LOOKING BACK

 Before the availability of affordable paper and ink, the use of writing slates was nearly universal among school students in North America, and much of the world. The slate and a piece of soft chalk, were the primary tools used for learning writing and arithmetic, and since the slate had to be wiped clean with a cloth or wet sponge in between instruction, it forced students of the day to memorize their lessons. Most slates were fairly basic and consisted of a thin piece of slate wrapped in a wooden frame to protect students’ hands, but deluxe models, known as “quiet slates,” because they didn’t make noise when they were set down on the desk, had frames that were wrapped in fabric, leather, or yarn. Another fancier model was the “double” or “book slate,” which had two slates attached along one edge and opened like a book.  

The writing slate pictured in this blog belonged to Vernon Pickle Wortman (1886-1965), and his initials can still be seen carved into the frame. Known to friends and family in his hometown of Pottersville, NJ as “Perky,” Vernon attended Pottersville’s first school, which was built in 1860, on land donated by George Moore. The Pottersville School was located on Black River Road, across from the Dutch Reformed Church, where the community house stands today. The one-room schoolhouse was replaced in 1912, by the “prairie style” school that is located next to the firehouse. My wife’s grandmother was a student there, as was my wife’s father, and our daughter went to the “Kid’s House” nursery school that is still there now.

Vernon “Perky” Wortman had to leave school in 1903, when his father, William Wortman (1859-1903) died after being bitten by a rabid dog that had been lying in a hay pile in his barn. Perky took over the family mill in Pottersville, and ran it successfully for over four decades, until it succumbed to so-called progress and closed in the mid-1950s. The overshot wheel that powered the mill can still be seen in operation at the Cooper Mill, in Chester, NJ. 

  “In telling the story of any town, it would be amiss to omit the less reputable part of the tale.” Helen Haggerty Geist, The Califon Story.

There were no street lights to expose a murder on the dark streets of Califon, New Jersey on the night of January 19, 1907, nor a full moon to bear witness to the grisly deed. “In fact,” wrote local historian Helen Haggerty Geist, “it was a night made for such a crime.”

Saturday, like it is for many folks today, was a traditional shopping day in Califon. Locals would come to town to patronize one of the general stores or other shops on Main Street that stayed open until nine or ten o’ clock on Saturday nights. While women gathered to peruse the latest dress patterns at Cora Gene’s milliner shop, their kids sampled sweets in Gene Apgar’s confectioners shop on the floor below. Afterwards, families might sit for a portrait under Jacob Welsh’s photographer’s tent, which was often pitched in the center of town, or munch “freshly roasted” popcorn from Jesse Williams’ popcorn machine. 

The festive atmosphere in town didn’t ebb with the setting sun. Many folks stayed to visit with friends and family and the usual crowd sat around the bar at the Union Hotel, slugging whiskey and beer, while hotel guests or the “drummers,” the traveling salesman that hoped to sell their wares to the town’s merchants, took a meal in the hostelry’s dining room. Califon was a “real ‘Saturday night’ town in its younger days,” wrote Geist.

But in the dead of January, there probably weren’t many people on the streets of Califon, when a local farmer named Manning Riley strolled out of the hotel and made his way down Main Street on Saturday night. Though one account alludes to Manning not being a particularly large man, he was known to be good with his fists and wouldn’t hesitate to use them, and certainly would have that night… if he had the chance. Manning must not have realized it, but he wasn’t alone as he headed for his house, just a short distance from town. At least one pair of menacing eyes noticed his departure from the hotel and a sullen, shadowy figure stalked him from behind. Manning Riley never made it home. 

He was discovered the next morning in a blood-stained patch of snow in front of an elderly widow’s home, just across the street from Neigh’s clothing store. He had been ambushed and bludgeoned to death. The murder weapon, a fractured picket from the widow’s fence, was found next to his battered skull. Suspicion immediately fell on a burly, square-jawed, stonemason named John Schuyler, who was known to bear a grudge against Riley. Schuyler, who outweighed Riley and stood a head taller, had tried to lure him into a barn and waylay him once before, but Riley, as he had on several other occasions, gave Schuyler a sound beating for his efforts.

Schuyler was arrested a day after the murder, and a blood-speckled shirt that he allegedly wore the night of the killing stood in grisly contrast to his pleas of innocence. It also didn’t help his case that he had cashed out his bank account before the murder, suggesting that he had planned on going on the lam after committing his felonious deed. He was put on trial in a packed courtroom in Flemington, and despite testimony from his friend, Minnie Sutton, who claimed that Schuyler’s bloodstained shirt was the result of a nose bleed, and the presiding judge’s caution that the evidence against Schuyler was circumstantial, it took only minutes for the jury to convict him of pre-meditated murder. Putting his reservations about the case aside, Judge Reed did what the law required and sentenced Schuyler to death.

