Prospect: A Year in the Park

Sumer is icumen in...

...as we note, at the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket yesterday, sweet Williams...

...sweet strawberries...

...and sweet firemen shopping for their undoubtedly yummy firehouse meals.

GREENMARKET DOG OF THE WEEK

My daughter, who is wont to complain about hauling produce in a cooler while I take pictures, could learn a thing or two about teamwork from the lovely Bella, a pit bull mix. Bella willingly totes as much Greenmarket booty as her people can fit in her backpack (they were tucking in some radishes when we met). However, Bella's sense of responsibility for her cargo does not preclude flopping over on the asphalt and demanding a belly rub.

Unabridged

A balmy May morning, and the Lullwater Bridge bears the tromping feet of a huge group of kids in full-throated Feral Field Trip mode, en route to the Long Meadow. From afar, their roar sounded like that of a French Revolution mob around the guillotine; as they passed over the bridge, they gazed down at the water in astonishment, often mingled with bemusement or mild distaste. I had many urban groups like this (I dubbed them the "don't get out much" kids) during my years as a docent at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden; many feared squirrels and were repulsed by grass. But they were always electrified by the natural environment, and, being young, were readily won over by it.

Hey, at least they were out in the park; that's more than I can boast for the past week. This morning, the lake was a shimmering reproach to all I'd missed.

 

For this guy, asleep on the bank, the Lullwater had lived up to its name. The splashing of the nearby waterfall was indeed restful.

Far more alert was this black-crowned night heron, always on the watch for fish to spear. I was on the lookout too...for my daffodils, the ones I planted (illicitly, it turned out) from the Great Greenmarket Daffodil Giveaway last fall.

Yes, it is absurdly late for daffies; they were up in March and mostly done in April. But the last time I checked my Secret Lakeside Spot, when most of them were in bloom around the city, not so much as a shoot was evident. Maybe they gave away bad daffodils? Anyway, I gave up hope. But hope returned when the few freebies that I planted in my own backyard sprang up and bloomed...yesterday. (Here they are decorating our very, very Catholic May altar.)

My anticipation grew as I passed through the barrel vault of the Cleft Ridge Span, which I'd used to site them last fall. Would I see a late-season burst of gold on the opposite shore of the lake? No...but I found their spent remains. They came up, very very late, and bloomed without me. Damn!

(It occurred to me, however, in very, very Catholic mode, that this sort of thing at least does not happen to us...we do not ever blossom unseen, even if it seems that way.)

I saw a green heron in addition to the black-topped guy, and swallows swooped in and out under the bridge. My eye followed one to the cornice of the Audubon Center, where she (he?) had made a lovely mud nest. Wow, what a publicity nightmare if they need to evict this little family, eh? 

 

As the kids converged on the bridge, the swallow startled and the sleeper awoke.

Suits and sheeps

Check out my latest E-bay prize: an antique postcard of the sheep meadow in Prospect Park. There were real sheep clipping the greensward right up until the 1930s, I believe; today, I'm sure the possibility of sheep-related lawsuits would nix this picturesque possibility (not to mention the turf battles between sheep and Frisbie players). It's a shame, really, think how the dogs would love chasing them during off-leash hours! Note the guy in the grey flannel suit playing the role of border collie here, along with the lad in what looks like a sailor suit next to the tree.

This archivey goodness comes instead of a real-life report, since I haven't been to the park in more than a week...precisely the sort of slippage I'd feared once I slacked off my strict daily-visit goal. Same old excuses--too busy, too cold out, etc. Did anyone participate in last weekend's volunteer clean-up bash? If so, send me some good shots of your labors!

Dogfights

It's Guest Artist Monday! Since I didn't make it over to the park on Mother's Day, I was especially delighted by these glimpses of what I missed from gifted  photographer William Woerner. He showcases his stuff on his blog Lens; here are a few great shots of Sunday's dog action.





