Old Cottage and the Sea - Part 2

Hurricane Sandy's projected storm surge in southern
New Jersey (October 29, 2012). Courtesy of WNYC.org.

I waited out Hurricane Sandy in my home in northern New Jersey, while the storm ravaged the coastline. The shore towns were under a mandatory evacuation order – something especially important to observe on barrier islands like Ocean City, where danger comes from both the sea and the bay.

Back at home in my northern suburb, well inland, I assumed full preparedness mode for the second time. After tying down all the outdoor furniture, I moved all of my computers, boxes of critical files and project binders from my third floor office to a pile in the front parlor. I spent the night of the superstorm sleepless on my living room couch, possessed by a vision of me lying on my bed on the second floor, crushed under the fallen boughs of one of the 150 year-old pin oaks that line the driveway. I didn't think much about the house in Ocean City – I'd done as much as I could do, after all.

Damage Report

The next morning, I was relieved to see our neighborhood had survived intact, except for one large tree that had fallen at the bottom of the street. We still had power, unlike 80% of northern New Jersey. I spent the day moving my office back upstairs, box by box. I checked in with an Ocean City friend who had evacuated inland. She reported that her family was fine. I didn't bother to call my neighbors in OC -- I expected that they had evacuated, too. I would have to wait to find out how my house had fared. 

The first Ocean City report came on Wednesday, two days after the storm. Major cleanup efforts required that access be limited to the island, but finally the police had opened it up to residents. We needed to show identification and proof of residency before you could enter the 9^th Street causeway. I was frustrated by the news reports on OC - my section of town was never mentioned. “Things must be bad, very bad,” I thought. ”They can't even get up to the north end of the island....”

A beach front home at the north end of Ocean City after Super Storm Sandy.

Later in the day, neighbors who had ridden out the storm on the island called to say that my cottage looked fine, although it had taken on some 2 feet of water during the flooding. The eye of the storm had passed just north of Ocean City, which spared us from the worst of the storm surge that battered coastal towns north of us. The house is seven blocks from the sea, so it was the bay that had inundated my house, bubbling up through the storm sewers and percolating up through the wet sand under my house. Well, at least it didn't float away, I thought. Later I learned that this was not such a far-fetched idea.

Having breathed a sign of relief, I didn't intend to go to OC for a few days. I was still focused on putting my office back to rights. My good friend, however – a native of the island and a veteran of several hurricanes there – urged me to put that all aside and get down to the island immediately.

“You've got to get down here,” she said, her voice exasperated. “You have to get the carpets and drywall out of there before the mold sets in.” Horrified by the thought of that black stuff growing all over everything, I threw some work clothes into a duffle bag and left that afternoon for Ocean City.

It was Thursday, Day 3 after the storm. Before I arrived, my friend and a neighbor had opened the windows to ventilate the house. They had been amazingly kind - they rolled up an area rug soggy with bay water and carried it outside. It weighed a ton. I was so grateful.

Living room after SS Sandy, showing level of floodwater.

There is no odor quite so sickly-sweet as a house saturated with stale floodwater. You can smell it 50 feet away. It carries with it the oil and dirt from the street, toxins, bacteria, and sometimes even raw sewage, although our section was spared that nightmare. 

The wall-to-wall carpeting in my living room was squishy with the skanky water, as were the upholstered frames of my two brand-new couches. I had moved the cushions upstairs before the storm, but the couches were too heavy. In my haste to leave, I had left the slipcovers on the frames – “Well, that was stupid,” I said out loud, to no one in particular. The dining room still had a puddle under the dining table, but the new mahogany flooring looked otherwise intact. Thankfully, the weather had turned cold, so that no mold had appeared yet anywhere that I could see.

I began to equip myself for the task of cleaning up the mess. Usually I love my shopping trips to the hardware store down here – it always marks the beginning of some interesting cottage project. This, however, was not fun. It was driven by desperation. The stench of floodwater permeated my nest, my haven, my blessed retreat. I couldn't rest until it had been ripped out and carted off to the dumpsters that stood around town. 
 

Dumpsters were placed around Ocean City to collect cleanup debris.

The first purchase was an N-95 mask/respirator, which protects against inhaling mold spores – it was the main fashion statement of Ocean City that week. No self-respecting islander could be seen without it. I threw three boxes of heavy duty garbage bags into the shopping cart – they were the last boxes on the shelf - as well as a fancy utility knife to cut the wet wallboard away from the dry sections. The final items thrown in were several pairs of heavy duty waterproof gloves. When I returned to the cottage, I immediately donned my work clothes and safety equipment. I retrieved the steel-toed boots that I keep in my car and laced them up. I would not take them off for the next five days, except when I slept.

The Cleanup

During cleanup, I took the walls down to the framing. I carted out bag after bag of wet insulation and  drywall. The wall board had to be cut out to a height 2 ft. above the flood level, since the water wicked upwards through the absorbent wall board. I discovered that in my frenzy to leave before the storm, I had totally ignored my downstairs utility closet, where I stored my brand new toolbox and my tidy, newly reorganized plastic boxes of screws, washers, picture hooks and other hardware. I discovered that they were filled to the brim with dirty water. I dumped out the boxes, hoping that my beloved tools would eventually dry off and be useful again, although the little stuff was a total loss. I also cleared out some 43 cans of used paint - some more than 10 years old. Only the gods know why I kept those!

The still-wet contents of the utility closet.

I worked on cleanup from early morning until around 4:30 pm, when the November light faded. Everyone on the island was similarly occupied – people in their N-95 masks were cleaning out storefronts, homes, and garages. I saw more neighbors out and about than I had ever seen in the 10 years I had owned the house. We chatted about our damage over brief, but good-natured, "we're-all-in-this-together" pleasantries.

