By Richard Mabey Jr.
Now, at 71, I find myself dreaming more and more about moments that I shared with my paternal grandfather, Watson Mabey. I walked the forest path with Grandpa, from the end of Mabey Lane to the tow path of the old Morris Canal, over a hundred times in my childhood and youth.
During the summer of 1965, when I was just 11 years old, Grandpa and I came across the magnificent buck on one of our walks to the old Morris Canal. It was a moment that, to this day, holds a dear and precious place in my heart.
I grew up in the old Mabey Homestead that my great-grandfather, William Mabey, built in 1890. On Thanksgiving Day, Dad’s sister and seven brothers, with their spouses and children, would gather at the old farmhouse to feast and have heartfelt fellowship.
My paternal grandmother, Bertha Mabey, would peel apples for apple pie very early in the morning. While the women cooked in the kitchen, Dad and his brothers would gather around in the big enclosed front porch and tell tales of deep-sea fishing excursions, grand adventures of hunting, and fond remembrances of growing up together.
And in the midst of all this, Grandpa would sit in his easy chair in the living room, with all of his grandchildren sitting on the floor at his feet, and tell stories of working on the old Morris Canal.
There was something very different about Grandpa’s tales that he told on the morning of Thanksgiving 1967. I was 14 years old at the time and in my freshman year at Boonton High School. I was a sensitive boy and gifted with a certain amount of intuition about things.
Grandpa had just had a stroke a few months prior to that Thanksgiving Day. For all practical purposes, the stroke left his left arm almost useless. But Grandpa did his best to hide it.
Usually, Grandpa would tell stories of his remembrances of working as the Chief Engineer of Incline Plane Ten East, which was located at the Towaco and Lincoln Park border along the old Morris Canal. But this particular Thanksgiving morning, Grandpa talked a lot about Heaven.
He told us that he had a good friend in Jesus. And he talked a lot about his brother Earl, who was killed in battle in France during World War I.
Grandpa spoke of angels — how they would visit him at nighttime. There was a solemn, reverent quality to Grandpa’s stories during that Thanksgiving morning of 1967. It was mixed with a bit of sadness.
I remember Grandpa spoke of the Majestic Buck, as he called the wonderful, magnificent, mystical buck that walked the forest behind the old Mabey Homestead. He talked of a time when he was younger and had the giant buck lined up in the scope of his rifle but could not find it within himself to pull the trigger. Grandpa would often say that the Majestic Buck was a true mystical beast.
We used to eat our big Thanksgiving feast at about two o’clock in the afternoon. Grandpa always sat at the head of the dining room table and the three or four additional folding tables that were set up from the dining room and onto the formal living room.