History Podcasts

Newburgh Str - History

Newburgh Str - History

Newburgh
(Str: dp. 12,330; 1. 418'; b. 54'; dr. 25'; s. 11 k.; cpl. 118)

Newburgh (No. 1369) was built at the Newburgh Shipyards, Newburgh, N.Y., for the USSB as a cargo carrier. She was launched 2 September 1918, and commissioned into NOTS 31 December, Lt. Comdr. J. D. McLeod, USNRF, in command.

She departed New York 25 January 1919 with a cargo of food consigned to the Northern Food Administration, called briefly at Falmouth, England 15 February, and then steamed to Rotterdam to off load her cargo.

After bunkering and ballasting at Plymouth, England Newburgh departed for New York 3 March. She arrived 9 May following a stopover at the Azores necessitated by propeller damage sustained at sea.

After a second crossing to Rotterdam with an army cargo, Newburgh returned to New York, decommissioned l9 June, and was returned to the USSB in whose custody she remained until 1931.


NEWBURGH

NEWBURGH, a township south of Cleveland, was an early population and economic center for the area. Bounded by Cleveland on the north, WARRENSVILLE on the east, INDEPENDENCE on the south, and the CUYAHOGA RIVER on the west, old Newburgh was on higher ground than Cleveland and thus avoided the outbreaks of malaria that hampered development to the north—but not wolves, which protested but did not stop settlement. In the early 1800s, with 10 families in residence, Newburgh was more prominent than Cleveland, described as "six miles from Newburgh." It was organized as a township in 1814. As early as 1799, mills built at the cataract of MILL CREEK fostered economic prosperity, and soon a main coach road (later called Broadway) was cut through the area. Newburgh's fertile soil and good pastureland encouraged farming, but the waterpower attracted heavy industry, which ultimately dominated the area economy. In the 1840s the Cleveland & Pittsburgh (later Pennsylvania) Railroad was built through the township and provided easy access to shipping. The township's most famous industry, the Cleveland Rolling Mill, was started in 1857 by DAVID AND JOHN JONES to reroll iron rails. The mills changed the ethnic makeup of the community. New England and Manx settlers were outnumbered first by Welsh iron puddlers, then by IRISH, and finally by Polish and Czech mill laborers.

Newburgh's early prominence made it a likely site for the county seat, but Cleveland was selected in 1809 because of its location as a port of entry from Lake Erie at the Cuyahoga River. As a result, beginning in 1823, Newburgh was eroded through annexation to Cleveland, as well as to E. Cleveland and Independence townships. The heart of Newburgh—the area bounded by Union Ave. on the north, by E. 93rd St. on the east, and by current city borders on the west and south—became part of Cleveland in 1873. This section of town became Cleveland's 18th ward, dubbed "the iron ward." The remaining portions of the township were incorporated as the Village of Newburgh in 1874, but additional annexations by Cleveland in 1878, 1893, and 1894 further compressed its size. In 1904 the village of NEWBURGH HTS. was incorporated, but this entity was further reduced in size with the organization of the Twp. of S. Newburgh (GARFIELD HTS.) in 1904 and the Twp. of Corlett in 1906.


Archives & Libraries

Newburgh has the Laing Museum which houses both artefacts and information about the town and its history.

The ScotlandsPlaces website lets users search across national databases by geographical location. It includes, amongst other material,

  • catalogue entries for maps and plans held by the National Records of Scotland, Edinburgh some maps and plans can be viewed
  • photos and details of historical buildings and archaeological sites recorded by the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland, Edinburgh
  • 17th and 18th century tax rolls
  • Ordnance Survey [place] Name Books
  • an opportunity to transcribe thousands of historic documents

The Mount's 70-acre campus in Newburgh is a fantastic place to live, study, and play.

From nature and history to arts and entertainment, there's plenty to discover.

Students find internships and experiences from Albany to New York City and beyond.


Parish history

The history of a parish includes the establishment of a place of worship, the buildings that are added, important dates and the pastors, priests and religious who served. Additionally, it is a collection of stories, memories and legendary anecdotes. Because of this wonderful mix of fact and remembrance, this is some of the history and is a part of the on-going record of the Church of St. Patrick and Our Lady of the Lake.

Much has been already written of the early days of the parish. As early as 1816, Mass was being celebrated for the 14 families in the Newburgh area. It wasn’t until 1836 that the parish was established and Father Patrick Duffy, an immigrant priest from Ireland, was appointed pastor.

The first pastors were men of vision and trust. Their parishioners had to sacrifice much for the establishment and growth of their parish. In just over sixty years, the church was built and later enlarged, a school was established in the church basement and two cemeteries were consecrated. A rectory and Columbus Hall were built. The Church of St. Joseph was started to serve the people in the New Windsor area. The girls’ school was built and staffed by the Sisters of Charity and later by the Dominican Sisters of Newburgh. The boys’ school was erected and run by the Christian Brothers.

In 1914, after having served as a young priest at St. Patrick’s, Monsignor Henry O’Carroll returned as pastor and thus began his 43 years as shepherd of his flock in Newburgh. During his time, a new church tower was erected, three new marble altars were installed and the cornerstone for Our Lady of the Lake was blessed. The Wheelman Building was purchased for the establishment of St. Patrick’s High School for young men and buildings were acquired to house the staff of the three schools. Many of our life-long parishioners would be able to regale charming stories of the pastor who was both stern and loving. A trout fisherman of historic legend, his real calling was to be a "fisher of men." Monsignor O’Carroll’s death on May 7, 1957 left the congregation without the spiritual rock who had led them through two world wars, the great depression and the Cold War. He was an honored clergyman of the Archdiocese, the "first citizen of Newburgh", but most of all a simple priest from County Kerry who loved his God and his people beyond all else.

In 1957, a new elementary school housing both male and female students was built and the high school was renovated under the leadership of Monsignor Francis Doersam.

In the 1960’s, Father John Filippelli was an instructor at Epiphany College. Eventually he began hearing the confessions of the Spanish speaking boarders from the surrounding colleges and academies. He soon became well known throughout the Spanish speaking community and was contacted for weddings, confessions and the celebration of Mass.

In 1962, Monsignor William J. Guinan, the new pastor was faced with a changing culture in the city and the challenge of a post Vatican II Church. With his never ending energy and his jovial personality, he was instrumental in helping his parishioners and his Newburgh neighbors trust in the parish and the city.

