Budd, With Two Ds

There wasn't anything special about Oradell. Like all New Jersey boroughs, it was small. Tidy. People were friendly. Hotel Delford was built in 1870, after the Hackensack and New York Railroad's first locomotive steamed through town. Public officials hauled in a 20-foot suction dredge and reengineered the Department of Public-Works' first attempt to dig a reservoir with a clam shell bucket. By 1923, a 22-foot-high concrete dam directed the stony ground Hackensack River into the Oradell Reservoir—an engineering feat that assured pure water for Oradell's citizens. Winters were cold. Slushy. Summers were hot. Humid. All normal. Not special.

Oradell had but three claims to distinction. The first was the giant ginkgo tree on Kinderkamack Road. As the story goes, the Cooper family purchased the then tiny tree from a sea captain who transported it all the way from the Orient.

The second was Soldier Hill, where in 1780, just days before discovering General Benedict Arnold's treason, Major General Lafayette camped, during the Continental Army's foray between Englewood and Jersey City.

The American Revolutionary War was a long battle—eight years, four months, two weeks, one day. Reported casualty figures are probably too low. Yet, records note that 25,000 revolutionaries died in combat and another 25,000 perished from small pox, starving, freezing to death, or rotting on British prison ships. America spent over $150 million—all subsidized by loans and paper money "not worth a continental." Still, this war earned America's independence and Oradell's bragging rights to Soldier Hill.

Oradell's third claim to distinction began on August 25, 1924—a Monday, to be exact. On this day in history, three years after their March 5, 1921 wedding day, 30-year-old Harry Eugene Post and 26-year-old Imogene Areson Nichols Post became parents. From the moment he took his first breath, their son and only child, Howard Malvern Post, was special. Very special.

No one remembers why. But from childhood, Howard was called Budd. And that's Budd, with two Ds. Budd, with two Ds loved to be asked, "So, why do you call yourself Budd?" He would grin and say, "Because, like the beer, I'm wiser."

Budd was an obedient little boy. Handsome. Longish, thick blonde hair. Brown eyes. He liked school. From the first day of kindergarten through graduate school, he was an excellent student. Budd's mother (family and friends called her Jean) was a stay-at-home mom. Harry was an accountant. The Post family was happy. Comfortable.

After all, this was the Roaring Twenties. World War I—the war to end all wars—was over. The United States of America returned to business. With Republicans in the White House, the country prospered ...

America's population boomed to seven million. Life expectancy reached an all-time high: fifty-four years. The Dow Jones soared to 100 points. Unemployment was five percent. Average annual earnings reached $1,236. Wonder Bread sold for 9¢ a loaf, Maxwell House coffee 47¢ a pound, Wheaties—The Breakfast of Champions—10¢ a box, Hostess Cakes 25¢ a package, Baby Ruth candy bars 5¢ each.

Ignoring American's cries to "get a horse," Henry Ford increased the efficiency of his assembly lines and dropped the price of a new Model T—the horseless carriage—to $320. Gas to fuel it cost 18¢ a gallon. Just introduced red, yellow, and green electric traffic signals, complete with warning buzzers, controlled it. The nation's 387,000 miles of freshly paved roadways allowed adventure-seekers to drive from California to New York in 13 days.

Technology turned the era upside down ... electric irons, pop-up toasters, refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, home hair dryers, electric shavers, and rotary dial telephones made life easy. Radios and talking movies made life fun. Almost better, the general public could purchase "the good life" on credit.

Not to be left behind, the medical field introduced major breakthroughs ... Vitamins, sulfa drugs, penicillin, insulin, the electrocardiogram, TB vaccinations, and an immunization for scarlet fever increased life expectancy.

Convention and Victorian morality were tossed aside. A new woman shocked the nation. She was a flapper. She bobbed her hair, wore make-up, shucked her corset, and showed off short skirts. She smoked, drank, and shimmied to the Charleston. She, according to her newly liberated sisters, was the bee's knees. After all, this was the first time in history she was allowed to vote.

In America's ballparks, fans began a love affair with baseball. Babe Ruth—The Sultan of Swat—was their hero. In America's nightclubs, the jazz culture took on a beat of its own—Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald made musical improvisation mainstream.

Charles Lindberg—Lucky Lindy—completed the first solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean. The first motor hotel—Motel Inn—opened in California. Macy's hosted the first Thanksgiving Day parade. MGM's lion roared on the big screen.

Clarence Birdseye, a naturalist from New York, invented frozen food. Accountant, Walter Diemer, concocted pink Double Bubble gum. A California entrepreneur by the name of Roy Allen sold the first frosty mug of A&W root beer for a nickel. White Castle opened the first fast food hamburger chain and sold small, square sliders for five cents. Kimberly-Clark announced Kleenex. Johnson & Johnson introduced the Band-Aid. But in the hearts of many Americans, Edwin Perkins of Omaha, Nebraska, created the most important invention of the era (if not all-time)—Kool-Aid.

On a macro-level, America's economy boomed. Banks loaned money. Lots of money. Borrowers spent two out of every five advanced dollars to buy stocks. On September 3, 1929, the stock market peaked. Economist Irving Fisher announced, "Stock prices have reached what looks like a permanent plateau."

On a micro-level, the Post family liked New Jersey. Harry liked his job. Jean liked their house. Budd liked school. He had friends who liked doing what little boys do—shoot marbles, ride bikes, climb trees, play in the park. Life in the Post household was good. Optimistic. Abundant. Even exuberant.

Then, on October 24, 1929—Black Thursday—the Dow lost 11 percent of its value, at opening bell. Chaos.

On October 28—Black Monday—the slide continued. By closing bell,...