Milford, NJ

One of my favorite small towns, Milford on the Delaware River, where my dad was raised, staying with another family after his mother died. I can make out Mom's Cafe on Main St. just over the bridge, where you can get scrapple and grits for breakfast; the house on the creek, across from the mill pond, where my dad stayed, and where Mom and I stayed during the early WWII years (I'd catch frogs in the glass milk bottles of the era at the creek; some of dad's ashes are in the creek, in the SE quadrant of the photo).

From my memoir:

I do have vivid memories of Milford, the town, but these
come later, during visits after the war when my father had the
movie camera to document everyday events. In Milford, before I
was school age, my life was carefree and safe, as idyllic a
childhood as any found in storybooks. The Godown house was
near a large park with a millpond, from which I collected frogs
in glass milk bottles. Apparently someone in the Godown family
slaughtered chickens for dinner because I have vivid memories
of headless chickens running around the yard in a frenzy of
survival. One such occasion was captured on film.

My first sexual memory happened in Milford. A bunch of
kids were sleeping in the Godown’s back yard. One was a girl
perhaps five years older than I, and I recall her teaching me to
“hump her” as we lay side-by-side in our separate sleeping bags.
I recall no particular titillation from this exercise but the act
itself is lodged in my memory – and this act was not captured on
home movies.

Milford has changed little over the years, at least from the
perspective of an adult who only visits every decade or so. Main
Street looks more like I remember than most downtown areas I
revisit.

A part of my father’s ashes are in the creek in Milford’s
park. Dad died suddenly, mysteriously (a story I will tell later),
when I was in New Jersey to bring him back to Oregon so he’d
be closer to his two sons. After mother died, Dad had moved
back to New Jersey to be close to his many relatives, but Bill
and I – selfishly, I think – convinced Dad he should live closer
to us.

When Dad died before we flew west together, I had him
cremated. I decided to put a portion of his ashes in the creek in
Milford and divide what was left between Bill and me. Dad’s
death was a shock to everyone but an even greater shock was
that he wanted to be cremated, which of course I honored.
Cremation was not something approved by the good
Presbyterians of Milford. When I announced what I was going
to do, and invited anyone to be in the park to share the moment,
I had no takers.

Then a funny thing happened. In small groups, people started coming to the park to witness my scattering of the ashes: women mostly, some with their children; but a few men as well, taking time from work to be there. Several dozen friends and relatives shared the occasion, and part of Dad’s ashes were scattered into the local creek.

I visit the creek whenever I visit Milford, and whenever I
visit Milford, not very much seems to have changed.