During 1962, Father Filippelli approached Monsignor Guinan and brought to his attention that the number of the Spanish families had grown. Latin was the primary language for Mass. Father Filippelli was directed to preach both in English and Spanish on Sundays. However, the use of both languages at Mass proved difficult for both English and Spanish speaking parishioners. Around this time, the Oblate Sisters of the Holy Redeemer from Spain arrived. A farm in Cornwall NY was donated by Dr. Stillman. This became the Sisters' residence and served as the first Hispanic Center. During this time, efforts were made to improve Our Lady of the Lake and additional masses were added to accommodate the increased attendance.

In 1963, the massive restoration of St. Patrick’s was begun. Parishioners will remember mass in the school gym for two years until the new church was completed. The first mass celebrated was Midnight Mass, 1965. The new Church retained the two St. Patrick's windows from the old Church, and created a new, simple and sacred place of worship. Parishioners donated many beautiful items, including stained glass windows, and the Stations of the Cross.

In 1966, the first Parish Council was formed. Committees were started such as Pro Life, Liturgy and Finance. The directives of the Second Vatican Council saw the start of lectors and eucharistic ministers drawn from the laity. Father Filippelli approached the new pastor, Bishop John Fearns, informing him that the use of the vernacular was necessary due to the increase of Spanish speaking parishioners. It was approved and a Mass in Spanish was incorporated.

In 1972, when Monsignor Philip J. Murphy was made pastor, population shifts had occurred in Newburgh. It was economically necessary to close the school and convent and place the parish's efforts on a growing religious education program. The Diaconate was established and continues to be a vital addition to our parish ministry. Father Filippelli was succeeded by Father Neil Graham, who continued with the previous ministry and was assisted by the Daughters of Jesus. With the aid of the Sisters and several parishioners, Father Graham organized home visitations to further the teaching of religious education.

In 1973, Father Rogelio Cuesta, O.P. was named Director of the Hispanic Apostolate of Newburgh and Beacon. The Daughters of Jesus and Father Cuesta formed the pastoral crew. They initiated the Charismatic Prayer Group, bible classes, and the program of Luz y Vida of Monsignor Garmendia.

In 1976, the Hispanic Center moved from Cornwall to Newburgh and St. Patrick’s School became the new location for the Hispanic Religious Education Program.

In 1977, four African American families attended Our Lady of the Lake. The men were New York City Police Officers who had relocated from New York City to the Town of Newburgh. Many other African Americans joined them at Our Lady of the Lake.

In 1978, Father Tomas B. Fenlon became the director of the Hispanic Apostolate of Newburgh and Beacon. Father Fenlon started the “Comite de Servicio” with the assistance of the Daughters of Jesus. Together, their pastoral team brought religious instruction to a new level. They initiated the Renew Program, introduced Palm Sunday processions, Seder Dinner during Holy Week, processions visiting all churches and the reenactment of the Stations of the Cross. Father Fenlon added the celebrations of other Patron Feast Days for Argentina, Columbia, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Honduras, Mexico and Peru. He also continued the Puerto Rican celebration of St. John the Baptist.

In 1979, Auxiliary Bishop Most Reverend Austin B. Vaughn was appointed pastor, adding an administrator in the person of Father Donald Whelan. New enthusiasm became evident under the guidance of the Bishop whose cherub-like smile greeted everyone. Liturgies were enhanced by the ceaseless energy of Father Whalen. The Christian Brothers' residence was re-opened to house three Dominican Sisters. Repairs were accomplished in the church, the chapel and the rectory. Both inside and outside had a new face. The parishioners’ memories would no doubt include Father Whelan's dog, Maccuchhla, who often sat in on marriage and baptismal preparations. In 1983, the soup kitchen was established and continues to operate today. During his tenure Bishop Vaughn

was a proponent of the Respect Life Movement. At the suggestion of Cardinal O’Connor African American participation started as lectors, Eucharistic Ministers, altar servers and ushers. A diverse group of parishioners began to work together to form a united group of cooperation. From this unity the St. Martin de Porres Society was formed.

In 1982, the first African American was elected to the parish council and later became its President. Several African American members were elected or appointed to the Parish Council.

In 1986, Bishop Vaughan invited Father John Budwick to come to St. Patrick's as a new administrator because of his dedication to spirituality and the poor. In 1991, he became the Pastor and in 1995 he was made a Monsignor.

During his tenure a daily holy hour and morning prayer were added. Also established was a monthly healing mass, RCIA, the bereavement team, the Father Whelan Scholarship Fund, providing funds for those seeking higher education, and we became a Renew Parish. Parishioners will remember his horticultural talents, both inside (Bishop Vaughan often referred to it as the "jungle") and outside. The geraniums over the front door of the rectory, the gardens along the alley-way and next to the rectory added to the beauty of our down-town parish.

At the same time, a group of men from Our Lady of the Lake asked if they could work on beautifying the chapel. Stain-glass windows were hand created, wood paneling, a new pulpit, and the shelf for the tabernacle were made. From Mass celebrated at O'Malley's boat house for summer vacationers in the early 20th century to five masses, the growth of the chapel is tremendous.

Monsignor Budwick was a masterful fund raiser - whether working on a capital campaign or walking miles for pledges. His efforts provided the means for projects such as a new roof on the school and gym, new sound systems in both churches, a new fence and repair of damaged stones in St. Patrick's Cemetery and road repair at Calvary Cemetery.

He recognized the gifts of the laity. He was particularly in tune with the place of women in the Church allowing for female altar servers and encouraging eucharistic ministers and lectors.

During this time, the African American parishioners established the Black Ministry and began to offer spiritual guidance to the visitors at the soup kitchen. An office for evangelization was begun. In 1987, the Black Catholic Papal Audience of New Orleans invited the African American liaison members of St. Patrick's Church, under the leadership of Father Sam Taylor, to attend an audience with Pope John Paul II in New Orleans.

A member of the Hispanic Community, became the first Hispanic President of the Parish Council. Father Louis Van Thanh welcomed Asian peoples to our multicultural parish.

In 1988, Father Siquenza was assigned to the Hispanic Apostolate. He was assisted by a Franciscan Sister. The Hispanic Community purchased a large crucifix which was placed behind the altar at St. Patrick’s. Therefore, the small crucifix was placed behind the altar at Our Lady of the Lake.

In 1989, Father Romualdo Zantua joined St. Patrick’s. It was through his efforts that the Basilica de Guadalupe in Mexico City donated an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe to St. Patrick’s Church. Additionally, the image of the Crucified Lord, El Señor de los Milagros was donated by the Peruvian community.

In 1993, during the tenure of Father Alfonso Henao the Fellowship of Divino Niño was established and the Puerto Rican Feast of Our Lady of Providence was introduced and two Sisters of the Presentation joined the Hispanic Ministry.