Dogs were on my mind after Brownstoner sparked some flame wars over this article in the New York Post, featuring a cranky video vigilante named Orrin Tilevitz whose mission in life seems to be getting irresponsible dog owners busted for their pooches' park misbehavior. I chatted with the young reporter, Sarah Ryley, on the Long Meadow last week (and honored her request to "embargo" the story); given the thin gruel that is Post house style, I thought she did a decent job.


In the movies, Orrin would be a quivering fall guy (played by Richard Dreyfuss) for an out-of-bounds Disney dog (perhaps like this rascal, "Zeus," at left). But in reality, this guy walks around with pepper spray and seems to dedicate every waking hour to chronicling miscreant dog/owner duos. Apparently, he's been attacked in the past; my own relaxed attitude toward the off-leash crowd in the Long Meadow (both during and outside of permitted hours) is shaped by my own, more positive experience. The dogs and owners I've met (typified by the folks at the advocacy group FIDO) create a safe, vibrant community out of this greensward. The worst behavior I've seen is dog-on-dog bullying (no worse than what I used to witness when I worked in an office). Tilevitz fumes that dogs ruin birdwatching, but I'm such a lousy birdwatcher that it's not an issue for me.

Dogwatching is more fun, anyway; no warbler has ever offered me a big sloppy kiss or let me give it a belly rub.

All dog photos: William Woerner; Tilevitz photo, JC Rice for New York Post

Puddle pumps and doggywoods

Yes, it does sound like a children's book title that would cause Dorothy Parker to quip (as quip she did), "Tonstant Weader Fwowed Up." But I swear it's true. Here are actual dogs frolicking in front of dogwood on the Long Meadow yesterday. (Today I garden, so send me some great shots of springy Friday parkitude in my absence.)

And here is a superb invention we could use in the basement of the CrazyStable: a puddle vacuum! Perfect for suctioning off April showers from the May outfield.

Hey, thanks to Louise Crawford and everyone who made last night's Blogfest 2009 a convivial event, and especially to Brit in Brooklyn for including me (first, no less!) in the video tribute to Brooklyn's photobloggers. I felt touched and honored that my taped-together point-and-shoot Canon and I were up there with so many Brooklyn photographers of such deep and varied gifts and visions. The whole montage brought tears of love for Brooklyn to my eyes. And the evening itself brought home an interesting point: blogging per se is the least interesting thing about blogging. Yeah, anybody can do it and it's online, yadda yadda. But the content, the connections, the actions that grow from this ocean of citizen journalism, commentary, and shared creative work is what we're really up to.

The evening, at the Powerhouse Arena in DUMBO, was dedicated to the late Bob Guskind of Gowanus Lounge, who totally got it: this is just a tool for sharing our passions and making things happen. The caricature of bloggers as narcissists in PJs chronicling their every mundane thought and activity may, like most stereotypes, spring from some reality, but the folks last night represented an amazing range of interests beyond their own navels (and none were in pajamas). The word may still waft a whiff of contempt from the dino-media, but I'm proud to be a blogger.

Oh, and the after-party at Galapagos Art Space was really cool. I've never been to an "after-party" before, much less one in a space with tables set on islands among indoor ponds. One pond held a plaster sculpture of a half-submerged girl's kicking legs; another held a flotilla of tiny toy pigs on rafts. As the Clancy Brothers said, "Great social significance. Well...some social significance."

Baby greens

I wait all winter for it: the return of the leaves. I call these young ones "puppy leaves," because they are so fast-growing, soft and floppy. After interminable months of skeletal branches, they bust out in a frenzy of photosynthesis, not to mention flowering, fruit-forming, and other hijinks.

