OCTOBER 25, 2023 – The one positive feature of the negative condition of the country toward the end of 2020 was that the housing market had not collapsed. I remained sanguine that with patient persistence, we’d one day still realize significant value from the Rutherford properties as a mixed-use, multi-family housing development. Progress, however, remained hobbled by delays in the approval process. Our contacts within the Rutherford Borough Hall—those supportive of our development concept and sympathetic to our cause—advised that our prospects would likely improve with the anticipated outcome of the upcoming mayoral and council elections in November 2020.
Politics. And to borrow the phrase most often attributed to Tip O’Neill, the legendary Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives from 1977 through 1987, “All politics is local.”
We followed the advice coming out of the borough hall and deferred submission of our petition for a determination that our seven parcels were “an area in need of redevelopment”—the threshold step in the long journey ahead, an expedition delayed by Covid and now by politics. The election results were favorable, but we’d have to wait again before realizing the benefit. As Charles Sarlo, our land use lawyer, explained, even after the election we’d need to delay another couple of months while the new council members were installed and the all-important building committee was reconstituted.
After an exchange of expletives, Cliff and I held on to our seats, if not our cool, and . . . waited.
Then, without warning, all plans, all hopes were blown sky high—by another developer in town. After his proposed condo project on a former industrial site on the edge of Rutherford had won approval, he decided to “go whole hog” and apply for approval of a significant expansion of the venture. Initially, the authorities had gone along with the bigger plan, but the result was a firestorm of community opposition. Every borough official was suddenly on a volcanic seat. The upshot was that popular opinion now bitterly opposed any new development in Rutherford.
This jarring turn of events coincided with specific opposition from our next door neighbors. Without any knowledge of our plans or thinking whatsoever, the neighbors launched a website called, “Save Lincoln Avenue” and campaigned against us before we’d even stepped to the starting line. Their sentiments made no objective sense. For decades, their property had bordered a haunted house and the backside of a “Dickensian Village.” Beautiful. And after we razed the haunted house at 50 Lincoln Avenue, the neighbors had an unobstructed view of the garbage house at 42 Lincoln.
In my naïveté, I suggested in an email to Cliff, Charles Sarlo and Tom Sullivan that I make direct contact with the wily neighbors, show them our concept drawings and turn these adversaries into our enthusiastic allies. I envisioned that with the right approach, we could turn a lemon into lemonade: convert next-door opponents into eager supporters to help us defeat broader community opposition to new development.
“‘Absolutely not,’ says Steve,” was Cliff’s response the day after I’d floated the idea. Charles agreed. He relayed the story of a developer he’d represented in an aging community elsewhere in Bergen County. His client had acquired a large parcel and assembled a proposal for an attractive senior living facility. To get ahead of any opposition the client produced a friendly letter and neighbor-friendly brochure and distributed them to everyone within walking distance of the subject property. He was even prepared to follow-up with a personal, door-to-door campaign to assure people that just as I had proposed to our team, the developer was pursuing a “win-win” strategy.
To his astonishment, the developer was figuratively tarred and feathered and virtually chased out of town before he could say, “Bu-bu-bu-but wait a sec!”
The moral of the story was that the developer’s well-intentioned pre-emptive olive branch had been turned into a sharp attack sword against him and driven straight into the heart of his proposed community-friendly project.
We decided to fly under the radar. We ignored the neighbors’ website and quietly watched the other proposed development in town go down in flames. I felt the heat during a public Zoom meeting of the borough council. I’d joined strictly to observe and never unmuted myself. My first observation was that I had plenty of company—212 citizens (in a community of only 18,000), plus the mayor, council members and borough attorney. Second, the participants appeared to be fairly normal folks—no cross-eyed Martians with green pointed ears and a set of triple antennae growing out of slimy, hairless pates. In fact, the many people who spoke were articulate, well-informed professionals, including an architect with a prestigious New York firm and several attorneys; their opinions projected influence. Third, the other developer was toast, and we’d be skewered if we pressed ahead anytime soon.
I slinked away from the Zoom session but not before I’d been noticed. On the chat screen someone wrote, “I think someone from the Holman family is in this Zoom meeting.” I exited the gathering and turned my laptop off and unplugged the charger just for good measure . . . then laughed at my temporary bout of irrational paranoia—inherited, no doubt, from Mother.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