Exposed original framing of the living room.

As physically challenging as the clean-up was, the payoff for me was learning the story of the cottage, written in the layers I peeled away. In one corner, I found some ersatz wood paneling that had been installed over a section of original 19^th C. plaster and lath. Where the lath had been removed, a piece of greenboard was nailed onto the studs, probably to “even out the layers.” Over the whole layer cake of materials, someone had put up panels of gyp board.

One of the ca. 1950s layers and corroded electrical receptacle.

The built-in ca. 1950s bookcase that covered one wall was constructed on top of (yes, on top of ... ) a layer of orange wall-to-wall carpeting from a previous generation. The orange fuzz that peeked out from under the bookshelves was still oozing that stale wetness over the floor. The subfloor was plywood – no doubt a re-do from previous damage. And, last but not least, after my neighbor had helped remove the plywood, we discovered the weirdest assembly of floor joists underneath – some were old ones sistered together; some were new pine insertions. The center floor support was a plank resting on occasional cinder blocks. I hesitated to look at the foundation.

The bottom half of the original 1880s framing in the living room having been fully revealed, I moved on to the dining room. The mahogany flooring was in great shape, but the walls, like those in the living room, were a confection of historical layers. Drywall covered a rustic wainscot of random board-and-batten. It looked like the owner had used whatever size planking was available. Beneath that, a layer of paper, which appeared to date from the early 20^th C, probably some time after the cottage had been moved to its present site.

The mahogany floor in the dining room came through unscathed.

The most dismaying revelation in the dining room was the slash of daylight between the studs at the base of the north wall. The sill – the framing that sits on the foundation and supports the building – had obviously rotted away at that spot. "Uh oh," my heart murmured. What if the front room sill also suffered from the same malady? I refused to dwell on that possibility. Getting back to normal was no longer just a question of replacing drywall. This was getting more serious.

What to do?

The trauma of removing and carting away smelly, soggy drywall had inspired me, like Scarlett O'Hara, to vow "Never again!" I still believed the building should not be elevated, since that would alter its historic relationship to the site - a bad thing. I am a historic preservation specialist, so my cottage is not only a place to relax, but it's also my laboratory, where the choices I make reflect the same preservation standards that govern my clients' projects. It's a life-sized example of how the principles work in practice.

I began to immerse myself in publications that promised to make buildings more resilient to flooding. Most of these are produced by FEMA (the Federal Emergency Management Agency), whose publications on water-resistant materials, wet- and dry-floodproofing, elevating buildings have influenced a generation of municipalities and building owners. Also extremely helpful was the insights from contractors from the island, who had considerable experience in what worked and what didn't in the coastal areas. I am fortunate to have a native Ocean City resident as my contractor and friend, who has provide enormous support to my effort.

Still life with garbage bag.

The plans for rebuilding are still taking shape - I feel it necessary to examine every option while the building lays open and I can see all the framing. It's an optimum time to upgrade the brown, 1960s triple-track windows with insulated 2/2 replacements, similar to the ones I had put in the addition. It's also a good time to replace the front door - a wood veneer relic of the same era as the windows - maybe with a fiberglass door that would be more flood-resistant. I'll probably put a mahogany floor in the living room, since the one in the dining room performed so well. And I finally can rebuild the stairs and bannister to the second floor, which has always been high on my list of future renovations. As for the foundation and floor joists - well, that's the big issue we have yet to solve. 

I am hoping that we can figure all this out and get it finished before summer comes. I miss my little cottage and the beautiful New Jersey shore. 

(Update 11/8/13: The next installment of The Old Cottage and the Sea (Part 3 - Floodproofing) has been posted. It walks through the strategies and treatments for making the cottage more resilient in the event of future floods. It starts with FEMA guidance, but then applies it to the real life issues faced in the case study. The decisions may surprise the purists among you, but the result is a historic building that is better prepared for a future disaster.)

 

The Old Cottage and the Sea - Part 1

Ocean City Camp Meeting Cottage (ca. 1885), Ocean City, NJ
Before Hurricane Sandy

It was only 10 a.m. and I was already exhausted. I awoke at 4:30 that morning and immediately turned on the television coverage of Hurricane Sandy, a huge storm system bearing down on the New Jersey shore. By 5:00 I was fully dressed and sitting with my coffee in front of the television, switching from station to station, intently monitoring the weather maps.

At first absent-mindedly, I started to tidy up and put things away while I listened to the reports – first one small task, then another. Almost subconciously, I gradually shifted into full-fledged evacuation mode, increasingly consumed by a desire to get off the island as soon as possible. I dreaded being trapped in an endless line of evacuees snaking up the Garden State Parkway.

I started securing the patio first. I put the new slat bench into the rear building, but there was nothing I could do with a heavy mahogany lawn chair. I turned it over and left it next to the back wall. I hoped that there the wind wouldn't catch it - or that it wouldn't float away. I took down the little birdhouse and dumped out the last of the seeds onto the concrete. I hoped some little bird would take advantage of this snack before the storm hit. I took the little stone gargoyle from its perch on a stack of flagstones and moved it onto a high shelf in the storage closet. I hoped his protective powers would retain their effectiveness while he was cooped up in there. There was a whole lot of hoping going on.

I hadn't intended to be so hyper about this storm. I am usually pretty cool during such crises, very efficient, practical. But overnight, my anxiety levels had begun to rise. That day - Saturday - the Governor declared a day of “voluntary evacuation.” On Sunday it became mandatory. I took a shower, and started to pack up my duffle bag, my computer, and my cameras.

