache of Bible-beaters disappeared.
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...” —That’s the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.

• “Erlton” may also be gone. Area traffic-signs still say “Erlton,” but the “Erlton” Fire Department became the “Cherry Hill” Fire Department. The realtor sites say 625 Jefferson is in “Cherry Hill.” In 1956 President Eisenhower visited Cherry Hill Inn north of Erlton, so the area switched to “Cherry Hill.” The Wegmans, hard by Erlton, is the “Cherry Hill Wegmans.” Years ago it was “Delaware Township;” now it’s “Cherry Hill Township.” Delaware Township High-School became Cherry Hill High-School.
• “Pennsylvania-Reading (‘REDD-ing,’ not ‘REED-ing’) Seashore Lines” (PRSL) is an amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad-lines in south Jersey to counter the fact the two railroads had too much parallel track. It was promulgated in 1933. It serviced mainly the south Jersey seashore from Philadelphia, by ferry across the Delaware River at first.
• If readers think I made up things like Mrs. Dager “blowing her nose in triumph,” “Jesus never shopped Acme,” etc, this was NOT made up. I was kind enough to not mention my maternal grandfather was often arrested for begging — retrieved by my mother many times. Jesus not shopping Acme is an exaggeration, but it’s the impression I was left with. When our family moved to northern DE an Acme was right up-the-street. But my mother preferred to drive 5-6 miles to an A&P. Acme was of-the-Devil.