A Group Of People Walking On A Street Next To A Building

Porches on the Move

By the 1960s, the Jersey Shore—and Cape May in particular—stood at a crossroads. Sleek new motels were rising along the beachfront, boasting private balconies and air conditioning. The old Victorian homes that had defined Cape May for nearly a century? Most were crumbling and demolition crews were at their doorsteps.

The Lafayette Hotel’s cottages were next on the chopping block—until an audacious plan flipped the script. Instead of razing them, workers hoisted the entire buildings from their foundations and hauled them to their new homes down Beach Avenue for all to see. Preservation became a spectacle, and the town's future began to shift.

At the heart of this story were two men whose lives and outlooks could not have been more different.

Henry Needles, a Cape May hotelier, took over the Lafayette Hotel during the mid-1950s, when the seaside town was struggling to reinvent itself. He saw promise in modern trends-private bathrooms, air conditioning, and balconies that promised vacationers comfort and ocean views. But he wasn't just a businessman, he was a character: charismatic, quick with a joke, and always ready to raise a glass. He was known for enjoying a martini “straight up” with friends and family. In many ways, Henry embodied Cape May's shift toward modernity, eager to usher in the new generation without losing sight of heritage.

Henry Needles in front of a sign for the Lafayette Hotel

Reverend Carl McIntire in the auditorium of the Christian Admiral

Across the cultural divide stood Reverend Carl McIntire. A Presbyterian minister with a national radio following, McIntire was a staunch fundamentalist: famously against alcohol, relentless in his preaching and surprisingly forward-thinking about architecture. He saw value in Cape May's aging Victorians long before preservation was fashionable. After years of running Bible conferences in Harvey Cedars, he moved his operation south, drawn by Cape May's historic buildings and the chance to revive the massive Admiral Hotel-renaming it the Christian Admiral. From this unlikely headquarters, his preservation campaign began.

We sat down with Craig Needles, Henry's son, and Norris Clark and Curtis Bashaw, McIntire's grandsons, whose recollections piece together one of Cape May's most overlooked chapters.

Craig remembers the Lafayette Hotel as part of his childhood summers. “I was born in 1956, so my memories of the ‘60s are a little vague,” he said, “But I have very clear memories because I was there watching them get moved. It was a big event-the first time anything like that ever happened in Cape May.” His father's hotel, like many of the town's grand Victorian buildings, was showing its age. New building codes loomed, and preserving the massive Lafayette structure wasn't feasible. “The cost [...] was tantamount to tearing it down and starting all over again,” Craig explains. “Had [low-interest preservation loans] been available, the old Lafayette Hotel would still exist.”

The old Lafayette Hotel before it was torn down in 1970. If you look closely you can see one of the Lafayette Cottages in the background!

But the cottages—two smaller Victorian buildings that stood where the Marquis de Lafayette's curved motor inn section now stands—were different. “Henry sold them to [Reverend McIntire] for a dollar to preserve them,” Craig told us. “A dollar [for] each building. Took $2 total. But he was happy to be able to preserve those.” It was a solution that satisfied both men: Henry could clear the land for new development while assisting in preservation, and Reverend McIntire could save the structures he believed were historically significant.

On the McIntire side of the story, the memory is just as vivid. “My grandfather was a guy who loved American heritage in general,” Curtis Bashaw told us. “When these old buildings were getting torn down for motels, he was really interested in them. People thought he was crazy… it always reminded me of the story of Noah's Ark. For me it was a memory that you could do a lot of things if you put your mind to it, and sometimes you do things that fly in the face of conventional wisdom or most people's thinking.” Like Noah, McIntire was determined to preserve something precious before the rising tide of modernity pulled it under.

The move itself? Pure theater. Norris Clark recalled, “Curtis was actually on the porch doing a radio program with my grandfather the day it was happening.” For the kids in the families, it was part chaos, part wonder-giant houses inching their way down the street like something out of a dream.

Onlookers watch as trucks move the Lafayette Cottages down Beach Ave in 1963.

The logistics were extraordinary. Workers sliced the cottages from their foundations, hoisted them onto flatbed trucks, and trundled them down Beach Avenue towards their new homes near the Peter Shields Inn. The siding creaked with every shift of weight, windows rattling faintly in their frames as if the houses were exhaling after a century at rest. As they passed, the air filled with the scent of sun-warmed wood, old plaster, and the faint must of salt and time. Locals lined the sidewalks watching front porches float by like parade floats.

The Victorian cottages weren't just saved; they were repurposed as dormitories for college students and Christian Admiral staff. Over time, they evolved into landmarks, the Angel of the Sea and the Morning Star Villa.

A Large Building With A Large Crowd Of People Around It

An aerial shot of the Morning Star Villa, a later house-moving endeavor of Carl Mcintire's.

Digging deeper revealed another twist: the Lafayette Cottages had been moved once before-in the 1800s, dragged by mule on logs from Washington Street to the beachfront. “That is a fun fact,” Craig laughed. “Maybe since they'd already been moved once, it wasn't difficult to consider moving them again.”

At the time of the moves in the 1960s, not everyone saw the value in saving Victorian architecture. Norris explained, “Nobody wanted these Victorian houses-they wanted to get rid of them, they wanted to build something modern, [...] it was just the locals saying this guy's crazy enough to buy this stuff, let's sell it to him. If it wasn't for [my grandfather], these buildings would've been torn down.”

"If it wasn't for [my grandfather], these buildings would've been torn down.”

Curtis echoed the sentiment, remembering how divided Cape May was during that era. “Cape May started to split in half—who was for preservation, who was for modernization,” he said. “That was a battle that really raged through the ‘70s and ‘80s until finally people started making money with these historic buildings.”

In the late ‘80s, Curtis Bashaw reopened The Virginia Hotel just a few blocks away—another faded beauty brought back to life. From there, things truly began to take root in Cape May. What started with two cottages and a shared instinct to hold on to something old has grown into a legacy that still shapes Cape May's shoreline today.

Today, the Angel of the Sea and Morning Star Villa quietly stand as icons of Cape May's preservation legacy—vibrant reminders of a time when saving old buildings was considered audacious. “I'm thankful to their grandfather and to my father for making that decision to save the buildings. It wasn't possible with a structure as large as the Lafayette Hotel or I think Henry would have done that too.” Craig said.

The Angel of the Sea

The Morning Star Villa

When you walk past them now, it’s easy to miss the drama of their journey: pulled by horses in the 1880s, hauled by trucks in the 1960s, saved more than once from the wrecking ball. Their survival underscores a truth Curtis Bashaw summed up simply, “If you stay committed to something long enough, you can really see the results of work.”

Cape May's story proves it. Its porches may stand still, but the history beneath them has traveled miles.