Everything moveable that I could wrangle up the stairs was now on the second floor, or at least in the new kitchen addition, which had been built up on pilings and was fully FEMA-compliant. I fretted over putting the artwork on the floor there next to the sliding door, but figured that if they got wet, I would have a lot more to worry about than a few prints. I turned off the water, but forgot to turn off the electric main, which would have been a good idea. Typically the city turns off (or loses) power during coastal storms. I worried about what would happen if it turned on when the electrical outlets were still wet.

I left my little cottage at 10:30 Saturday morning and headed north to prepare to ride out the storm in my home in north Jersey. The slowly-moving storm's first high tide arrived on Sunday night, washing through many of the empty streets of Ocean City. By Monday's high tides, the bay would have gurgled into the first floor of my little cottage, inundating the upholstered frames of two brand new couches and moving up the empty bookshelves. If it gets up the to third shelf from the top, all the books will be lost. But then, if the water gets up that high, the kitchen, the electrical panel, appliances, and HVAC systems will also be under water. It promises to be one of the worst storms since the early 1900s, reports say. But for me – well, it's my first real flood. And I was nervous.

The Cottage

When I bought the cottage in Ocean City some 11 years ago, it was in sad shape. It was one of the original twenty-two camp meeting cottages – the “wooden tents” – that had replaced canvas tents during Ocean City's early years. The City was founded as a Methodist camp meeting by the Lake Brothers. Some people call my cottage “a Lake House.” It was built around 1885.

The Ocean City camp meeting became became so popular that the area around the large wooden tabernacle that sheltered the preachers grew into a summer city. The Lake brothers, not inclined to become city managers, sold off most of the land around the tabernacle, which incorporated as the City of Ocean City. The wooden tents were sold off and moved to other parts of town by their new owners in the late 1900s. My cottage has stood on the same spot where it came to rest some time around 1905.

The few remaining Lake Houses that exist in Ocean City are not easily recognizable. It's not like Ocean Grove, another Methodist Camp Meeting community farther north on the Jersey shore, where much grander versions of the typical cottage are still grouped together near the Auditorium, their 2-story porches ornamented with effusive gingerbread. No, Ocean City's more modest cottages were sold off and carted away by their new owners. Today, they are spread out around the city, having been altered over the years to meet the needs their new owners.

After the closing, I began the transformation of my little foothold at the Jersey shore. The house was so small that no project seemed overly complicated or daunting. Vinyl siding covered everything, including the ceiling of the front porch, which was sagging from the weight of ice water that had leaked in through the roof. My son and I took crowbars to the vinyl siding that spring, discovering original wood clapboard and decorative wood shingles underneath. The deck and railings of the upper front porch were so rickety that I forbade anyone from stepping out on it until they were repaired.

The Cottage before exterior renovation (2002).

During the summer, I had the porch rebuilt with the design help of a friend who was an historic architect. I painted the clapboard  a soft yellow. The pitiful jalousied windows on the second floor, where the winter wind blew in through the gaps created by missing glass louvers, were replaced with 6-light awning windows. I sent the detritus left by the previous owner off to the recycling center, charity flea markets, and the dump. I repaired the interior trim, hung bamboo roll-up shades, and painted everything white. The mice, which had enjoyed free rein there for several years, finally found other digs. While not perfect, the house was now at least habitable.

It stayed that way for several years, until finally the kitchen and bathroom wing at the rear of the building – a decrepit single story affair with long shed roof that tilted off to the side – started to leak, sag, and generally fail. With the help of an architect and several friends who kibitzed from the sidelines, I designed a 2- story kitchen addition with a large master bedroom above, along with a full bathroom and lavatory-laundry area on the first floor. It was all perfect.

Elevated rear addition (2011).

I decided to take a break before renovating the historic part - it had been a long time since I was able to enjoy the house without interruption. It's fortunate that I waited. I learned a lot in the interim. Buildings at the coast need a very different treatment than buildings inland.

Designing for a Flood

Because Ocean City is part of the federal National Flood Insurance Program, all new construction must meet the requirements for flood mitigation under its “storm mitigation plan.” New residential structures must be elevated about the Base Flood Elevation (BFE), as determined in those famous FEMA flood maps that we've heard so much about lately. In my part of the island, the BFE was about 4 feet above the adjacent grade level, or 10 feet above high water mark at high tide. The future addition would be built to comply, but the historic cottage was exempted from strict compliance. The first floor of the oldest section, however, was built just a few inches off the wet sand.

We had discovered this condition when a section of the dining room floor had given way and I commissioned the floor to be rebuilt. Once it had been opened up and my Irish contractor and I understood the situation, we decided to rebuild the floor to resist moisture and mold, if ever flooded.

The neighborhood had been flooded at least once before, according to the neighbors. I'm sure it happened many more times than that in years past. Most of the older houses on my block had been built there in the first decade of the 20th Century on concrete block foundations about 2-3 feet high. Not as high as today's standards require, perhaps, but still a measure of protection. My little cottage, however, did not enjoy even that minimal safeguard.

Dining Room with mahogany flooring (2011).

Our plan for the dining room floor was based on my experience in Louisiana after Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. I spent three months there in early 2006, working for FEMA as a historic preservation specialist. I had seen what happens to buildings after a flood. Mold is the big enemy: it can be extremely toxic, if left to grow unimpeded. And it LOVES to grow on absorbent materials – fabric, soft woods, paper.

As a result, we designed the structural system and subfloor with pressure-treated (PT) wood, which resists moisture. Instead of the usual layer of paper between finish floor and subfloor, we lay down PT sleepers to allow for air to circulate between. Finally, we laid a finish flooring of tongue-in-groove mahogany, which is moisture and decay resistant, and does not “cup” (deform) after it has been saturated. And it was beautiful.

Little did we know that our theories about its “flood resistance” would be tested so soon.