Hunterdon didn’t have a gallows of their own, so they borrowed one from Mercer County and erected it in the courtyard of the Flemington jail. Schuyler, who had apparently been put on suicide watch, could hear the hammers banging outside his cell window. He was scheduled to be hanged on Friday, June 28 1907, and then again on August 30, but after several motions and three stays of execution, the exasperated Board of Pardons commuted Schuyler’s sentence to life in prison at the penitentiary in Trenton, but it turned out to be a much shorter sentence. 

Among the prisoners serving time in Trenton was a thick-set, sullen 23-year old tough named Frank Wharton Burd, whom prison officials described as “the worse prisoner we ever had here.” Burd’s life of crime and recidivism began at the age of seven when he was remanded to New Jersey State Reformatory at Jamesburg for six years, eventually ending up in the New Jersey State Home for Boys, where he bounced in and out of until the age of sixteen. Seven years later, he was doing time in Trenton for possession of a concealed weapon (Burd had been apprehended with a loaded pistol, a blackjack, and a mask and jimmy) when he asked for a cell door interview with Judge H.R. Herr and Sheriff David Holcombe of Flemington. “You got another man for life for killing Manning Riley,” said Burd. “He’s innocent. I done it.” Burd claimed that when he was 16-years old and less than two weeks after being released from the reformatory, he murdered Riley. 

The following excerpt from his confession was published in the Springfield News-Leader on July 22, 1914:

“Manning and me had a fight in Logtown right after I got out of the reform school. It was in a log stable there and I was only a small boy. He beat me up bad and I said I would get square with him and I did. I saw him coming out of the hotel the night he was killed and followed him up Philhower road looking for a rock to sock him with but I could not see any because it was dark and there was snow on the ground. Then I took a fence paling off the fence and hit him with it. He dropped, and I socked him again, and then got away. The next day I went down to Highbridge (sic) and caught a train to Easton. They never found me. I did not mean to kill him but I just wanted to beat him up, and I did not know that I had croaked him… I heard about Schuyler getting life for it, and so I could not stand it any longer and wanted to tell that I done it.”

Schuyler’s family had reportedly suspected Burd all along and had asked for a postponement of the original trail until he could be found and questioned, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. After corroborating Burd’s story, John Schulyer was released from Trenton State Prison. He had narrowly eluded the hangman and served seven years for a crime he didn’t commit. He lived out the rest of his days as a country club caretaker and died in 1940, at the age of seventy. 

The falls on the Black/Lamington River in Pottersville continue to draw visitors to its rugged, natural beauty, but in the late 19th and early 20th century, it was actually the site of one of the area’s most popular tourist attractions, The Black River Falls Park or as it was known locally, “The Glen.”

 
In an effort to stir up more passenger business and generate some much-needed revenue, the Rockaway Valley Railroad, a New Jersey short-line (and short-lived) railroad that once ran from Whitehouse station to Watnong near Morristown, stopping off at Pottersville along the way, conceived the idea of making a park and picnic area along the Black River that would extend from the Lamington Falls to the village. To put this idea into action, they relied on Chief Engineer, John E.V. Melick, an enthusiastic but inexperienced railroad builder, who for whatever skills he lacked as a builder, more than made up for as a marketer and public relations manager. Melick vigorously promoted the park and the railroad ran special excursion trains to Pottersville, including an open observation car, and offered attractive group rates for large parties of 300 or more. The Glen grew in popularity and drew visitors from all over New Jersey. And who could resist the trip after reading descriptions such as the following, from the August 1, 1891 issue of the Morristown Jerseyman:

“From Peapack to Pottersville is a little over three miles, and the cars take you thru the suburbs of a real country village, but little known to people ten miles distant, which is richly endowed with natural advantages. It is situated on the Black River. At Pottersville the river passes through a most romantic and wild gorge, rushing and foaming down cataracts and over rocks, gathering strength in pretty and quiet whirlpools for fresh plunges, and repeating the performance over and over again. Huge rocks confine it within its bounds, and ferns and moss-covered stones make a suitable frame for the picture. We had thought it over-painted until we saw it last Monday, when we realized that it would be too difficult to do it justice. Those who have been to Watkin’s Glen would not be disappointed with Black River Falls… Chief Engineer Melick has had the ground around the Falls made accessible by paths and rustic bridges, but has used excellent judgement in not trying to improve on Nature in her happiest efforts. Little rills of pure water trickle down the rocky sides of the glen, and a pond 1,500 feet long with boats thereon affords a space for sailing, while a commodious structure is available for picnic parties, for which it is already famous.” 