In 2003, Friar Jose McCarthy continued with the previous ministries. In 2004, Monsignor Budwick appointed an African American to be the first Pro Life/Respect for Life coordinator to act as a liaison between the Parish community and the Sisters of Life, the Archdiocesan Respect Life Office. In 2006, Father Tomas Bobadilla expanded the celebration of Our Lady of Guadalupe, established Bible classes and enhanced the dramatization of the Stations of the Cross. He was assisted by a Sister form the Order of Our Lady of Charity.

In January, 2009 Reverend Fernando Hernández was appointed pastor. He is the first pastor of Hispanic descent. While doing his pastoral work for English as well as Spanish speaking parishioners, he manages to be fully active in all major activities. Father Bladi Socualaya came to St. Patrick’s and having studied the Bible extensively,he shares his knowledge teaching Exegesis Bible classes. In 2010 Father Matthew Green joined the Parish Their goal is to unify the African American, English and Hispanic speaking communities.

What started with 14 Irish families and in later years added African Americans parishioners and some from a few Spanish speaking countries and one Priest has expanded tremendously today. We are now blessed with three Spanish and English speaking priests. These dedicated Priests serve all the parishioners of St. Patrick’s Church and Our Lady of the Lake totaling 1,600 adults. The Spanish Mass is attended by 500 to 600 parishioners.

Whether you were Edward Carroll and Christine McDonald who married on September 18, 1837 (one of the first three recorded marriages at St. Patrick’s) or you were Carmen Ramon and Hilergo Flores, a young Spanish-speaking couple from Puerto Rico who wished to marry, the Church of St. Patrick opened her doors. She has celebrated with generations of faithful the joys, fears, happiness and sorrow in their lives. Let us remember those who have gone before us and continue our heritage for those who will follow.

Our community of St. Patrick’s and Our Lady of the Lake strives to be a family, knowing that we are God’s children, created in His image and destined to share His heavenly glory.

Throughout the history of St. Patrick’s there have been different Religious Groups that have been at the core of the spiritual and educational development of our Parish.

We would like to extend our profound gratitude to:

Christian Brothers
Daughters of Jesus
Dominican Sisters of Newburgh
Dominican Sisters of the Sick Poor
Franciscan Sisters
Oblate Sisters of the Holy Redeemer
Sisters of Charity
Sisters of Divine Compassion
Sisters of the Presentation
Sisters of the Daughters of Mary Immaculate Sisters of Charity


We recognize the tremendous work and deep commitment of our Deacons:

Reverend William Glover
Reverend Donald Halter
Reverend Frank Russell
Reverend Fred Steup
Reverend George Walsh
Reverend Dennis White


Newburgh History

In 1763, by a law passed by the General Assembly of New York State, the Precinct of Newburgh was established. In March of 1788, the Precinct of Newburgh was organized as the Town of Newburgh. The Village of Newburgh was incorporated out of the Town in May of 1800, becoming the City of Newburgh in 1865. The remaining 45 square miles of the precinct comprises the Town of Newburgh of today.

In early days of the Town, small settlements grew up around the many mills that utilized the water power from the Quasaaick Creek, the Tent Stone Meadow Creek the Gidneytown Creek and the Orange Lake outlet. There were woolen mills and grist mills among others, as well as a black powder manufacturing complex. The many grist mills sprang up to serve the farmers who brought their grain to be processed. The Gomez Mill House, located on Mill House Road off of 9W near the Ulster County border, is the only remaining paper mill in the Town with its mill still intact. All that remains of the Gidneytown Grist Mill (which was located on Gidney Avenue, just south of North Plank Road) is its chimney. The rest of the mill was destroyed by fire in the 1800s.

In 1787, at Orange Lake, just north of South Plank Road, Thomas Machin converted a grist mill into a coinage mint. Coins of various countries were stamped out, probably without the permission of those countries. The United States had no official currency of its own at that time. Machin would produce whatever coins for which he could find a market.

Today, Algonquin Park is located at the site of a black powder manufacturing complex that operated throughout the 19 th century. The powder produced was mainly for hunting and sporting purposes, although some powder of &ldquogood quality&rdquo was provided to the military during the Civil War. When the mill was closed in the early 1900s, the land was purchased by a developer and divided into building lots. Subsequently, the part of the property that comprised the main part of the powder manufacturing complex was purchased by Colonel Frederic Delano and given to the City of Newburgh for a park. Many of the old stone buildings were incorporated into the plans for the park and rustic, natural beauty of the site was retained. It is the only remaining nineteenth century gun powder manufacturing site in New York State and, along with several surrounding properties, has been listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It is part of the Town of Newburgh&rsquos Historic District. Algonquin Powder Mill Park is located at Powder Mill and South Plank Roads and is open to the public.

Along the banks of the Hudson River at Roseton (where the massive generating plants sit today), the Rose and Jova brickyards used the large clay deposits to turn out thousands of bricks daily. During the 19 th and 20 th centuries, brick was the building material of choice in the urban communities of the Hudson Valley as well as in New York City. The Roseton brickyards provided a large share.

As shown on many old survey maps, the Town of Newburgh was home to many farms. Much of the produce grown on the farms fed the population of the City of Newburgh as well as other nearby commercial and industrial settlements. Farm products that weren&rsquot consumed locally would be shipped to areas such as New York City, usually by river sloops.

The North and South Plank Roads were the main routes to the west. They were paved with wooden planks. They were privately owned and maintained. Tolls were collected from those who use them.

Among the localities in the Town, Balmville was located to the northeast of the City of Newburgh and was named for a large cottonwood tree that dates back to the 1600s. Many of the prominent business people from the region built majestic homes there overlooking the Hudson River. Middlehope, located along 9W to the north of Balmville, was originally named Middletown due to being halfway between the City of Newburgh and the Town of Marlborough. The name was changed to Middlehope to avoid confusion with the City of Middletown. Fostertown was located to the west of 9W.

Early maps show that Post Offices were located at Savilton, Gardnertown, Coldenham, and many of the other hamlets in the Town of Newburgh. The last local hamlet to be serviced by its own post office was Roseton. The Roseton Post Office closed in the mid-1970's.

As late as 1940s, the Town of Newburgh was served by a Town Clerk and a part-time constable. We have grown to a population of over 27,000 with 165 miles of roads, a municipal water supply and are gradually providing sanitary sewer service to all areas of the Town.

Within the last twenty five years, the town began a transformation from a sparsely settled farming community into more of a &ldquobedroom&rdquo community.