(Link to Part 2)

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September at Cape May Point, NJ

Cape May Lighthouse (1859), Cape May Point State Park, NJ

Late summer in the coastal marshes of New Jersey is a thoughtful, serene season. A certain quiet falls over the wetlands. Nature's colors become rich and subdued. Birds are busy preparing for winter and the long flight south. Newly-hatched Monarch butterflies flit from sunflower to sunflower. Honey bees sip nectar from the last of the flowers that will bloom before the frost. We savor these last weeks of life and color before autumn's cool, rainy days transform the landscape to shades of brown and gray and we retreat indoors. 

Wetlands and meadows at Cape May Point State Park.

Cape May Point State Park is a perfect place to enjoy these last fine days of summer. The park is located at the tip of New Jersey just west of the City of Cape May, although the post office address is Lower Township, Cape May County. It boasts a handsome, recently restored lighthouse (1859), a once-hidden, now fully exposed WWII concrete bunker built as part of the Harbor Defense Project of 1942, and several miles of boardwalks and trails through the coastal preserve.

Cape May is on the Atlantic Flyway, the migratory route taken by East Coast birds in the spring and fall. As a result, the area is replete with observation points where birders and photographers can observe hundreds of species as they stop to rest on their way along the coast. Beginning September 1, Cape May Point S.P. begins its “hawk count,” which continues through November. The NJ Audubon Society’s annual “Autumn Birding Festival,” which always takes place during the last week of October, is prime time for viewing and draws hundreds of bird lovers to the area. 

Main Observation Platform, overlooking Shallow Pond West.

Not being much of a birder myself, I was very content to poke around the lighthouse and walk the trails, admiring the autumn color. The visitor center, where one can orient oneself to the natural features of the coastal areas, had the most remarkable sight. Hanging from a wire net across the top of a glass fish tank were about 30 green chrysalises of the Monarch Butterfly, which flies in great multitudes from Canada and the Northeast United States to Mexico every year.  

From the World Wildlife Fund:

Monarch butterflies embark on a marvelous migratory phenomenon. They travel between 1,200 and 2,800 miles or more from the United States and Canada to central Mexican forests. There the butterflies hibernate in the mountain forests, where a less extreme climate provides them a better chance to survive. The Monarch butterfly is known by scientists as Danaus plexippus, which in Greek literally means "sleepy transformation." The name evokes the species' ability to hibernate and metamorphize. Adult Monarchs possess two pairs of brilliant orange-red wings, featuring black veins and white spots along the edges. Males, who possess distinguishing black dots along the veins of their wings, are slightly bigger than females. Each adult butterfly lives only about four to five weeks.

One pupa was hatching just as we arrived. It emerged, looking damp and a bit worn out. Within just a moment or two, it spread wide its brilliant orange and black wings to let them dry. Another butterfly in the case looked perfectly acclimated and ready for its new life of flight.

Monarch butterfly on Jerusalem Artichoke (Helianthus tuberosus)

“Every so often we take the new ones outside the back door and release them,” said the staff member behind the counter. Although undoubtedly she had seen this miracle many times, her sense of joy over this seasonal rebirth was still evident. 

Swamp Rose-Mallow (Hibiscus moscheutos)

We then set out on a trek through the woodlands and marshes. We first opted for the shortest route - .5 miles long, which took us through woodlands with trees and shrubs. Some of the specimens I had never seen before “in the wild,” like the Persimmon. This fruit tree is uncommon in New Jersey, appearing mostly in flood plains and lowlands in the southern part of the state. And don't even think of picking the fruit and taking a bite, at least until it turns brown and starts to decompose, or you will get a very bitter mouthful.

Persimmon (Diospyros virginiana)

There were other shrubs I had never seen before, like the Winged Sumac. This variety is native to eastern North America, like its prolific cousin, the Staghorn Sumac (Rhus typhina) that we see along highways in the northeast U.S. The "drupes" of the Winged Sumac offer food to the birds. The occasional deer will munch on its leaves and stems, which also offer cover for many woodland animals. Apparently this has its folk-medicine uses, too, and was also used to flavor tea.

Winged Sumac (Rhus copallinum)

Another spectacular shrub I had never seen before was Arrowwood Viburnum (Viburnum dentatum), which had deep blue berries on red stems and toothed leaves. The woody stems from this plant were reportedly used by the Native Americans to make shafts for their arrows - hence the name. The flowers attract butterflies and the fall berries are eaten by the birds.

Arrowwood Viburnum (Viburnum dentatum).

Others were very familiar from my many years in New Jersey, like the American Pokeweed, which is eaten by birds, although toxic to mammals (like us), unless properly prepared. The purple juice has had many uses.  The Native Americans used it to decorate their horses. According to some unconfirmed sources, the U.S. Constitution was written using pokeberry ink, as well as were many letters written home during the Civil War.

American Pokeweed (Phytolacca americana).

Still others I could not identify, even with continued research. For one spectacular beauty (photo below), I needed the help of the park naturalist. He informed me that the gorgeous plant with the multicolored berries - white, blue, green, lavender, pink - was really an exotic member of the grape family native to Asia called the "Porcelain Berry" (Ampelopsis brevipedunculata (Maxim.) Trautv.). This vigorous vine was once actively cultivated in American gardens in the late 1800s, but rapidly spread beyond the garden fences and into the wilds. This, the naturalist told me, is one of the aggressive, invasive species that he works to eliminate, since if left to itself will smoother the native species on the site.

Porcelain Berry (Ampelopsis brevipedunculata (Maxim.) Trautv.)

The path then went past several lakes. On the bank of each lake was a wooden observation platform that extended a bit into the water. Around the edge of the platform were seats where you could sit quietly, unobserved, and watch the beautiful swans, ducks, and other water fowl glide by.

Ducks on Lighthouse Pond East, looking N.

