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Hie Herald and The Lantern

Wednesday, March 25, 1981

Cold Spring March 1981 Therf's a sign about a half-mile down the road from our house that pro claims this area is 'Horse Country 1 It s not a directional sign pointing to Hidden Valley Ranch, less than a quarter-mile from our house in the other direction And it’s not a sign pointing toward any of the three or four other horse farms in Lower Township within two miles of dpwntown Cape May ^-Whal it is is a developer 's *ign; an advertisement pointing out that this is wide open, beautiful country A great place to live And, more particular, from the developer's point of view, a great place for you to buy so he can build the house of your choice on the land he now owns TWO OR THREE ranchstyle homes have already gone up on what used to be part of a large field Most of the field's still intact, hence the view Within a few years though* this seven-acre field will be completely developed If developers in the township have their way, the current one acre minimum lot size in this area will he whittled away so that they can put

more houses up. Every time I see this sign, I recall the letter to the editor someone from New York City once wrote to the Star and Wave while I was editor there. I remember it, and often recall it to acquaintances,

as "the famous Rose Garden Letter." The letter writer, sick of the building he* saw underway at the time in Cape May (which, in those days, was just starting out with its Victorian Village Urban Renewal Project), was lamenting about what he saw as the demise of the authentic Victorian heritage old Cape May held. Fortunately, a number of forces — not the least of which were market place economics — Cape May’s Victorian charm caught on (thanks in large measure to outsiders who weren't so used to the forest that they couldn't see the tress). THIS WHOLE thought process came back to me Sunday while I was digging in the garden. My plot is about 15 x 30. It seems much larger when you spade by hand, but part of

the pretense of being a baek-to-nature farmer is the hard work. At any rate, as I was getting my exercise (to say nothing of callouses) turning over the garden, I kept stopping every once in a while because I thought I saw out

of the corner of my eye a horse looking at me. I was repeatedly fooled by my peripheral vision which was picking up the covered feeding trough on neighbor Norman Howell’s next door property Now for Norman, this really is Horsepountry, for he and his family raise horses. As a matter of fact, right now there are no less than four brood mares in foal. For the uninitiated (like myself until moving out here four years ago), that’s, the correct way of saying he’s got four pregnant horses ready te give birth. ALSO WHILE I was digging, I was thinking/about my dad. He was a doctor in Camden and I was one of four sons. We lived in the house that also doubled as his doctor’s office, and he was constantly having to

come up stairs and tell us youngsters to "stop horsing around!" That phrase along with "frisky as a colt" became more meaningful, to me shortly after we bought this old farmho«iBe out here in the country. And so did the sounds of hoof beats on the ground in the black of night. And the close-up smell of a horse. The marvelous beauty of a gangling foal kicking up and itching to run within days of its birth. The transition of these adorable creatures into strong, extremely fast colts or fillies and, later still, ywy-lings, their musculature^pling and glistening in the sun after a rainstorm. I AM VERY FOND of telling our city friends that "horses make great neighbors.” I really believe that, and I’m anxiously awaiting the next few days and weeks as the Iast»t "crop" of horses cbme along. y • There is only one rear window on the second floor of our old farmhouse. It looks out over a red tin roof to my garden — and the horses in my neighbor's horse pen. Just beyond the end of the field is an old

cedar tfee. And in the distance there’s a wind mill (the old fashioned kind, not the turbo generators going up nowadays). This is what horse coun-

try really is. I've still got my rose garden — and the bonus is I can partake of all the beauty without any of the drudgery. — John A.

Country Note

The Incredible Waste Dumping Snafu

It is incomprehensible that the federal and state arms of government are seemingly acting out of sync when it comes to something as basic as clean water. Yet, that is apparently what happened in the recent matter involving septage wastes in Cape May County Last week’s paper carried a frontpage headline proclaiming ‘County Without Septage Dump Site.' The article told how the state Dept, of Environmental Protection had decreed that (he disposal of septage wastes within the county was no longer permitted since there currently aren’t any adequate facilities to handle such wastes. This week there's a story on how the various authorities involved have reached a compromise whereby septage wastes will indeed continue to be disposed of in-county for the most part. ASIDE FROM THE CONFUSION — and certainly there must have been some anxious moments by haulers, and persons concerned about the threat of illegal dumping — the most incredible thing is that the state apparently had no idea of what the federal government was up to, and vice versa Under the state DEP plan, septage wastes were to have been \rueked up to Middlesex County for disposal there, more than 100 miles from the Jersey Cape. It turns out, we

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For Greatness

by Arthur R. Hall To President Reagan Hard work and self reliance are whAt made this country great and wiH keep this country gre^J in this ever more competitive world My Congress work with you in achieving your fundamental reordering of government.