Many of the Town&rsquos new residents work in the more metropolitan areas but chose to move to this area and to raise their families here because of its affordability and its rural setting. To accommodate this population growth, the old farms and open lands are giving way to housing subdivisions, shopping centers and automobile dealerships.

With the increase development of Stewart Airport, several industrial parks have been created and are being periodically expanded. The easy access to Interstate Highways 87 and 84 ensures that this expansion will continue for some time, providing many employment opportunities to area residents.

The Town&rsquos rapid development and increasing population have created problems with traffic and the need for additional public utilities and services which will need to be addressed.

Now that the Town has entered the New Millennium there is every reason to believe this pattern of growth will continue. Along with the opportunities that will be created, there will be many problems that only careful, long-term planning can resolve.


Welcome to Newburgh, Murder Capital of New York

One morning earlier this month, just before sunrise, a silent convoy of SUVs streamed into the tiny, troubled city of Newburgh, New York. Over 200 law-­enforcement officers descended on the blighted heart of town, and a company of military-style commandos prepared for a synchronized raid. Armed with M4 assault rifles and dressed in helmets, goggles, and green fatigues, SWAT teams burst into a series of dilapidated houses, shouting, “FBI! Get down!”

By late morning, twelve alleged members of the Bloods street gang were in ­federal custody. Along with eight others who were already behind bars, the young men were charged with murder, attempted murder, robbery, ­assault, possession of firearms, and conspiracy to distribute drugs. It was the third major sweep by federal authorities in ­Newburgh over the past sixteen months. At a press conference, Preet Bharara, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, said that the raid was designed to ­“restore the rule of law” in the impoverished city, where violent street gangs “have held the good citizens of Newburgh ­hostage for too long.”

Beautifully situated on a picturesque bend in the Hudson about a 90 minutes’ drive north of New York City, Newburgh does not look, from a distance, like a community mired in High Noon levels of lawlessness. But in actuality, it has less in common with bohemian Beacon, just across the river (“Williamsburg on the Hudson,” as theTimes recently anointed it), than it does with, say, West Baltimore. Despite its small size and bucolic setting, Newburgh occupies one of the most dangerous four-mile stretches in the northeastern United States. “There are reports of shootouts in the town streets, strings of robberies, and gang assaults with machetes,” an alarmed Chuck Schumer said in a Senate hearing last year, describing the situation in Newburgh as “shocking.” With a higher rate of violent crime per capita than the South Bronx or Brownsville, little Newburgh, population 29,000, is the murder capital of New York State.

For two decades, American inner-city crime has been dropping. Major urban centers from Boston to Los Angeles have seen murder rates plunge, and the most dramatic transformation of all has unfolded in New York, which in recent years, in the improbable but accurate boast of Mayor Bloomberg, has become “the safest big city in the country.” Across the country, violent crime has fallen to a 31-year low, despite the economic crisis, upending the bedrock sociological correlation between tough times and higher crime.

But if our major metropolises are so safe today, how do we account for the fact that Newburgh, whose residents could comfortably transplant into any small pocket of Manhattan (and probably would, given half the chance), is struggling to cope with a deadly gang war, open-air drug markets, and citizens who are justifiably afraid to walk the streets—the very “big city” problems, in other words, that our actual big cities appear to have licked?

Nor is Newburgh an anomaly. Once-placid Poughkeepsie, another twenty miles up the Hudson, has a gang problem, too, and trails only Newburgh for violent crime in the state. The FBI estimates that a single gang, the ferocious Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, is active in the bedroom communities of Long Island as well as nearly every state. A threat assessment released in 2009 by the National Gang Intelligence Center found that gangs are “migrating” from urban areas to suburban and even rural communities. Statistics indicate that crime is dropping more quickly in our big cities than it is in their environs. One theory, which you’ll hear on the streets of Newburgh, is that New York City cleaned up crime by sweeping it into the surrounding area.

Just recently, however, things have started to look up for Newburgh. Starting with a spectacular raid in May 2010, authorities have indicted over 100 alleged members of the two dominant gangs in town, the Bloods and the Latin Kings. The drug trade has ebbed a bit, and some of Newburgh’s meanest streets are suddenly safe to walk for the first time in years. If the improvements hold, it will be owed, in large measure, to the efforts of an FBI agent named James Gagliano, the head of the Hudson Valley Safe Streets Task Force. “Jimmy Gags is a force of nature,” says Bharara. “That guy deserves an unbelievable amount of credit.”

Gagliano was first dispatched to Newburgh in the spring of 2008, after demoralized city officials implored Albany and Washington to send reinforcements. Imposing and athletic, he has intense blue eyes and a shaved head. He speaks in the quick-fire, fuck-inflected argot of New York law enforcement and has a tendency to lace a monologue with rhetorical questions asked and then answered.

If grit and ambition were prerequisites for the job, Gagliano possessed both in good measure. He has a long résumé of tough tactical operations, with experience working undercover, supervising SWAT operations, and serving in an elite federal paramilitary outfit known as the Hostage Rescue Team. Throughout his career, his family has lived in the suburbs of the Hudson Valley, and three years ago Gagliano was happy to be reassigned to a case so close to home. But even so, he says, nothing could have prepared him for the long odds he would encounter in Newburgh.

New York City’s success in reducing crime over the last two decades has led some to liken urban crime to a vanquished disease—a deadly affliction that ravaged the country until, miraculously, we found a cure. No one agrees on what precisely that cure entailed, and from The Tipping Point to Freakonomics, a cottage industry of competing accounts has explored whether we should credit the “broken windows” theory, the burgeoning prison system, or for that matter Roe v. Wade. But most analysts concede that one of New York City’s most significant assets was its gargantuan police force. William Bratton couldn’t have cracked down on “quality of life” crimes or developed CompStat without abundant funds and personnel. Even now, New York City employs 35,000 police officers.

Newburgh’s Police Department, by contrast, had just over 100 officers prior to the recession today it’s down to fewer than 80. The city is nearly broke: Earlier this month, local officials proposed laying off another fifteen cops. “I don’t think Bill Bratton could do anything in Newburgh with the resources that we presently have,” says Frank Phillips, the Orange County district attorney.

The physical layout of downtown Newburgh puts this diminished force at a further disadvantage. Broadway, the once grand central thoroughfare, is wide and open, but the graffiti-scarred residential streets running off it are narrow and one-way, which creates a claustrophobic intimacy between the gangbangers and the local constabulary. “They know every car when it makes the block,” says one Newburgh police officer. “They know which cop is going to jump out of his car, which cop is going to keep driving. It’s like prisoners watching prison guards. They know the cops by name.”