We were so entranced by the short walk that at the fork we opted to continue on the middle walk of 1.3 miles, which followed an unpaved pathway through the upland woods. This route traversed the reforestation area, where there is an active campaign to re-introduce native flora to the preserve. Evidence of new plantings and others several years old are visible throughout the area.

Matt, the naturalist at Cape May Point, develops his list of plantings from other managed habitats in the area. Good resources for him have been the Cape May Natural Wildlife Refuge, about 30 miles north of the Point, and Higbee Beach Wildlife Management Area, located a few miles north of the Point, on the Delaware Bay. The plants he selects for the reforestation effort are native to the Northeast U.S. He often finds examples of native trees that are best suited to the coastal environment from the streets of the historic City of Cape May. The species selected for the Point are not only hardy, but also provide luscious color and for the eye and a wide selection of berries to feed the avian multitudes that come through Cape May each year.

It is interesting to add this effort to others that seek to re-introduce native flora in areas being overwhelmed by invasive exotics. At Duke Farms in Hillsborough, NJ, for instance, there has been a massive effort to eliminate exotics, re-create native habitats, and reintroduce native species like the American Chestnut in hopes of preserving our native flora.

Reforestation Area, where native plants are being reinstated.

The path ultimately circled back towards the beach, crossing small streams and drainage canals where a different kind of life abounds.

Baby turtles!

When we finally arrived at the beach, we climbed to the top of the dune to see the WWII bunker, also known as “Battery 223.” (It and the Cape May Lighthouse are both on the New Jersey and National Registers of Historic Places.)  It looked like something out of Star Wars – perhaps a dead war machine of the Galactic Empire or an outpost on Tatooine. 

Once upon a time, the battery was inland about 900 feet, surrounded by earth and covered by sod, so it looked like a hill from the air. Eventually erosion took its toll, and by 2001, it was high and dry – sitting above the sand. Beach replenishment, however, has brought it back to earth. And, if the tide is out, they say that you can now see the gun turrets.

Battery 223, Cape May Point Beach.

So, there was a bit of everything for me and my two companions – birds for the birders, historic sites for the architecturally-minded, and beautiful autumn flora for the leaf-lovers.  A lovely day was had by all. Cape May Point is a must see, if you are in the area.

Late afternoon, Cape May Lighthouse.

Resources:

Battery 223 (ID#4770), Beachfront, Cape May State Park, Lower Township, NJ. SHPO Opinion: 4/29/1998; NJ Register of Historic Places: 4/14/2008; National Register: 6/25/2008 (NR Reference # 08000555). NJDEP, Historic Preservation Office. URL: http://www.state.nj.us/dep/hpo/1identify/nrsr_lists/cape_may.pdf  accessed 30 September 2012.

“Cape May Autumn Birding Festival.” New Jersey Audubon Society. Official website. URL: http://www.njaudubon.org/SectionCapeMayBirdObservatory/CMBOHome.aspx accessed 30 September 2012.

Cape May Lighthouse, Cape May Point (ID#998). SR: 6/15/1973; NR: 11/12/1973 (NR Reference #: 73001090). NJDEP, Historic Preservation Office. URL: http://www.state.nj.us/dep/hpo/1identify/nrsr_lists/cape_may.pdf  accessed 30 September 2012.

“Cape May National Wildlife Refuge.” U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Official Website. URL accessed 30 September 2012: http://www.fws.gov/northeast/capemay/pdf/refuge_brochure.pdf  and http://www.fws.gov/northeast/capemay/

“Cape May Point State Park.” New Jersey Department of Environmental Protection, Division of Parks and Forestry. Official Website. URL accessed 30 September 2012: http://www.state.nj.us/dep/parksandforests/parks/capemay.html

Fox, Karen. "Higbee Beach ... a journey back to Nature." CapeMay.com (June 2008). URL: http://www.capemay.com/Editorial/june08/HighbeeBeach.htm accessed 4 September 2012.

Headington, Bill. “Need a Bunker? This One’s Ready to Go.” CapeMay.com. Online Magazine (1 September 2001). URL: http://capemay.com/magazine/2001/09/need-a-bunker-this-ones-ready-to-go/ accessed 30 September 2012.

“The Nature Center of Cape May.” New Jersey Audubon Society. Official website. URL: http://www.njaudubon.org/SectionCenters/SectionNCCM/AbouttheCenter.aspx accessed 30 September 2012.

Stinchcomb Richard W.  “Battery 223, Cape May, New Jersey.”  Personal website. URL: http://www.stinch.com/military/battery223.html accessed 3 October 2012.

"Species: Monarch Butterfly." World Wildlife Fund. Official Website. URL: http://worldwildlife.org/species/monarch-butterfly accessed 30 September 2012.

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Desperately Seeking Doris -- The Remaking of Duke Farms

South Gate Entrance, Duke Farms, Hillsborough, NJ

Duke Farms is the 2,740-acre former estate of Doris Duke (1912-1993), the one-time “richest woman in the world.” It has been reincarnated by the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation as a nature preserve and exemplar of sustainability, ostensibly in accordance with her testamentary wishes. It opened to the public in the May 2012, but not without controversy.

One sultry, late-summer morning some years ago, a friend and I set out on a bike ride in Somerset County, New Jersey. Our trip this time took us along the South Branch of the Raritan River, where we were ferreting out historic 19^th C. bridges in an area known for its exciting examples. (That day, we were on a quest to see the 1886 Nevius Street bridge at Raritan, New Jersey, the north end of which, as it happens, terminates at the Duke estate pump house... but a little more about that later.)

After an hour of riding, the road began to follow alongside a low stone wall, punctuated by locked iron gates that seemed long closed. Occasionally we'd pass a strange, overgrown stone folly at the side of the road - a niche for statuary, a tempietto, a crenelated section of the wall, the flat interstices at just the right height to be stone seats. The sun-dappled forest beyond the wall had no visible signs of occupation or activity– no buildings, no people, no tire marks on a road into the property that quickly disappeared around a blind curve. There was only a deadly quiet, mysterious woodland.