The splendor of the falls and the convenience of the railroad made The Glen a hit with day-trippers, picnickers and large organized group outings. The park offered picnic areas, concessions, a horse drawn merry-go-round, two pavilions, hiking trails, and boating on little Lake Althea (the pond created by the lower dam). In addition to this, they also endeavored to provide patrons with “…the best out-door entertainment for miles around,” and organized events that included concerts, dances, and contests for prizes such as baby shows, as well as bicycle races and baseball games.

In the village of Pottersville, the reaction to the park was mixed. Some thought it was good for business, some thought it was bad for morals, and some just enjoyed it like everyone else. Edith Craig Wortman (1885-1968), gives us a glimpse of local sentiment in an entry in her journal:

“…The picnic grounds could be entered by a good wagon road and path made on Hacklebarney Road on the east side of the river, and descending down into the flat woods on the river bank. Here some crude tables were set up for basket parties and Sunday school groups. A spring of wonderful water was nearby where pails of the clear sparkling water could be used to fill up cans of lemonade. There was also a good concession run by a local man where soft drinks and ice cream and candy could be bought. A bridge was built over the river into Hunterdon Co. where one could climb over the rocks and walk the saw dust trails along the winding race banks up to the dam or down to the village. The park facilities were enjoyed by hundreds of people from the cities, who came up on the train. The greatest attraction for us youngsters… was a horse drawn merry-go-round, a home-made invention with wooden swing type seats. Nothing like the ones now enjoyed. But a lot of fun for us and much used by everybody… Hours of fun and frolic were enjoyed there until ‘certain’ societies from the city began to come on Sundays by the hundreds and ‘make merry.’ The ire of the natives ran so high against the desecration of their Sabbaths that the Squire had to be called and the un-welcome visitors were forbidden further boisterous parties… Also there were colored camp meetings held on the grounds with ‘Father Stonewall Jackson’ presiding. They had fine singing at their meetings which attracted many locals.”

John E.V. Melick’s Black River Falls Park died along with his railroad in the early 1900s, but the Glen’s short, colorful life remains one of the most entertaining chapters in Pottersville’s history. Today much of the area that was once the Black River Falls Park falls within the boundaries of Hacklebarney State Park. Not a hint of the pavilions or the old homemade merry-go-round has stood the test of time and the dam that formed “pretty little Lake Althea” is long since gone, but the area is still one of intense natural beauty and still draws visitors from far and wide. 

In the summer of 1916, there had yet to be a recorded fatal shark attack on the eastern seaboard of the United States. The prevailing thought among most scientists was that sharks were “no more dangerous than any other fish with teeth” and not prone to attacking humans - but that would all change over 12 terrifying days at the Jersey shore.

On July 1, Charles Vansant, a graduate student from Philadelphia, was swimming in chest-deep water near the Engleside Hotel in the resort town of Beach Haven, New Jersey. Earlier, he had befriended a dog that he met on the beach. He was trying to coax the dog into the water with him when people on shore saw a shadowy figure in the water heading towards him. They shouted out a warning as a black fin broke the surface and sliced its way towards the unwary bather. Vansant let out a high pitched shriek and was yanked under the water. He resurfaced, thrashing desperately towards shore but the shark continued its attack. He was only in 3 ½ feet of water when Lifeguard Alexander Ott dove into the bloody surf and tried to drag Vansant to shore - but the shark wouldn’t let go. Two residents ran down to the water and locked arms to form a human chain and help Ott pull Vansant from shark’s jaws. The frenzied fish continued to tear at Vansant until it was dragged into water so shallow that it was threatened with being beached. Finally, it gave up and swam away.

Vansant’s left thigh was stripped to the hipbone and there was a severe gash in his right leg. Doctors, including Vansant’s own father, fought to save his life but he had lost too much blood. He died on a makeshift operating table in the hotel lobby. The gruesome attack shocked New Jersey but the newspapers, not wanting to scare off summer tourists during the busiest weekend of the year, downplayed the event as a freak occurrence and bathers were soon back in the water.