Gagliano estimates that when he took the job, gang members in Newburgh outnumbered police five to one. So his first priority was to augment the local authorities with a hand-picked team of federal agents, but also, in a process he calls “force multiplication,” to provide money and matériel, in the form of overtime payments, surveillance equipment, and a steady rotation of rental cars, so that undercover officers could cruise the streets incognito.

This emergency transfusion of federal dollars was crucial, but, as Gagliano knew as well as anyone, rental cars and overtime payments would not be enough to stem the violence. To permanently restore order to Newburgh, he would need to take down the gang leadership today, but also to cut off the supply of fresh recruits who might run the streets tomorrow. Achieving that would require a tricky mix of blunt force and empathy—an unusually compassionate law-enforcement strategy, but one which Gagliano was well positioned to administer.

Shortly before Gagliano first took over the task force, a lanky 15-year-old named Jeffrey Zachary was murdered on Dubois Street. It was a Tuesday evening, just past ten o’clock. One minute, Jeffrey was laughing and joking with friends. The next, a silver sedan cruised down the darkened block and slowed long enough for someone to point a pistol out the window and squeeze off a few shots.

That a young black man would catch a bullet in Newburgh was not in itself unusual by that point, gang-related homicides had grown almost routine. But Jeffrey Zachary was not a gang member. He was a good kid who had avoided the internecine conflicts that ensnared so many of his contemporaries he was murdered by accident, when a Latin King gunman mistook him for a Blood. This tragedy was compounded by an appalling coincidence: Three years earlier, Jeffrey’s older brother Trent had been gunned down in much the same fashion. Both Zachary boys expired in the same emergency room.

On his first day on the job, Gagliano took a clipping of Jeffrey’s obituary and placed it under glass on his desk. He shows it to me when I visit his office. “Now, I cannot bring him back,” Gagliano says. “But I can find the assholes who did it.”

If the murder of Jeffrey Zachary hit Gagliano especially hard, it was because he happened to have known the boy he had encountered him on the basketball court. Gagliano may be the only FBI agent in America whom gangbangers and drug dealers call “Coach.” In 2001, he ventured into Newburgh with his son in search of a better basketball league than could be found in the suburbs. They discovered a rec league that played in a cramped gym at the back of St. Mary’s Church on South Street. The team was looking for a new coach, and Gagliano volunteered.

His players started as young as 9 or 10 years old, and perhaps because many of them lacked for male role models, Gagliano became a major figure in their lives. Increasingly, they started to play a role in his. They also played some very good basketball. Several years ago, Gagliano took his travel team, the Zion Lions, all the way to a national tournament in Orlando. It was the first time many of the players had been on an airplane. The local paper covered their departure with the fanfare normally accorded a professional team, noting that dozens of college coaches would be watching them play. The team ended up taking second place, but the triumph was bittersweet: Several hours after they returned to Newburgh, the star of the team was arrested for first-degree robbery. Gagliano helped the family post bond, putting up his own house as collateral. (The charges were eventually dropped.)

One perennial obstacle to good policing in America, particularly in depressed jurisdictions like Newburgh, is that cops tend to be commuters they don’t live on the streets they police, which can limit both their acquaintance with the neighborhoods and their investment in them. But the decade Gagliano spent coaching in Newburgh has proved to be an enormous advantage. He arrived at his job with roots in the community and credibility—what he calls “traction.” He knew the kids on the stoop, their teachers, their families. He could walk the neighborhood without a gun on his hip.

One afternoon, I join him, and as we pass the run-down rowhouses of Lander Street, or “Blood Alley,” as it’s known, kids materialize at every turn, waving from a vacant lot, calling out from the back seat of an idling car. Gagliano calls back to them by name, spreading the word about a barbecue he’s planning after basketball practice. You’d think he was a community activist.

Except he’s not: He’s an FBI agent whose stated mission is to “bring the hammer” to the very gangs that control the drug turf we are casually strolling through. Every block or so, a clutch of hard-eyed young men sit arrayed around a porch. They stare at us, unblinking, with withering disdain.

“How do I tell a kid to stay away from these guys,” Gagliano mutters, “when these guys live in his house?”

It’s an oddity of Gagliano’s situation that while he might know the victims of Newburgh’s gang murders, there’s a chance he’ll know some of the perpetrators as well. These relationships prompt discomfort, if not outright worry, among his colleagues. “You’re too close to this,” they say.

But Gagliano never really had a choice—his investment in the community wasn’t a conscious policing strategy it was the baggage he brought to the job. He recognizes that the most intractable challenges in Newburgh are beyond the reach of law-enforcement solutions, and in this respect, his competition with the gangs has simply evolved into a multi-front affair. He relates the story of one kid in particular, a local boy I’ll call Delroy. Like many of Gagliano’s players, Delroy started out as a harmless preadolescent rascal. He wasn’t a big kid, but he knew how to carry himself and showed real talent on the court. Gagliano took an interest in him. “I knew he was a kid that lived on a tough block,” he says. “But he never gave me any guff.” Delroy developed a friendship with Gagliano’s son and became a frequent houseguest.

But as he got older, Delroy started skipping practice. This is a common problem on the team. Often, Gagliano starts a practice by instructing the players to do warm-up drills while he hops in his car and drives the streets in search of truant teammates.

“Get your ass in the car,” he’ll say when he finds them on the corner with a group of older boys. “We’re going to practice.”

And while they’re still young, that often works. But as the boys grow into surly adolescents, many just fade away. Delroy eventually stopped coming to practice altogether, Gagliano says. “He dropped off the face of the Earth.” From time to time, they would bump into each other in town, and Gagliano would urge him to come back.

“Coach, I got you,” Delroy would say. “I’m coming back.” But he never did.

“For most of them, I am their father figure, for better or for worse,” Gagliano says ruefully, before lapsing into an uncharacteristic silence.

One of Newburgh’s crueler ironies is the way today’s depressed urban landscape is overlaid on a rich architectural foundation full of vestiges of bygone wealth. In the nineteenth century, the city flourished as a hub for river-borne commerce. Thomas Edison built one of the nation’s earliest power plants there in 1884. But eventually the factories relocated, the ferry was discontinued after the construction of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge, and Broadway emptied out after malls opened outside town. In the sixties, the city undertook a disastrous experiment in urban renewal, demolishing the historic waterfront but failing to replace it with anything.