Distinctive stone walls and pergola at Duke Farms.

“It's the Doris Duke estate,” my biking companion called out as we rode on. “She died a long time ago. The estate has been closed for years.”

The Duke estate was a passing curiosity on my ride that day, nothing more. Having grown up in a small, industrial town in upstate New York, I knew very little of Doris, in fact, any of the Dukes. Hers was one of those celebrity names I would hear occasionally in the news, but her lifestyle was so far removed from my reality that it left no lasting impression.

That is, until this summer.

The Reblooming

In May 2012, a reincarnated Duke Farms opened to the public as an environmental center, an exemplar of sustainability, and a model for ecological stewardship in the 21^st Century. The Doris Duke Charitable Foundation spent some $47 Million renovating land, infrastructure, and buildings.

The estate's 1905 Farm Barn was “repurposed” as an orientation center, renovating it to the U.S. Green Building Council's LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) Platinum standards. 
 

1905 Farm Barn, now Orientation Center at Duke Farms (2012).

Inside, a very modern cafe in a now-pristine space that once housed farm animals.

Cafe in Orientation Center, Duke Farms (2012)

The extensive lawn areas were transformed into meadows, wetland habitats were created, invasive species of flora were rooted out. The exploding deer population, which once threatened to overrun the property, is now drastically reduced and excluded from the property by tall wire fencing.

Native species of wildflowers abound in the Great Meadow.

An extensive community garden was created west of the orientation center, just opposite a large solar array that powers the entire complex. Some 22 miles of paths are open to pedestrians and bicycles, which can be rented at the Farm Barn. An electric tram is available to transport less mobile visitors around the site.

The site is impressive. On my first visit, we only had time for a walk around the main route, which is also used by the tram. The core area of the site is located at the center of the property adjacent to “Dukes Parkway West,” a public right-of-way that passes through the estate between the orientation center and the core of the restored areas. 

The paved main path first takes you by the ruins of the Hay Barn (1905, Kendall, Taylor, and Stevens, Archs.; destroyed by fire in 1915). Doris had created a outdoor room for statuary within the walls, which are now covered with trumpet vines. 

Contemplative place inside the ruins of the Hay Barn.

Next, the Orchid Range (1899-1901), which was renovated to LEED Gold Standards and today houses a wonderful display of exotic orchids - a flower beloved by Doris Duke. 

An Orchid specimen in the Orchid Range greenhouse (2012).

The Old Foundation, also along the main path, is all that remains of an abandoned scheme of James Buchanan “Buck” Duke, Doris's father, for an enormous mansion and gardens (commissioned 1909, Horace Trumbauer, Arch.; never completed). The only feature of the project that was completed was a piazza with elaborate balustrade that now overlooks the Great Meadow.

The Old Foundation, Duke Farms (2012).

Interpretive signs at each feature contained a few historical photos and information on the native habitats or species highlighted at various stops. I saw birds I had never seen before, including the brilliant yellow American Goldfinch – New Jersey's state bird.

Judging by most standards, and borne out by the large number of visitors, the new incarnation of Duke Farms is a great success.

So... what's missing?

During my first visit to Duke Farms, I felt a strange, nagging sense of disorientation. Something essential was missing. What was this troubling void hanging over my experience that spectacular vistas, a collection of historic structures, interpretive plaques, and breathtaking carpets of wildflowers could not disspell?

For one thing - as inconsequential as this might seem to some - there are no guidebooks for sale at the site. They are available as a free download at the website, the staff told me. (It's also available in hard copy if you order it from an independent book vendor.) This was no help, since I was standing at the main desk of the visitor center, miles away from my computer. I didn't view the tiny screen of my smart phone as an acceptable alternative. The only available information about the estate at the site is a visitor's map, which includes other basic information about Duke Farms and a guide to programs.  Since I am a big fan of hard-copy guidebooks, I found the map helpful but I was hungry for more information. I like to know what I am looking at.

A few days later, still trying to pinpoint the source of my discomfort, I turned to research. I read about the history of the Duke family and the original assembly of the estate from some forty farms along the Raritan. Central to Buck Duke's complex waterworks was a pumping station conveniently located at the terminus of the Nevius St. bridge, not far from the gates of the Duke estate just across the river. From there, the waters of the Raritan were propelled under the river and up the hill, where the flow fed the estate's eight lakes and many waterfalls before gravity allowed it to cascade back down into the river. 

The mothballed pumphouse for Duke Farms waterworks, Raritan,
NJ, just north of the Nevius St. Bridge (2012).

Then there was Buck's death in 1925 and young Doris's fight to wrest the estate from her mother, Nanaline, who wanted to sell it. Doris's two ill-fated marriages; a child lost in infancy; the tragic death of a friend with Doris at the wheel. And Doris's enormous wealth – she once reigned as “the richest girl in the world” - that never seemed to bring her happiness. The Duke family history is quite the romantic tale.

Doris Duke's associations with the Somerville estate are both significant and enduring. In contrast to the picture painted of her in the tabloids, Doris had many serious, wide-ranging interests in arts and culture. She collected an astonishing array of arts and antiques from Asia and Europe; she was a dedicated horticulturist; she loved music (particularly jazz) and dance; and she studied languages. Among the many causes she supported were conservation of the environment, architectural restoration; medical research; and animal welfare. She loved her animals, and most of all, perhaps, she loved her gardens – especially her world famous “Garden of Nations,” housed in a large conservatory and series of greenhouses on the Somerset estate that she opened to the public in 1964.

