CNJ+ December 2025

THE OLD WART TREE By Richard Mabey Jr.

I come from a long line of story tellers. My pa ternal grandfather, Watson Mabey, would often sit at his big, easy chair in the southwest corner of the big living room at the old Mabey Home stead and tell my cousins and I stories of his days of working on the old Morris Canal. My dad, Richard Mabey Sr., was also a great storyteller, in his own right. I dearly remember, in Dad’s role as Scoutmaster, he would tell the boys the most wonderful and magnificent ghost stories, while we all sat around the campfire. I was six years old, during the Summer of 1960, when I first took a walk down to the old Mor ris Canal in Lincoln Park. Dad held my hand. Grandpa Mabey walked with us. There was a path at the end of Mabey Lane that led right to the old Mabey Icehouse, that my great grandfather, Wil liam Mabey had built with his father, before the Civil War.

I remember, in my early childhood, thinking that the wooded path to the old Morris Canal was rather eerie, and a bit scary. Our family had its share of legends and folklore. My great grand mother, Dora Mabey, often spoke of the ghost of the painted pony that would walk up and down Mabey Lane. Grandpa Mabey often spun yarns about the mystical buck, with long antlers and coal-black eyes. And then there was the legend of the Old Wart Tree. The Old Wart Tree was a most eerie, haunting, scary tree. It was actually filled with a lot of bumps and nodules that very much looked like warts. As you walked down the wooded path, the Old Wart Tree proudly stood to the right-hand side. The old tree was surrounded by tall thistle bushes. All of which added to the ambiance of the haunting quality of this eerie tree. Many times, as I walked down the wooded path with Dad and Grandpa, my grandfather would tell me that whoever had the courage to put his right palm against one of the warts of the Old Wart Tree, would be a marked man. That whatever he wished to accomplish in life, would come to the pass, if he deeply believed it, as he held his right hand against the old, haunting tree. It was during the early Summer of 1965, when I was 11 years old and had just completed the sixth grade, that I took a walk down the wooded path to the old canal, all by myself. When I came to the point where the Old Wart Tree stood, to my right-hand side, I stopped and just stared at the old, eerie tree. I remember that I felt that it was calling me. But it was surrounded by thistle bushes that were almost as tall as I was. I wanted so much to walk to the Old Wart Tree, but a deep fear stopped me. But then, I heard the echo of Grandpa’s rich tenor voice, telling me not to be afraid. I hesitantly walked to the haunting tree. I remember fighting the long, thick thistle branches. When I reached the Old Wart Tree, I in wardly trembled. I remember that my hand quivered as I raised my right hand and placed it against one of the big warts of that magnificent tree. I bravely held my hand square onto the big wart and pressed my hand, against the side of the tree,

From 1995, a photo that my dad took of the Old Wart Tree.

with all of my strength. Then inwardly prayed to become a writer. My body gently shook for a few moments, as I kept my hand upon the big wart. I took my hand off the tree’s side and continued my walk down to the old Morris Canal. In September of 1965, I became the Scribe for the Beaver Patrol of Boy Scout Troop 170. I was now a Second Class Scout. The Beaver Patrol had a little monthly newsletter. As Patrol Scribe it was my job to edit, type up and write most of the stories for the Beaver Patrol Journal. I took the job very seriously. It was shortly thereafter that Dad became Scoutmaster of Troop 170. In October of 1965, I was hospitalized with a serious case of Rheumatic Fever. From my hospital bed, I began writing little articles about Troop 170 for the old Lincoln Park Herald. The prayer I prayed for at the foot of the Old Wart Tree had come to pass. At the age of 12, I became a published writer. In memory, I often return to the Old Wart Tree. It no longer proudly stands. A housing development now stands where the woods at the end of Mabey Lane once flourished. All things must pass. Now at 70, fighting a severe case of Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy, I find comfort in the remembrance of the echo of my grandfather’s resonating ten or voice, telling me about the legend of the Old Wart Tree. I often wondered how my life would have been, had I never earnestly prayed before that old, eerie, haunting, wart-filled tree. Richard Mabey Jr. is a freelance writer. He hosts a YouTube Channel titled, “Richard Mabey Presents.” Richard most recently published a book of poetry and short stories. He can be reached at richardmabeyjr@hotmail.com.

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CNJ+ | FORMERLY THE MILLSTONE TIMES

DECEMBER 2025