It feels almost spooky to walk today among the Gilded Age mansions of long-dead industrialists on Montgomery Street, some of them boarded up, others carved into low-income apartments. Abandoned buildings abound, many of them gone to rot. “We’re not unique,” Nicholas Valentine, a local tailor who serves as Newburgh’s mayor, tells me. “It’s happened to many communities up and down the Hudson. Poughkeepsie. Peekskill. Things die.”

These days, roughly a quarter of Newburgh residents live below the poverty line. The city has few jobs, little retail, no grocery store, no public transportation, and not much in the way of wholesome recreational opportunities for kids. What it does have is an astonishing variety of street gangs.

For as long as anyone can remember, local kids in Newburgh have banded into informal fraternities, adopting colorful names and staking claim to some corner of turf: There were the Alleycatz, the Darkside, Five Corners Venom, too many to name. Some gangs were involved in the drug trade others just made a ruckus. Patrick Arnold, a detective lieutenant with the Newburgh Police Department, remembers one gang, the Ashy Bandits, which had members as young as 8 years old. “They were raising hell,” he says. “Breaking into cars. Stealing your shit. We ended up getting calls from drug dealers, saying, ‘You’ve got to do something about these kids!’ ”

No one knows precisely how the Bloods first came to Newburgh, but the East Coast Bloods were born on Rikers Island in 1993, when a charismatic inmate named Omar Portee started recruiting black prisoners to oppose the Latin Kings, who dominated the penal system at the time. Portee had spent time among the original Bloods, in Los Angeles, and as he marshaled hundreds of inmates, he borrowed codes and mythology from the Southern California gang.

But while Portee’s creation was symbolically affiliated with the West Coast Bloods, it was not connected to them in any organizational sense. Gang migration, it turns out, is a controversial concept. Recent years have witnessed a profusion in small towns and suburbs of organizations that identify themselves as Bloods or Crips, Latin Kings or Mexican Mafia. But it’s not clear whether actual gangs are on the move or simply individual gang members—or perhaps just gang culture. There is some evidence of Bronx-based Bloods’ establishing new outposts for drug distribution in places like Kingston. Richard Zabel, deputy U.S. Attorney in the Southern District, says that one explanation for the presence of gangs in the Hudson Valley is the very success, during the nineties, of gang crackdowns in New York City. “They got both prosecuted and atomized,” Zabel says. “People left the city and moved to these other towns.” What we are witnessing today in places like Newburgh, he believes, is “the cresting of that problem.”

Still, Zabel argues, most gangs lack the strategic initiative to enact a franchised expansion. Instead, studies suggest, individual gang members may be moving for reasons of their own, swept up in the broader demographic currents through which poor populations have dispersed from large urban hubs to smaller cities and suburbs.

One thing is clear: The so-called national gangs now proliferating across the country often have no connection to any national enterprise at all. A local crew that starts throwing signs and wearing red might simply have intuited that when it comes to striking fear in rivals and building esprit de corps, it’s not a bad strategy to just borrow an established national brand. “Gang culture migrates faster than gang members,” cautions James Howell of the National Gang Center. Omar Portee had to travel as far as Los Angeles to bring the Blood culture back to Rikers, but that culture has long since gone viral. Those thugs outside the 7-Eleven might not be foot soldiers in some terrifying expansion, in other words, but rather, to use a favorite pejorative of criminologists, simply wannabes.

Nevertheless, as Gagliano points out, if a group of kids who call themselves Bloods start murdering rivals over drug turf, debates about their provenance become rather beside the point. “In the nineties, we hadn’t heard anything about the Bloods or the Latin Kings in Newburgh,” he says. “Last ten years? Fuck, yeah.” Almost overnight, these two gangs seem to have subsumed many of Newburgh’s fractious smaller groups, and as they started to consolidate drug turf, perhaps inevitably they went to war.

By the time Jeffrey Zachary was 9 years old, one of his older brothers, Chaz, was in state prison for shooting a man execution style at the corner of South and Lander. Chaz was a Blood. Trent, another older brother, fell in with the gangs as well, adopting the nickname Triggaman. Jeffrey was only 12 when Trent was killed, and you might think, given the logic of murder in Newburgh, that he would have become a Blood himself and sought revenge. But he didn’t. Instead, he spent the last years of his young life steering clear of the gangs, no small achievement for a boy growing up on Dubois Street. “I don’t want to die the way my brother died,” he told his sister. But then, wretchedly, he did.

One morning, I visit Melanie Zachary at the pink wooden house on Dubois Street where she still lives, around the corner from where one of her sons was murdered and directly across the street from where the other was. In the meager light afforded by a TV in the corner, Melanie shows me a makeshift memorial to Trent, with signatures and little notes from his friends. From her wallet, she pulls an old school photo of Jeffrey. She tells me stories about Jeffrey, what a cutup he was, how you always knew when he was lying because he would blink uncontrollably. She takes off her glasses to demonstrate, letting out a chuckle that turns into a sob.

“Your kid is gone five minutes,” she says, trembling, “and you wonder, where’s my child at? Is he dead or alive?” She’s sobbing now, swaying slightly, looking at me searchingly, as if I might possess some answer. “It’s like I’m living in Vietnam or Iraq or something. It don’t make no sense!”

“You get a Blood, he goes to jail on drug charges,” Gagliano says to me one day. “When he’s in jail, what does he do? He’s recruiting other guys. They get out of jail, and they’re all coming back to the same area.”

This is a tragic paradox of law enforcement in Newburgh: Incarceration, which is designed to deter crime, may actually be accelerating it. Several years ago, a criminologist named Todd Clear studied communities in Tallahassee, Florida, and found that when a large enough proportion of people from a given neighborhood is locked up, the impact on the community can be dangerously destabilizing. Families are sundered, ex-cons with felonies on their records are excluded from gainful employment, and a certain culture begins to take hold. Children who have a father or brother in prison are statistically more likely to commit crimes. In Clear’s view, imprisonment “now produces the very social problems on which it feeds.”

This phenomenon is exacerbated in Newburgh, where many juveniles have an early opportunity to imbibe gang culture behind bars. Kids in Newburgh often start selling drugs and robbing people before they hit puberty, and the recidivism rate for male juvenile offenders who are detained in New York State is an astonishing 81 percent. As a result, Lieutenant Arnold allows, “we’re kind of building this monster along the way.”