Of all the properties she owned around the world, of all the exotic places she could stay, beyond all the riches she could amass, Doris regarded Duke Farms as her “homey home,” as one source put it. It was here she relaxed, swam in the Mermaid Pool, tended her extensive greenhouse gardens, and played with her dogs. Ultimately, Doris retreated into seclusion, trusting no one (as her father admonished her on his deathbed), wanting little more out of life than her privacy.

There seems insufficient evidence of this history in the new iteration of Duke Farms.

"That's what is missing," I concluded. "The Dukes are missing."

Second Look

I was disturbed enough by this thought to return to Duke Farms for a second look – this time exploring the north and eastern sections of the property. Less attention seems to have been paid to the buildings and landscaping in these areas during the recent makeover. Of these, the 1917 Conservatory (Horace Trumbauer, Arch., Lord & Burnham, Builder), located on the far eastern section of the estate, is perhaps the saddest of them all.

The 1917 Conservatory (Horace Trumbauer, Arch.).

Both J.B. Duke and his daughter Doris were avid horticulturalists. The Conservatory was the center of production for those activities. Doris Duke began its transformation in 1958 as the Indoor Display Gardens, also known as the “Garden of Nations.” These consisted of 11 separate indoor greenhouses joined together in a walkable rectangle, each representing the horticulture and aesthetics of a different country. Joseph D'Agnese, reporting on it for the New York Times in 1995, called it “a public treasure.” Doris herself sometimes led tours through the gardens. 

The Duke Farms Foundation closed the Conservatory to the public in 2008 in preparation for the makeover. Today, it remains shuttered, devoid of plants, statuary, or other remnants of that legacy. When it closed, Tim Taylor, Duke Farms's Executive Director, tried to reassure people who wanted to save the displays that materials removed from the greenhouses would be used in the new gardens, and “leftover” plant materials were to be donated to other botanical and display gardens. “We're not destroying anything,” Taylor is reported to have said at the time. 

 

View of the interior of the 1917 Conservatory in 2012.

Granted, there were all sorts of issues in trying to keep the indoor gardens open to the public – there were accessibility problems, including the difficulty of negotiating the narrow stepping stone paths and bridges through the garden rooms; the Conservatory glazing leaked and was very energy-inefficient. It was unheated in winter. In summer, temperatures inside the building topped 100 degrees. And then there were the costs just to maintain the specimens and displays, which were an enormous financial drain.

So, the decision was made to dismantle the indoor gardens in the large building, and focus available resources on restoring the smaller Orchid Range. A single interpretive sign near the 1917 Conservatory now provides an aerial view, some photos of the current nursery, and a paragraph or two of background on the building. The Conservatory is neither labeled on the visitors map, nor is there much said about the importance of the Conservatory to the Duke family in any other informational materials available at the site.

And, while the Orchid Range greenhouse displays of exotic orchids are delightful, they don't fully compensate for the loss of the world-renowned "Garden of Nations" in the 1917 Conservatory, in my view.

Then, I set out to locate the “Country Manor” - the residence Doris Duke called home. This, too, has been mothballed. Like the Conservatory, the house is not labeled on the visitors map. The path that leads down the hill to the manor is closed and locked. The furnishings, clothing, jewelry, art and antiques Doris housed at the Duke estate were auctioned off by Christies in 2004, generating some $35 Million for the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation. 
 

At a recent presentation at the 2012 New Jersey Statewide Historic Preservation Conference, the Duke Farms makeover was the subject of a workshop, presented by Mr. Taylor and the project architects from VITETTA. Mr. Taylor summarily dismissed the Duke manor house, saying that the architectural consultants to the project found the 18^th Century house and its later additions to be “not significant.” I found the comment mystifying. And somewhat incredible. What, I asked myself, can be “not significant” about an 18^th Century home that was birthplace and life-long home to Doris Duke, one of the most consequential philanthropists of the 20^th Century?
 

Duke family manor at Duke Farms in 1910.
Courtesy of InternetStones.com.

In any event, Mr. Taylor – who reportedly served as a former terrorism expert for the United States Navy and in various real estate management roles – noted in a 2005 interview with J.P. Capuzzo of the New York Times, “As I read the will, there was no mention of this being an historical place. It was all about the environment.”

Executing Doris's Wishes

The Board of Trustees of the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation, guided by the terms of Doris Duke's Last Will and Testament, no doubt feel that they have followed the letter and the spirit of that document. It is true, Doris's Last Will divided the Somerville estate into three portions. The first was to be dedicated to the preservation of endangered species of flora and fauna. The second portion was to be dedicated to “farmland and growing areas.” The remainder of the Somerville property, including all “structures and improvements located thereon” were to be given over to the newly created “Doris Duke Charitable Foundation.”

The spectacular $45 Million makeover of Duke Farms as a model of environmental stewardship does seem consistent with Ms. Duke's intentions. And perhaps, given the secluded, isolated life she chose to live during the last decade of her life, dismantling her collections at the Manor and preventing it from becoming a tourist attraction based on her celebrity is also consistent with her wishes. At the end, she didn't seem to put much store in all of her material goods, in any event. She clearly wanted them to be put to better use by the Foundation. As it happens, the $34 Million went a long way towards realizing the current environmental center.

There is no doubt that the Foundation has overlaid a worthy public mission on what could have been an underutilized private resource. Preserving 2,700 delightful acres of open space, recreating native habitats, and opening it to the public, free of charge – this is an extraordinary enterprise.

Balancing History and Environment

Now, I don't see myself as a celebrity groupie, especially a dead celebrity. It is not my goal to revive a cult of personality around Doris Duke. But I do think that an important layer of history seems to be little appreciated there. And the site is the poorer for it.

