By Calvin Schwartz

First of all let me explain the article title which is a stream of consciousness derived from the book and 1973 movie ‘The Paper Chase,’ about a first year law student at Harvard; his love of law, a girl and the difficult journey presented by both. One of my favorite movies; it may’ve forever dissuaded me from studying law; a long hard consumptive undertaking. I like the word ‘chasing.’

We all pass by cemeteries and I’ve never given much thought until my parents were being settled into a local one. Once I took my eleven year old son to see his maternal grandparents in a Newark cemetery. The front gate looked locked so I climbed over a metal picket fence, cut my arm and leg while my son pushed open the gate. It wasn’t locked.

Six weeks ago, my co-producer and writer at NJ Discover, Tara-Jean Vitale and I were coming back from covering a Seaside Heights event and were near Marlboro State Psychiatric Hospital and the cemetery across the street. We decided to visit the solemn place, so I followed Tara-Jean down a dirt road to the edge of an expansive field of grave markers. The hospital closed down years ago not before 924 people died from 1920 to 1960 and are buried with just numbered markers from 1 to 924 as the only form of identification of a human’s life.  Separately we walked around, absorbing and pondering people with misfortunes of being diagnosed with mental illness and hospitalized probably for and with their lives. I wondered about women buried there and how much they had to endure above and beyond because they were defenseless. A clump of trees in the distance provided shade for a concrete structure which memorialized the names and passing dates of all 924 people. I stared, occasionally letting my finger trace the outlines of a few names. We both felt something but didn’t verbalize to each other. Reluctantly I took pictures; didn’t want to disturb the silence with the click of a camera.  Did Trenton (NJ State Capital) have any information on these people?  Proportionally did more people pass in 1942?  I wondered why. This place of solemnity is a few miles (or two traffic lights) from my house.  I’ll be back, I thought.

There was something there. Even now I feel strange, empty and curious. A few weeks later Tara-Jean and I were coming back from a preliminary meeting with officials at  Regal Pointe, a senior living complex in Middletown, New Jersey where we were planning to interview Emily Cook, a spirited and wondrously charming 102 year old resident. On the way back, Tara-Jean yelled, “Stop. Look at that old cemetery across the street,” which reminded me of little Natalie Wood in the movie ‘Miracle on 34th Street,’ yelling near the movie’s end, “Stop.” I made a U-Turn and we entered an old Revolutionary War cemetery where some markers indicated passing before America was born in 1776. How strange I thought. And it was cloudy, cool and unusually quiet. The cemetery is the “Presbyterian Burial Ground circa 1684” and it was adjacent to the Hendrickson Family Burial Ground 1798-1913. What haunted the most is that many buried here did not know what happened to the colonies and America; near one marker, I tried to send something communicative about how amazing America is today and thanks.  Heading home, we passed a few more old looking cemeteries but decided to save for another day. It hit me; we have been engaging in Cemetery Chasing which was perfect for NJ Discover. By definition and business plan, NJ Discover discovers and explores a plethora of institutions and people here in central Jersey.

With no forethought about creating cemetery chasing happenings, I thought perhaps it’s a matter of spiritual synchronicity, our being taken down a road for reasons. A few weeks ago, we had a NJ Discover TV breakfast meeting at a pancake establishment. On the way back, I drove up a rural country road in Colts Neck, Monmouth County, New Jersey, passed this magnificent old church. I made an illegal turn and stopped to read a sign: “Dutch Reformed Church completed and erected in 1856.”

With camera always by my side, I snapped a few and posted the pix on the wall of NJ Discover to which a Facebook Florida stranger asked if there was a cemetery in the back and if so, it could very well be where her mother and grandparents are buried. I didn’t know if there was a cemetery but something (a favorite word) made me respond, by offering if I ever return (which was doubtful) to investigate and try to find her mother’s grave stone.

A few days later, I was down the Jersey shore, a few towns over from my beloved Asbury Park, in Belmar. After a large helping of caffeine sweetened with a dark brown liquid confection, I headed to my favorite jetty in the world and meditated by the Shark River. A fierce seventy degree warm wind blew virginal sand in my face as my feet rested on jetty boulders. I saw a ship heading to Kilimanjaro and the bridge over a troubled Shark River water lifted to let a boat pass under.

Then something (the force) directed me back to that country road and that church, reasonably far out of the way. In the rear was an old cemetery as the stranger on Facebook described. A spiritual quality was there even in the way the trees bent in the wind.  While taking pictures, I forgot the stranger’s name; when I saw that certain headstone, I knew it was her mother’s. A special good deed accomplished, I was about to make a get-away; somehow taking pictures in a reverent place still bothered me. A man of rural authority approached. “I’m from NJ Discover TV,” I quickly spoke and told the story of the woman Facebook stranger. Tom (the caretaker) asked if I’d like to learn cemetery history.

The marker of Ryers Crummal, the last Indian chief from the Sand Hill Nation, part of the historic Lenni Lenape Tribe, was inches away from my shoe, frozen in soft soil, afraid to move closer. Then Tom pointed to the far end of the cemetery where no graves were, yet one lone grave stood. James Miller, an African-American (the only one buried there) without family or friends had died in 1901 and the church provided. “Would you like to meet Reverend Scott Brown now?”  I did meet the Reverend and told him my story. Meeting him was magic too. Later I emailed the picture of her mother’s grave to the Facebook stranger (no more, we’re friends now) who wrote a beautiful emotional thank you message.

A few days ago, I was contacted by another Facebook friend who was fascinated with my cemetery pictures and stories. This friend has unusual abilities and can contact spirits of those who passed a long time ago. I felt like the cowardly lion listening to the pronouncements, thinking “I do believe. I do believe.” And I do. So one warm Saturday in May, we’re going ghost-busting of sorts, but with extreme reverence and curiosity and maybe we’ll take our NJ Discover cameras along for the verification. Indeed this cemetery chasing continues and miles to go before I sleep. We’ll keep you posted. You keep visiting NJ Discover’s site, we’ll do the documented chasing.