Gagliano fully appreciates the unintended social consequences of locking up so many young people—he’s seen those consequences firsthand. But when he arrived in Newburgh, the solution he proposed was to lock them up for longer.Gagliano believes that one explanation for the revolving door between the streets of Newburgh and the prison system was the comparatively short sentences that gang members were serving on state charges. A six-month bid allows a kid to marinate in gang culture just long enough to become dangerous before returning to the streets. So what Gagliano proposed to do was identify the most hard-core offenders, then send them away not for a year or two but for decades. To do this, he would employ an unlikely but powerful tool: the racketeering act of 1970, or RICO.

Gagliano had first witnessed the power of RICO as a young case agent battling the New York mob. But during the nineties, federal prosecutors in New York started using the statute to go after violent street gangs as well. The great advantage of a racketeering case is that authorities can arrest the entire membership of a criminal enterprise and bring murder charges not just against the bagman who pulls the trigger but also the don who orders the hit. Gagliano was convinced that major RICO cases against the Bloods and the Latin Kings could effectively dismantle the gangs.

At a bunkerlike FBI office in Goshen, not far from Newburgh, Gagliano’s task force began assembling poster-board dossiers, delineating the identities, nicknames, and residences of each gang member, along with their roles in the drug trade. Whereas a RICO case against the Mafia might be constructed by installing a wiretap at a social club and simply sitting back to listen, in Newburgh the investigators were forced to hit the streets, working undercover and cultivating informants. “The hardest part that first year was just identifying the players,” Gagliano says.

To prosecute street gangs as racketeering organizations, you have to prove that they were actually organized. The Latin Kings, the task force discovered, were small but coherent. In fact, they made an almost comical fetish of organization. Each chapter was governed by a “Crown Council” that ran regular meetings and collected dues. Members adhered to an exhaustive handwritten manifesto. (“No smoking of drugs,” ran a typical prohibition. “With the exception of weed or hashish.”)

Diagramming Newburgh’s Bloods proved trickier. Despite the gang’s vast membership, it was a looser enterprise, and at any given moment many of the key players were in jail. Fortunately, before the task force started work, several state and local detectives had made a map of all the schools in Newburgh, knowing they could obtain stiffer penalties for drug crimes committed within a thousand feet of a school. They swung a compass in circumference around each school, and realized, to their delight, that because Newburgh was so small, it was nearly impossible to find a street corner to sell narcotics that wasn’t in the zone of one school or another. These case files became a starting point for Gagliano’s team, which then did months of surveillance and interviews with informants to develop a rough picture of the Newburgh Bloods’ ever-fluctuating org chart.

Perhaps the greatest challenge for the task force, when it identified these drug sales, was not to interfere with them. The methodical collection of detail necessary for a major conspiracy case can run counter to the professional imperatives of local police. In your standard “buy and bust” scenario, a cop orchestrates an undercover buy from a street dealer, then cuffs him the moment the drugs change hands. But a federal case requires patience. So the task force arranged undercover buys and let them proceed—all the while running comprehensive surveillance so that each offense could eventually be tallied in court.

Gagliano’s team members did their research, and most of the time they knew who would turn up at a buy. But occasionally there were surprises. One night, the task force was orchestrating one of these stings when someone other than the Blood they were expecting suddenly appeared.

Gagliano tensed. He thought about his options. Can I intervene? Can I wave it off? Can I tell them, when we get back, we’re not charging him?

But he knew he could do none of those things. And because the task force was still gathering evidence and not yet making arrests, Delroy headed home that night with no idea that he’d been made.

By May of last year, the task force had accumulated enough evidence to start rounding people up. In the predawn darkness one overcast morning, almost two years to the day after Jeffrey Zachary’s murder, scores of official vehicles began to quietly mass by an abandoned armory on South William Street. In the musty, cavernous interior, Gagliano stood in a vast drill hall that had once been used by soldiers to ride horses. He had not slept all night, a habit from his SWAT days. Assembled before him in the dim light were 500 armed agents, cops, and state troopers. This would be the first of the federal raids in Newburgh, and the most ambitious. Jumping onto a table to be heard, Gagliano issued final instructions. “Be careful out there,” he said. “No blue on blue.”

The cavalry left the armory and fanned across the city, charging into houses and apartments, swinging battering rams and tossing stun grenades. Dozens of groggy young men were escorted, blinking, into the street. The task force made 64 arrests that day. Using RICO, they would ultimately indict what they believe is the full leadership of the Bloods and the Latin Kings—including two alleged members of the Kings’ Crown Council, Wilson Pagan and Jose Lagos, who, according to the indictment, ordered the hit that killed Jeffrey Zachary.

“Talk about satisfaction,” Gagliano says. But the victory had a few complications. Fourteen of the men on the indictment that morning were nowhere to be found, so Gagliano deployed the Marshals Service to track each fugitive down. For a few flickering moments, Manhattanites were afforded a glimpse of the gang war in the Hudson Valley when the FBI flashed images of the Newburgh fugitives on one of the jumbo screens in Times Square.

Among the missing was Delroy. He wasn’t at home when the task force came barging in that morning, and after a week passed and he could not be found, it appeared that he had gone underground.

Gagliano decided to reach out to the family directly. He convinced them that Delroy needed to turn himself in, and promised that he would come personally, and alone there would be no guns drawn.

At the appointed hour, Delroy appeared at the Boys and Girls Club on Liberty Street. It was an awkward reunion. Gagliano explained that he was going to drive Delroy to the armory, where he would be processed. He told Delroy that he didn’t have a choice, that had his own son turned up at the buy, he would have had to do the same thing.

“As a 46-year-old hunter-killer,” Gagliano recalls, “to sit there in the car with him and just—we bawled. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t pull the hook out of his mouth and let him go.”

A photo hangs on the wall in Gagliano’s home of a smiling 13-year-old Delroy with his arm draped around Gagliano’s son. But today Delroy is in federal prison. He ended up pleading guilty and got ten years. Gagliano was with him for the sentencing.

One sweltering August afternoon, Gagliano and I are wandering around the streets of Newburgh. A lot of people are out: little girls skipping rope, boys playing touch football, an old lady fanning herself in a lawn chair on the sidewalk.

The streets are undeniably safer. “You take a hundred people out of here,” says Lieutenant Arnold, “it has to make some impact on the crime.” No one in Newburgh will tell you so without immediately touching wood, but so far this year, there has not been a single gang-related homicide.

Still, criminality has a way of creeping back. The kids are on the corners, and they’re younger every day. “If it’s an underground economy, and it’s really the only thing people can make money on,” Arnold says, “you’re not going to stamp it out.”