Five days after the attack on Vansant, Charles Bruder, a bell captain at the Essex and Sussex Hotel in Spring Lake, 45 miles up the coast from Beach Haven, was taking a swim with friends during his lunch break. A strong swimmer, Bruder had ventured out alone beyond the beaches lifelines when people on shore heard him scream. Two lifeguards grabbed a boat and launched into the water. They rowed towards Bruder, who was still shrieking as his body was being flung into the air like a rag doll. The shark circled and struck repeatedly. When they drew nearer, Bruder began begging for help. “A shark bit me!” he cried. “It bit off my legs!” 

The lifeguards hauled him into the row boat and saw that both his legs were shorn off at the knees - he bled to death before they could get him to shore. A doctor on the scene had to postpone examining his body to aid witnesses on the beach who were vomiting and fainting from the ghastly ordeal.

This time the attack was taken seriously. Resort owners on the Jersey shore, desperate to save the season, cordoned off their beaches with steel shark netting; armed men in motor boats patrolled the waters offshore; and would-be shark hunters took to the waves equipped with everything from high-powered rifles to axes and harpoon guns. But there was no way anyone could have foreseen what happened next.

The town of Matawan is 30 miles north of Spring Lake and 16 miles inland, its only connection to the ocean is a meandering freshwater creek that shares the town’s name. On July 12, an old salt named Thomas Cottrell was crossing the drawbridge over Matawan Creek when he looked down and saw what looked like an eight-foot shark cruising upstream on the incoming tide. Cottrell ran for the nearest phone and called the town barber, who doubled as the town’s chief of police, but the chief chalked up the sighting to shark panic and went on cutting hair. Frustrated, Cottrell ran down Main Street telling anyone that would listen that a shark was in the creek but no one believed that a shark could have made it that far upstream, especially in freshwater. Taking matters into his own hands, Cottrell went to the favorite bathing spots to warn swimmers of the peril. 

Shortly after he passed by Wyckoff Dock, a popular swimming hole on the creek, a group of boys who just missed his warning came by for a dip. “Hey guys, watch me float!” 12-year old Lester Stillwell called out to his friends as he laid back into the murky water and drifted away from the group. But most of the boys had their backs turned and were watching another kid attempt a trick dive off of the pier. Seconds after the diver hit the water they heard a short high-pitched yell and a big splash behind them and turned just in time to see Lester being yanked under the water. Someone shouted, “Lester’s gone!” but just then he broke the surface and the boys saw that he was locked in the jaws of a huge fish. Lester tried to scream out for help but could only manage a gurgle before the shark pulled him back under. His friends scrambled from the water and ran to town for help, crying that a shark had gotten Lester! But still, no one would believe that there was a shark in the creek. Instead they thought it was more probable that Lester, who was an epileptic, had a “fit” and drowned. 

Within a half an hour a crowd had gathered at the Wyckoff Dock to watch volunteers search for the missing boy. As men in boats poled the muddy waters, several others including Stanley Fisher, donned swimming trunks and began diving for Lester’s body. After several attempts Fisher finally surfaced with the dead boy and was carrying him into shore when something struck his leg. Fisher staggered, dropped Lester’s body and shouted, “He’s got me! The shark’s got me!” Fisher punched and flailed at the shark. A group of men in a row boat got hold of him and tried to wrest him from the shark’s teeth, as deputy sheriff Arthur Van Buskirk smashed the animal over the head with an oar. The shark finally let go but Fisher’s right leg had been bitten off at the thigh. A local doctor did his best to staunch the bleeding and arrangements were made for the local train to ignore all stops and rush Fisher to Monmouth Memorial Hospital but he died as he was being wheeled into the operating room.

A half-mile downstream from where  Lester Stillwell and Stanley Fisher were attacked, Michael Dunn and his twelve year old brother Joseph were swimming along the north bank of the creek with some other boys when someone shouted to them that there had been two shark attacks and that they should get out of the water. Heeding the warning, they swam to the dock and began clambering up. Joseph, who was behind Michael, had just begun climbing the dock’s wooden ladder when the shark reached up and clamped on to the back of his right leg and pulled him back into the creek. Seeing Joseph struggling in the mouth of the shark, Michael dove back into the water to save his brother. He grabbed hold of Joseph’s hand and tried to pull him to safety but the thrashing shark was too powerful and began to drag Joseph under. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a brawny bricklayer named Robert Thress, who was passing by and heard the cries for help, reached around and ripped Joseph from the shark’s mouth. His right leg was mangled but none of the arteries had been severed. After 59 days in the hospital, and several skin grafts, Joseph fully recovered from the attack and became the lone survivor of the 12-day feeding frenzy.

