Morristown novelist James Ward says it's how Old Stanley died in his worn shack that was wedged between luxurious houses on the Jersey Shore that cemented his story in Ward's mind. SJN

In the late 1980s, my wife and I started vacationing every summer on a barrier island off the New Jersey shore. Every evening we walked a couple of blocks west and watched the sun color the sky and set into the bay. Something else struck me on those evenings – an old wooden shack, discordantly wedged between two of the large luxurious houses that lined the bay front.

It interested me — the stark contrast between the shack and its neighbors. It had no spacious multi-tiered deck. No outdoor furniture or entertainment center or hot tub. No six-figure speed boat at the ready. There was just the sagging two-section hovel, with a small weather-beaten pier and a wooden rowboat bobbing alongside. The presumed owner also interested me. I often saw him standing at his pier, an old man in bib overalls cleaning his catch of the day and feeding the scraps to the seagulls. I eventually learned his story from a long-time Island resident.

His name was Stanley, but everybody called him Old Stanley. He had cobbled together his humble shelter before World War II when the Island was still an isolated fishing spot. A solitary man, he had no spouse or relatives or visitors. He never left the Island. His expenses were few, his wants fewer. He eked out his minimalist living fishing and crabbing, indifferent to the world around him.

That world changed rapidly. By the late 1950s, with the construction of a new causeway, the island had become a destination for motorized vacationers. By our summertime visits of the 1980s, it was swelling with new construction. Waterfront property, ocean and bayside, soared in value.

The 1990s brought an increased building frenzy. Modest waterfront getaways were systematically demolished and replaced with conspicuous construction. The law of supply and demand caused the value of Stanley’s jewel of a property to soar. He received a continuous and escalating string of offers, from speculators itching to bulldoze his shack and build a mini-mansion in its place. But Stanley wouldn’t sell. He wouldn’t even listen.

The impasse between the old man and the speculators became a siege of sorts, until Stanley died just before the new millennium. Now there is a grand three-story on his former property. It is replete with modern amenities, from the garage’s breakaway walls to the roof’s observation deck. Progress, many would say.

But lately, I’ve been thinking more about Old Stanley, and I think I know why. Born and raised in the relatively quiescent city of Buffalo, New York, I have now lived in Morristown, New Jersey for 40 years. In the last decade, Morristown has rapidly changed from a quaint county seat to a vibrant mini-city. That’s a testament to the attraction of the place. But for longtime residents, this can be disorienting, and I have noticed my increasing desire for continuity.

By continuity, I mean a connection to the places that link us to our past. When I walk past a spot where some emotive building once stood and see in its place a new but soulless townhouse or office building, I feel a sense of loss, like I did when Stanley’s place disappeared.

Perhaps, it was how Old Stanley died that cemented his story in my mind. He died in his old shack, as I’m sure he would have wanted. The precise spot is what makes a fitting end to his story, and I like to think he purposefully chose it. He died in his tiny bathroom, lying on the floor with his body wedged between the door and tub, so that when the police came to check on him, they couldn’t get into the bathroom. Ultimately, the fire company gained access and removed the body.

So, Old Stanley held out to his last breath, and then some. Now whenever I read about citizens trying to save a proud old structure from demolition, I think of Stanley. Then, I tip my hat to him.

James Ward is a novelist and short story writer from Morristown.

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