As we walk, Gagliano talks with evident pride about Newburgh’s armory, which the city bought for a dollar and reopened after the raid last May as a community center. It’s a small step, but Gagliano savors the symbolism of converting a building that was associated with the punitive aspect of his strategy for Newburgh into one that will embody some redemptive possibilities as well. For all of the success of his enforcement strategy, he is convinced this is the only way that Newburgh will ever permanently improve: one incremental alternative to gang life at a time.

The armory has a basketball court, and on Saturday mornings, Gagliano coaches 3-to-11-year-olds. “They are the most adorable, sweet, lovable group of kids,” he tells me. Then he catches himself and adds, “Yet some of them will be murderers.”


The Palatine Hotel: Gone but not Forgotten

When you think of fancy, historic, New York hotels you might think of the Waldorf Astoria or the St. Regis Hotel, but would you ever think a hotel in Newburgh could hold up to their caliber of class? Well, the Palatine Hotel sure did. George Henry Gazley, a man born in 1869 in Dutchess County got his start at the Palatine Hotel as assistant manager. He then moved to work in the Waldorf Astoria, and then serve as manager of the St. Regis Hotel. Later on he promoted the construction of the finest, safest, and most modern hotel anywhere outside New York Cit y in 1909- Hotel La Salle of Chicago. He served as general manager, secretary, and director. Why bring up Mr. Gazley? To show how his training in the Palantine Hotel paved the way for a successful career in the country’s top hotels.

Most Newburghers know of the existence of the Palatine Hotel. But do you know about it’s history? Don Herron wrote an insightful article on the Palatine Hotel from which the following information comes from.

On July 6, 1893 the Palatine Hotel opened, which solidified Newburgh as a major city. The Newburgh Sunday Telegram wrote on July 9, 1893: “Resplendent with brilliancy, everything new, spic and span, throngs of handsome and stylishly attired ladies in attendance accompanied by chivalrous escorts, Newburgh’s handsome Palatine Hotel was auspiciously opened in a blaze of glory on Thursday night, and a gala and memorable event it proved, too.”

The hotel had 116 rooms of which 58 could be turned into private suites with a bath. People would take the 60 mile drive up along the Hudson from New York City to spend the night at the Palatine, and return to New York City the next day. Newburghs many theaters also attracted droves of people to the city, including the many performers who performed in productions. Many New York City Broadway shows premiered in Newburgh. Some of the Barrymore clan would stay in the Palatine including Drew Barrymore’s father, John Drew Barrymore. Thomas Edison, and New York City Mayor Fiorello La Guardia were some famous guests.

After the Great Depression, the Palatine began to decline. With time the city began to deteriorate and this sealed the Palatines fate. In 1970 after years of neglect the hotel was demolished in an urban renewal project that razed more than 2,000 structures in Newburgh. It stood 77 years. Today there is just the lawn of the Newburgh Free Library. The City Club which stood shoulder to shoulder with the Palatine is still in existence, even though it is only a shell. There is still hope that there might be plans for the structure in the future.

The Palatine Shop pays homage to the Palatine settlers from where the name originated from, by dedicating a section of their shop to selling antiques and memorabilia of Newburghs past.

As mentioned by Times Herald writer Alan Strauber, “Newburgh’s illustrious history should be widely publicized, celebrated and discussed. The time to start is now….We must continue to bear in mind that Newburgh is a world-class center of 19th-century American architecture and landscape design.” It is imperative to look toward the future of Newburgh to make sure that the structures that are still in existence today do not becomes memories of the past.


Newburgh Str - History

History of Historic Newburgh, Inc.

In the late 1970’s, a handful of visionaries began meeting to discuss the future of the downtown and decided they wanted to incorporate. They knew they needed money in order to move forward with revitalization so this group began selling Charter memberships.

A two-year grant request was written to provide funds for an employee. They were awarded the grant and on May 27, 1980 Historic Newburgh, Inc. was officially incorporated as a Local Development Corporation or LDC.

In the early 1980’s, through the efforts of HNI, Downtown Newburgh was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It was around the same time that HNI began to take seriously the need to make changes to the downtown infrastructure. The downtown of the early 80’s was a much different place than it is now.

Through a Community Development Block Grant, Historic Newburgh, Inc., along with the Town of Newburgh and other partners, was able to complete the 1989 Downtown Newburgh Revitalization Project, which improved the street scape through sidewalks, sewers, and street lights.

In 1986, when the State of Indiana officially began the Indiana Main Street program, Historic Newburgh, Inc. was chosen as one of the first five Main Street programs in the state. The Main Street program, born out of the National Trust for Historic Preservation, is a proven model for preservation-based economic development for urban areas. The Main Street approach encourages towns to focus on their downtown areas. It is important to save its historic buildings, to revive its commercial core, to strengthen business, to control community-eroding sprawl, and keep a sense of place and community life in America.

Historic Newburgh, Inc. helped to complete many projects over the years:
1. The Riverfront Walkway Project, which has now connected to the beautiful Rivertown Trail
2. Living Treasures Interviews
3. The Fortress of Fun Playground
4. Historic Newburgh trolley
5. Newburgh Bicentennial Celebration
6. Veterans Monument
7. Lamppost Flower Basket Project
8. Newburgh Riverfront Pavilion Project
9. The Little Red Brick Building Project

Through our annual events, Wine, Art & Jazz Festival, Newburgh Fireworks Celebration, The Historic Newburgh Farmers Market, Ghost Walks, and Newburgh Celebrates Christmas, HNI brings over 20,000 people annually to Historic Downtown Newburgh.

Historic Newburgh, Inc. has done much for Newburgh and through the continuation of collaborative efforts with the Town of Newburgh and with all Historic Downtown Newburgh stakeholders, the historic integrity, charm, and vibrancy of our commercial core is insured.

Historic Newburgh, Indiana Historic Newburgh, Indiana Historic Newburgh, Indiana
Historic Newburgh, Indiana Historic Newburgh, Indiana

Old Newburgh Photos: Water Street 1960’s

Snow and ice has been a common element of Newburgh life throughout the decades. This picture of Water Street in the 1960’s certainly depicts that. This area was already in decline by this time, and withing a few years would be totally decimated by urban renewal.

If you have old photos of Newburgh that you would like to share email me.

Rescue Me: 22 South Miller

Part of the reason Water Street was in decay in the 1960’s was because many of the homes in the area had already been demolished, and some of the businesses had started relocating to Broadway and beyond.

Does anyone know roughly where on Water street this area was? Was it by the Broadway and Water area or further north?

Why was that granite bank front demolished? I can’t recall seeing it and I grew up in newburgh! I would think they would have wanted it preserved.


Watch the video: MIDDLETOWN NEW YORK (December 2021).