“If these walls could talk, I wonder what secrets they’d tell.”
— Gayle Forman, writer
That question was evidently on my mind many years ago. April 3, 1975, to be exact. More to the point, it was the first sentence in the first published news story bearing my byline. The first week of my first newspaper job.
That story and my writing career began, “If buildings could talk, there is one in Naples that could render volumes of Morris County history.”
That same long-gone edifice crossed my mind a couple of weeks ago as I turned off Main Street onto Cedar Avenue in “downtown” Naples.
Remembering the structure and the story was a momentary respite from my reason to be where I was on Aug. 26. A memorial service at the First United Methodist Church for long-time The Monitor newspaper publisher and friend, Morris Craig.
Writing that story about the time-ravaged structure flashing through my memory coincided with my going to work for Craig. It sat on a hillside between the church and Main Street. Locals also remembered it as the place where previous generations conducted the essential business of justice. While the 1975 tenants of the one-time JP’s office referred to it as the “Naples Courthouse,” they would argue that current dealings were the more critical proceedings.
And those tenants were important. Important enough that the property’s owner, the local bank, ensured the occupants had a place to go before the scheduled demolition of the old Naples office ever started.
The sound of gavels hammering out justice had been replaced by dominoes drumming on tabletops by the time I was there.
And where “guilty” or “not guilty” was once the plea, different questions were asked now, like, “Who dealt this mess? Didn’t get but one five out of the whole hand.”
The floor was littered with half-burned matches, cigarette butts and spit cans. Every wall had given up its last remnant of flaking paint. Electrical wires ran up the wall and across the ceiling, ending in a single-bulb light fixture that glowed just enough to distinguish a double-five from a trey deuce.
Occupants sat on an array of cast-off chairs of all descriptions. My entrance drew only a few raised eyebrows from those not profoundly buried in the game.
“An average afternoon,” I wrote, “Might find the likes of Jack Vissering, Hub Buchman, C.V. Ward and Luther Morris around one table.
And maybe Orb Gibbs, Hoyt Nash, Hugh Ashford and Hugh Whitecotton.
Onlookers included Weldon Ballard, Jimmy Endsley and Dan Foster.”
The exact age of the building appeared to be one of its better-guarded secrets. Local legends pointed to the 1920s as being the last time justice was carried out there.
Facts were lost to time, and no one seemed to recall a date. Or care.
Except that one time someone happened to think about when it was almost recalled to duty. “J. Bun Hall was the Naples J.P.,” said one of the players, adding, “Gimme ten on that play.” About 10 to 12 years before the domino players took over, they said.
Seems a flatland tourist from out west, somewhere near Greenville, was cited for speeding through Naples. The accused insisted on contesting the ticket for his day in court.
A little grooming was in order, and Bunn asked the fire department to hose down the building and wash out the dust and cobwebs. The business of hand-picking a jury from Main Street businesses commenced. But discretion became the better part of valor before a jury could be seated. The offender reportedly decided his best option might be to pay the fine and be on his way.
A list of names hung on a nearby wall. “The Final Roster” was a list of players who had gone on to “boot hill,” explained Gibbs. He said his daughter, Margaret Roberts, in Omaha, did the scribe work.
Dates on the roster went back into the 50s, begging the obvious question of how long the games had been going on. “I was road commissioner in 1951 and they were here then,” said Gibbs.
“Whenever someone dies,” Gibbs continued, “We make up for flowers and send ‘em to the family. We put on ‘em ‘From the Domino Boys.’” “We also pay our own electric and gas bills. Ain’t no arguments. We divide whatever it is and put in our share. Two bits or whatever it comes to.”
“Who’s usually the big winner?” I asked.
“No one,” said Gibbs.
“We all swap up and just play for fun. We play from ‘bout 1:30 (p.m.) to suppertime. We don’t play much at night anymore.
But we play every day.”
The spellbinding sound of shuffling dominoes on a Spring afternoon rendered the mind indifferent to the outside world. A spell broken only occasionally by comments.
“It’s about time,” someone says. “Look at all these fives. I didn’t get ere’ one in the last hand.”
“Got rid of that one,” is heard from another table where a double-six is played dangerously close to dominoing.
“Remembering that another world does exist makes it necessary to leave and close the door behind me,” I wrote in conclusion.
Transforming a leisurely time from the past back into the hustle and bustle of today. And wondering what secrets the old place would take with it in a few days. When the walls came down.
