“DANCE COUNTRY” – In 1989 Thomas Henry of Holland Township wanted to convert the recently closed Barn Theatre in Frenchtown into a Country & Western saloon and dance hall. The property was still owned by Marjorie Kent (1909-1997), who let Henry pursue his plan for Dance Country.
Some residents, including me, objected to this idea. I had visions of disoriented drunks driving their pickups down Twelfth Street to my dead end and causing distress. So I wrote a not-in-my-backyard letter to the editor to that effect.
Some vandalism occurred at the site, and Henry assumed it was part of the resistance, although it may have just been an expression of impersonal youthful malice. Anyhow, he took it personally.
Borough Council rejected Henry's request that they get him a liquor license. But he bounced back. He even repainted the white theater a conceptually appropriate barn red, but apparently ran out of paint, leaving the job not quite done. He also extracted the theater seats and leveled the sloping floor.
With a saloon not possible, in 1990 he wanted to expand the building with a Western apparel, music and dance shop. The borough was not having it.
In April of 1990 Henry got out the big letters that used to announce the movie titles, climbed up and spelled out:
FLEA MARKET OR CW DANCE HALL
YOUR MOVE
The zoning officer cited him for violating the sign ordinance and he took it down.
In June he tried to rally support by holding a Country & Western dance party there, featuring Mel McDaniel, whose song, “Baby's Got Her Blue Jeans On,” had reached the top of the Country music charts in 1985
Attendees would be asked to sign a petition supporting Dance Country. About 100 to140 people turned out, most of them members of the New Jersey Country Music Association.
In July Henry presented the site plan for his 3,400-square-foot retail expansion, and asked informally about his outdoor flea market notion. His retail expansion plans were deemed incomplete, and board chairman David Miller told him the ordinance would allow only an indoor flea market.
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Deep into Henry's campaign there occurred an incident that I'm reluctant to relate. But when a person stumbles into the path of history, his story belongs to posterity – even though posterity will be disgusted.
At that time I was working at the Home News in New Brunswick, commuting an hour each way. Sometimes I would enliven the drive home to Frenchtown by chewing leaf tobacco, spitting out the window. Ugh! I know! By the time I'd get to Twelfth Street, my beige Nissan Sentra would need a rinse so my wife wouldn't see what I'd been doing. So I'd stop beside the old Barn Theatre and dip a bandana into the overflow from the artesian well next to it, and mop off the side of the car.
On the evening of Sept. 27, 1990, in the depths of the Country & Western animosity, I was standing there with a dripping bandanna, when Tom Henry suddenly appeared, and demanded, “Can I help you?”
“No!” I said in alarm. Given that I was already on record as opposing his dream, and that I had no legitimate business there, I got back in my car and drove away. Fearing that he might follow me down Twelfth Street to my house and give me a tune-up on my own doorstep, I drove downtown on Harrison Street.
Henry followed me in his pickup truck. So I drove to Bridge Street, took a right and went back up Milford Road, with Henry behind me all the way. I repeated the loop, figuring he'd lose interest, but he didn't. All the while I was trying to come up with respectable reason why I was helping myself to some runoff from his well. There was a police officer parked at the intersection of Bridge and Harrison. Experience had taught me that policemen don't like to hear long explanations, but annoyed as he might be, the cop would probably not let the guy pound me.
So on the third or fourth go-round, I pulled over, parked, and, like a school child seeking the playground aide's protection, I went and stood beside the cop. To his quizzical look, I said, “I have to tell you something,” as the pickup parked nearby.
Henry came up and said, “This guy was hanging around the theater property, and when he saw me he took off. Make him open his trunk.”
The cop looked at me, a 38-year-old wearing a necktie, and asked, “Who are you?”
When I said my name, I couldn't tell whether Henry recognized it as belonging to the writer of a cowardly attack on his great idea.
I told the story as economically as possible, with the cop losing interest once he sensed no laws had been broken. My sheepish explanation was really for Henry, who accepted it graciously. We chatted a little and then parted friends. Not close friends, but on friendly terms anyway.
By the way, I'd rather my wife didn't know about this episode, and as she is unlikely to read this, it's up to you and Tom Henry not to tell her. Henry already said he wouldn't.
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In 1991 Henry followed up with a plan for a Country & Western dance hall, auditorium and snack bar. The borough rejected that, too, causing News editor Nick DiGiovanni to write the headline: “Henry Loses Hoedown Showdown.” One of his better efforts.
Henry came back seeking approval for a 288-seat restaurant where dancing might or might not occur. At year's end, the plan was approved, but with many stipulations, including paving the parking lot, which Henry said would cost a prohibitive $45,000. He told the News, “They asked for the world, and they're not going to get it.” He added, “My legal people are reviewing it.”
Maybe his legal people advised him to want something else. In any case, that was the end of Dance Country.
From "Rick's Frenchtown Encyclopedia"