After 26 years as property tax payers in West Windsor with endless letters written about the appalling state of the Route 571 Corridor in Plywood Junction, my wife and I have finally given up and thrown in the towel.
We have sold our house in Sherbrooke Estates and moved to Cranbury. For us, no more blighted gas stations, ugly banks, ridiculous railroad roundabout (already repaired for the third time), conspicuous overhead wires and character-less realty offices.
No more boarded up abandoned stores in urgent need of demolition and no more derelict Ellsworth Centers and decaying empty Acmes. Yes — 26 years of great schools and parks but little else to show for taxes spent. Certainly not the time and money wasted by the mayor in bickering and fighting over the pie-in-the-sky Village Transit Center which hopefully will never come to pass.
As many people know, Plywood Junction is more than a ghastly eyesore — it’s an embarrassment — with little being done to rectify this disgraceful state. The Mayor’s indifference to the decay is shameful and the dreaded Village Transit Center will bring overcrowding in the schools, further traffic snarl ups, and even greater delays at the station, the roundabout, and the bridge. This white elephant has got to be stopped — now.
But oh for bucolic Cranbury! Where birds do sing and a brook babbles from a tranquil lake. Where children ride bikes in peace and good citizens stroll down sylvan sidewalks for a glass of wine, a pot of tea, or a stack of pancakes. And perhaps a scoop of ice cream on an idle summer’s evening.
Cranbury — where history has been respected, trails meander through the fields and two ancient churches chime their bells and dominate the skyline. Cranbury — which offers all that the Junction has failed to provide. And now my wife and I can safely avoid the Junction’s mess as we go about our business in Princeton and Trenton — passing on the way through pretty Plainsboro whose attractive shops, excellent restaurants, and beautiful library leave Plywood Junction sprawling in the dust.
Perhaps the poet Rupert Brooke had Cranbury in mind when he wrote “Yet stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?” He certainly wasn’t thinking of Princeton Junction.
Richard Moody
North Main Street, Cranbury