Arthur R Hall writes from Wildwood.

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learned, that the reason the Middlesex County site was chosen was because it was the only facility in the state that would accept septic wastes (probably because of the revenue the material would provide). IT TURNED OUT HOWEVER — and this is the unbelievable part — that the same upstate sewerage authority was among several in New Jersey which were under orders to stop dumping setoage sludge in the ocean by mid-April. A total of five sewerage authorities in the Garden State were involved in the order from the federal Environmental Protection Agency. The EPA order was forthcoming after it became apparent the five authorities wouldn’t be able to meet the Dec. 31, 1981 federal ban on ocean dumping. ' What it boils down to, is that on one hand the state was going to mandate that septage wastes from Cape May County be disposed of a hundred fhiles away in a facility which ends up dumping its sludge in the ocean. The possibility exists that the septage sludge trucked a hundred miles north could perhaps have epded up floating off our shores — a potential which appears as remote as the

by Ima Byrd Tony flew down from Three Mile Island this morning to visit me. He was all upset about his future. "There is real danger for seagulls and other rodent lovers," he said seriously "A nice juicy mouse has always been considered a delicacy by most of my friends, but it seems those days are gone forever. I tell you 387, more than half of my friends have developed strange humps on their breasts and all their feathers are falling into the Susquehanna River." "WHAT’S THE MATTER?" I asked curiously. "Well,’' replied Tony, "it sedms that the rodents around our homes on TMI are radioactive. It’s bad enough that nuclear mess over there has contaminated us, but now those idiot experts tell the humans not to worry that the rodents aren’t leaving the island.” "Well, can they get off the island?” I asked. "Of course they can," said Tony angrily. "I flew down here didn't I and I’ve been eating those radioactive mice for months. Don’t those experts know if we eat radioactive mice and fly to the mainland the condition might spread? Where's their common sense? With all their specialization these days they seem to have completely forgotten that everything in life depends to a degree on everything else. Destroy part of the life chain and it’s bound to have some effect on the condition of everyone and everything. Not right away, mind you, but eventually. "WOULDIV’T IT BE IRONIC." Tony continued, "if we all became extinct because of some radioactive mice the experts said were no threat to humanity?" Tony spread his wings and rested by the water. "In fact," he said, "I’m feeling pretty sick myself these days. It must be all those hot mice I’ve consumed."

existing cooperation the state and federal governments. MAYBE BOTH GOVERNMENTS (the federal EPA and the state DEP) did indeed know that a sewerage authority licensed to receive septage wastes was also an ocean dumpter. If that’s the case, it’s all the more incredible. Because then it becomes an example of governmentsanctioned upstream dumping — a lunacy akin to the old out of sight, out of mind mentality. IF THAT IS THE CASE, why has the state agreed to a compromise whereby the septage wastes (which are mostly liquid) will be dumped on selected farm fields within the county? Surely this possibility existed before the state came up with its mandate involving the energyinefficent trucking of wastes long distances. Granted, the dumping of waste water on green fields may be less hazardous to the environment (in fact, it might be beneficial), but surely the dumping of concentrated wastes such as sewage sludge in the ocean is downright stupid. The Herald

Tony looked down at the beach and water. "Just be glad you live here 387," he said sadly. "I wish I had brought my family up here but now it’s too late, they’re all sick. If only I had listened to my mother," Tony said. "She always said to stay by the open sea, not to move inland. But when all thdse condominiums wiped out my land and the dredgers and polluters wiped out my feeding grounds, I figured I’d start a new life for myself by moving to Pennsylvania. I guess I panicked. Three Mile Island looked like the perfect place to land and raise a family. We werr happy there for awhile, so happy in fact that other gulls followed me. Well, said Tony, it’s too late now, nobody wants a radioactive gull to move back and cont4b*nate their environment...it’s too late,” he repeatdfPiM* I SAT BY MY FRIEND for a long time — not too close mind you but near enough to converse with him. The wind picked up the waves and tossed them across the sands brushing us with their salty foam. Tony didn’t move or speak. The tide was coming in ant it was getting dark. I moved back from the surf and motioned to my friend to do the same, but he didn’t move. I thought of something to say, to urge him to begin again, but he seemed to be asleep and I didn't want to disturb him. Perhaps he liked the water lapping at his wings, I thought. Night came on quickly and my friend still didn’t move. Suddenly as I looked at him he seemed to be glowing, transmitting some kind of strange, eerie light. The waves lashed at him beating against him as if trying to put out the light — trying to cover the pain. TMI Tony and his contaminated glowing body disappeared in the next big wave. He was right...It was too late...to late.

NEXT WEEK: Swainton’a Folly

British Seagull 387 TMI Toriy