But never fear, the estate has not been irrevocably compromised. A few tweaks by the Dukes Farms Foundation would allow the larger history of the site to co-exist comfortably with the new environmental mission as it continues to develop the site. Here are a couple of suggestions, which, if anyone from the Foundation is listening, I hope can be taken in the positive spirit with which they are given:
 

• Adhere more closely to the U.S. Secretary of the Interior's Standards and Guidelines for Treatments of Historic Properties in future rehabilitations. The “repurposed” and renovated 1905 Farm Barn now Orientation Center, albeit “sustainable,” no longer looks or feels historic: the masonry is so sparkling clean, so seamlessly repointed and repaired, that it looks new; all interior features of its previous existence have been totally removed, like the horse stalls, which might have been retained and “repurposed” so as to give some sense of the historic use of the original building. For instance, still in a good state of preservation is the 1903 Coach Barn, now used for group meetings.  It would be a shame to see this building transformed as aggressively as was the Farm Barn. One totally sustainable, LEED-certified conversion may be sufficient for the site as an example. Now we need to show how historic buildings are also sustainable by their very preservation. 
  
  
  

  

  The Coach Barn (1903, Kendall, Taylor & Stevens, Archs.)

• Reopen the 1917 Conservatory (with or without LEED) and recreate, from historical evidence, one or more rooms of the world-famous “Garden of Nations.” The dismantling of this feature is a great loss to the site, and one that had intrinsic cultural value as an virtuoso example of horticulture seldom seen anywhere. It would be a fitting legacy to Doris Duke's efforts as horticulturalist and benefactor of Duke Farms. (The organization could even make this a “premium feature” that requires admission. And a paved parking area is already available near the Conservatory). 
   
• Have guidebooks available for purchase at the orientation center (there's plenty of room), along with other books on nature, environment, books on the history of the Duke family. This may seem a small thing, but it really does help orient people to the raison d'être of Duke Farms. And it would help support the work of the Foundation, if only in a modest way.
   
• Mark the historic carriageways and pathways through the site, so that visitors can understand how they were originally laid out. Again, this would help orient the visitor - which roads are historic pathways? Which are newly created for the current use? We have no way of knowing without a marking system that differentiates them.
   
• Develop a comprehensive history of the estate (if not a National Register nomination) and a Preservation Plan that will help guide future redevelopment of the site. There are many worthy buildings (including the main residence) and much history that should be taken into account. And it could form the basis of other publications that could be sold at the orientation center.
  
  
• Ultimately, as resources permit, the Duke Farms Foundation may want to reevaluate its decision to close the Country Manor, and use it as an opportunity to interpret the history of the Duke family and, in particular, Doris Duke's interests in the environment, gardens, and healthy living. It's understandable that not all areas of the facility can be developed at once – the facility just opened to the public a few months ago, after all. But it would be a lost opportunity if the residence could not also be used at some point in the future to further the mission of Duke Farms in accordance with the wishes of its benefactor.

Gate to Country Manor, now closed to public.

All of my qualms and suggestions aside, Duke Farms is a must-see. It is a remarkable enterprise, and one that will continue to serve the Foundation's mission of sustainability and environmental stewardship for many decades.

Update: Spring 2016

In the late summer of 2015, the Duke Farms Foundation applied to the Hillsborough Historic Preservation Commission for permission to demolish the former residence of the Duke Family, citing as its reasons 1) it had fallen into "disrepair"; 2) it was too expensive to fix; 3) it wasn't really significant anyway; and 4) it didn't fit with its "mission."  This confirmed all of my suspicions about the Foundation's lack of respect for the legacy of the Duke Family and its significant contributions to the grounds and architecture found on the estate. 

Although it was true that the residence had been altered over the some-100 years of occupancy by the Duke family, all of the alterations had been designed by noted architects. And, it must be noted, that the house was meticulously cared for by Doris Duke until her death in 1993; its decline seems to have resulted, in large part, from the Foundation's refusal to devote any funds to maintaining it after it assumed control of the estate. 

The Commission, over the objections of many preservation advocates and former friends of the family and staff members of the estate, ruled in favor of the Foundation's application to demolish the residence. Litigation was waged by the advocates, but ultimately the NJ courts ruled for the Foundation. In April 2016, the demolition was complete and the site cleared. The controversy, from the viewpoint of the preservationists, can be found here: DORIS (Demolition of the Residence is Senseless). 

Resources

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At Home with Doris Duke: Selections from her personal home movies. Film. Collections of Doris Duke Foundation Historical Archives, housed at Duke University Libraries Rare Book, Manuscript, and Special Collections Library (https://library.duke.edu/find/all?Ntt=doris+duke+archives). URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bH94cEXq4M accessed 19 August 2012.

Anderson, Geneva. “Emerald Cities”at the Asian Art Museum– the dazzling Burmese and Siamese Treasures of Heiress and Philathropist Doris Duke find a new home.” URL: http://genevaanderson.wordpress.com/2009/12/28/happy-holidays-arthound-will-return-in-2010/ accessed 13 September 2012.

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“Country Manor, Duke Farms, 1910.” Photograph. In “Doris Duke's Pearl Bracelets.” Internet Stones.com.^TM 

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Fox, Barbara Figge. “Daddy's Girl: Inside the House and Heart of Doris Duke.” U.S. 1 Newspaper (1 February 2006). URL: [this article is no longer available] accessed 19 August 2012.

--- “Saying Goodbye to Doris Duke.” Princeton Comment (2 May 2009). URL: http://princetoncomment.blogspot.com/search?q=saying+goodbye+to+doris+duke accessed 3 September 2012.

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---- “Deal Reached Over the Estate of Doris Duke.” New York Times (11 April 1996). URL: http://www.nytimes.com/1996/04/11/nyregion/deal-reached-over-the-estate-of-doris-duke.html accessed 19 August 2012.

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