Hoping the shark would return on the next high tide, the people of Matawan grabbed sticks of dynamite, shotguns, pistols, pitchforks, hammers, and anything else they thought could kill a shark and lined the banks of the creek, while eager reporters stood by. Underwater charges were set and detonated, blasting geysers of muddy water into the air; shark sightings were reported up and down the creek, and the town shot itself out of ammunition, but at the end of the day it appeared that the shark had eluded their gauntlet.

As panic gripped the east coast, swarms of “armed posses” patrolled the waters off New Jersey in search of the rogue killer, destroying hundreds of sharks along the way just for good measure. Then on July 14, the day of Lester Stillwell’s (whose body was never recovered) and Stanley Fisher’s funerals, a taxidermist and circus animal trainer from Manhattan named Michael Schleisser netted a 7 ½ foot great white shark a few miles from the mouth of Matawan Creek. After a terrific fight and a few lacerations and bruises for his trouble, Schleisser and a friend were able to land the shark and bring it to shore.

During an examination of the shark’s stomach contents physicians found chunks of human flesh, an 11-inch piece of a boy’s shinbone, and what they believed to be a human rib. Schleisser declared that he had caught the man-eater. He stuffed the shark and put him on display in New York City. Thousands lined the streets to catch a glimpse of the infamous killer.

With World War One raging in Europe, a polio epidemic sweeping New York and New Jersey, and the Mexican Revolutionary, Poncho Villa, raiding across the US border, the media eventually lost their appetite for the shark story and by the end of the long, hot summer, wary bathers trickled back into the water.

Since the attacks, many skeptics have doubted Schleisser’s claim and theories have abounded as to the type and number of sharks that could have been responsible for the events of 1916. It seems that no one, especially those of us who are drawn to the water each year, wants to believe that a lone shark could acquire a taste for human flesh and single-mindedly stalk swimmers in salt as well as fresh water over such a broad range, but after Schleisser bagged the great white near the mouth of Matawan Creek, there were no more attacks along the Jersey shore that bloody summer.

Return to Contents

When baby-boomers growing up in the Chester area needed to beat the summer heat, there were three popular places to try out their first doggie paddle, splash around with their friends, or engage in a little sun-worship. According to local historian, photographer, and Chester native, Joan Case, the first local swimming area that bathers flocked to in the late 1950s throughout the 60s, was Seals Pond on Parker Road near the Chester/Long Valley border.

Owned and operated by Dick Seals, the site had its grand opening on July 4, 1958. In addition to a swimming pond, the park also boasted an “authentic 15” gauge steam railroad” that chugged along on a one-mile loop around the pond, and a railroad museum. 

Another favorite location was Hacklebarney Pond also known as Kay’s Pond, on State Park Road. Many of Chester’s kids, including Joan, learned to swim at Hacklebarney Pond, under the watchful eye of swimming instructor June Hinds.

The real swimming hotspot of the 1960s and 70s, however, was Chester Springs, more commonly known as “Grogan’s Pond.” Owned by the Grogan family, Chester Springs, now the site of the Chester Springs Shopping Center on Rte. 206 was the local place to go in the summer to take a dip, get a tan, tee-off on the driving range, munch on burgers, hot dogs, and fries at the snack bar, or test your courage on the high-dive board. “I loved that high diving board,” recalled Joan Case, “my sister and I would spend our time trying to perfect our dives! She was so much better than I and ended up on the diving team at Glassboro State College. And of course I remember the food stand and all the yummy things they had there. My favorite was their hamburgers!”

Grogan’s Pond was also the place to mingle, or as Rick Apgar recalls, torment, the opposite sex. “Grogan’s Pond was a special place for me especially on those hot, humid, sweaty summer days. I remember running across a short sandy beach and into the cold clear water and swimming to the floating wooden dock which sat on 55 gallon drums in the middle of the pond. There you could rest a bit with the girls, who were drying off in their bikinis, and dive off into the pond only to surface again to splash the girls making them scream. Sometimes I would go to the pond with my brother and cousins, who would often meet their own friends and leave me with the younger ones, who would bob around in the shallow end in their yellow ducky rafts or life preservers. The only relief from that boredom was taking them to the concession stand and buying hot crispy crinkle cut french fries for 25 cents.”

“Ahhhhhh the good ole days....,” said Joan Case. “I miss them!”

Return to Contents

When Mohawk raiding parties descended on the Native American villages in what is now Peapack, New Jersey, the local Lenape tribes would take refuge in the vast limestone caves beneath their lands. It wasn’t until 1902, however that the caverns were rediscovered by workers at the Todd Lime Quarry.

Employees at the quarry had an idea that there were caves beneath them for some time, but the fissure in the rock, that appeared to be the only opening, was too narrow for a man to climb through. Eventually, curiosity got the better of two quarry men and they dropped sticks of dynamite into the crevice and blew a hole wide enough to crawl through. What they found astounded them.

After squeezing and wriggling through the narrow passage, they came to a chamber that was high enough to stand up in. It measures 100-feet long and 20-feet wide. The walls were covered in shimmering limestone and stalactites dripped from the dome-like ceiling.

At the far end of the vault, the found another passage and clawed their way up a 20-foot incline to discover a second chamber similar in size and as stunning as the first. A reporter from the Newark Evening News explored the cave shortly after its discovery and described it as “weird in the extreme.”

“When you enter with a lantern or miners hat,’ he wrote, “the stalactites flash from the dome as though suspended in air, the sides of the cavern glow with a mellow-red light. Before you is a formation of reddish crystals, shaped like a pulpit, and above, that what looks like a frozen waterfall.

At the far end of this upper corridor was athird chamber that even surpassed the grandeur of the first two. It was circular with a lofty ‘gothic’ ceiling that no architect ever designed… in more graceful lines. Opposite to the larger chamber was a passage that led to an underground lake with water as opaque as the air."

As news spread of the incredible caverns, people flocked to Peapack for a first-hand look. Enterprising merchants stocked up on overalls, lanterns and miner’s helmets, and one of the workmen, Elias Guest, allegedly put an old door in front of the entrance and began charging admission. Soon the local Methodist church put in walkways and a gate and was given permission to charge a 25-cents admission. 

After a week, it was reported that souvenir hunters had stripped most of the stalactites from the caves but the sightseeing tours continued until 1907. No one is sure why the caverns were closed but the entrance was sealed and the quarrying operation started back up again.

In 1958, more caves were found when 600 tons of limestone collapsed into another underground chamber that contained 300 to 400-feet of passageways, with a series of branching rooms. The largest was approximately 50-feet in diameter and one of the rooms reportedly contained a small pool of water.

Over the decades, many former school kids confessed to playing hooky and hiding out in the caves but today, the entrances have been lost to history. A residential development now sits atop the underground wonder and for now the legendary caverns remain a fading memory.

Return to Contents

In the early 1930s, Richard Hollingsworth was working as a sales manager at his dad’s Whiz Auto products store when he thought of a way to combine the two things he loved most – cars and movies. He began in his own driveway on Thomas Avenue, in Camden, by nailing a screen between two trees in his backyard and mounting a 1928 Kodak projector to the hood of his car. A radio behind the screen provided the sound. He then began experimenting with different weather conditions (a lawn sprinkler was used to imitate rain), parking, line of sight, and sound quality. 

On June 6, 1933, with an investment of $30,000 and a new patent, Hollingsworth opened the first Drive-In Theater in the parking lot of his dad’s store, in Camden, using the back wall of the building as a screen. The price of admission was 25-cents per car and an additional 25-cents per person. On his first night, 400 cars lined up in eight rows to watch movies from the comfort of their cars. Richard and his cousin opened a franchise of “Park In Theaters” which began springing up around the country. When Hollingsworth’s patent was overturned in 1949, everyone got into the act and “Drive-In Movie Theaters” became the rage

. 

At its peak in the 1950s and 60s, there were more than 4,000 drive-in theaters in the U.S. The largest was the All-Weather Drive-In, in Copiague, New York, which had parking for 2,500 cars, and an indoor 1,200 seat viewing area. The strangest was probably Edward Brown’s Drive-In and Fly-In Theater, in Asbury Park, NJ, which could accommodate 500 cars and 25 airplanes. An airstrip next to the drive-in allowed planes to taxi to the last row of the theater. After the show, a tow back to the airfield was provided. 

Eventually, escalating real estate prices made the large tracts that new drive-ins required too expensive and the land that drive-ins already occupied too valuable not to develop. Other contributing factors that led to the drive-ins decline included the advent of color television, the VCR, and even day light savings, which trimmed an hour off summer viewing time. 

Today there are less than 400 drive-ins left in the U.S. and only one in New Jersey, the Delsea Drive-In (delseadrivein.com), in Vineland, which was built in 1949, closed in 1987, and re-opened in 2004. 

Return to Contents