This sweet gum not only has baby sticky-balls forming (underneath), but pom-pom/Brussel-sprout action, too. Seeking to enhance my botanical vocabulary, I got more than I bargained for. Brace yourself for some major-league botanical dirty talk in this Wikipedia description of the blossoms of Liquidambar styraciflua:

Staminate flowers in terminal racemes two to three inches long, covered with rusty hairs; the pistillate in a solitary head on a slender peduncle borne in the axil of an upper leaf. Staminate flowers destitute of calyx and corolla, but surrounded by hairy bracts. Stamens indefinite; filaments short; anthers introrse.

Anyway [fanning myself to calm down], I now present a baby album of tree leaves from the park's Long Meadow this morning. Straighten your anthers, plump up your peduncle, and let us begin.

 

Not sure what these are—it was more shrub than tree—but look how they make stained-glass in the morning sun! They also have balls, little nubby green ones, probably flowers-to-be.

      

Left to right: Baby ginkgo, baby oak (what kind of oak? "Red oak" is probably too obvious), and young buckeye (I think), with flowers up top.

And lest our coniferous friends be left out, here are new growth "candles" on...

    

...white spruce (Picea glauca) (I think), left, and Eastern white pine (Pinus strobus), right. For more Fun with Tree IDs, go here.

Finally, a bit of Long Meadow dog action. I loved this guy because he gave his whole joyous greyhoundish heart to the pursuit of his Frisbee, and I love this picture because he looks like a cool logo.

Perks of membership

On a cool spring Saturday afternoon, the Prospect Park Alliance lined up all sorts of fun for its members. We got exclusive use of the pedalboats; fueled by hot dogs and watermelon, Spouse and I peddled doggedly under Terrace Bridge, while lazy Daughter lounged behind us. We passed swimming dogs, a meditating lady, and the snowy egret, who was coasting from tree to tree with his skinny black legs stuck straight out behind him.

The boats allow one to approach the islands from the water; I loved this scrim of phragmites in front of an apple tree whose fragrance wafted across the lake. However, I failed to spot any Interesting Ducks. Will I ever see anything besides mallards?








We did, however, see Marty Markowitz, as well as this Mr. Magoo-lookalike box turtle (a rescued pet, not a park native) at the Audubon Center. Both seem to relish their public duties, although the turtle did retract his head after awhile (Marty didn't, I doubt he ever does). There was also a huge hissing Madagascar Cockroach on display, which Spouse petted...he has clearly been working for a natural history museum for too long.  

The Lefferts House received a steady stream of visitors; they were making yarn at the "Flax and Fleece Fest." We opted instead for rides on the world's best carousel.










The phrase unlimited carousel rides must be among the most marvelous in the English language. (And Prospect Park members get 'em.) After ice cream treats, we went on twice; the calliope played "My Wild Irish Rose."


A bit tired for the walk home, we were tickled to board the trolley (or as I call this faux-trolley-bus, the Folly), which was exclusively for Us Members. It was stuffy and crowded with raging toddlers, but it dropped us off at the Peristyle a few blocks from home. Something about the entire outing felt very Victorian: an afternoon of good, earnest, fresh-air frolicking.

For May, a bright bouquet

It is May Day, and this is how things are supposed to be on May Day, even though this was actually taken yesterday.  Why do they call this tree a "redbud" (Cercis canadensis), when it is a Crayola "orchid"-color-bud? (No complaints about this overcast May-Day morning, however, because it is mild out, and the wet breeze from the park smells like moss and ferns and maple sap.)

This particular "red"bud was carrying on outrageously behind the back of one of sculptor Alexander Phimister Proctor's vigilant pumas. Did you know that the term for a sculptor who specializes in animals is an animalier? (It's said "animal-eer," not a Frenchified "aneemal-yay" as I'd suspected, which is why it's good to look things up.)

I'm still high on poetry from yesterday's Poem in Your Pocket Day, so heeeere's Emily:

THE SPRINGTIME’S pallid landscape

  Will glow like bright bouquet,

Though drifted deep in parian

  The village lies to-day.

  

The lilacs, bending many a year,

  With purple load will hang;

The bees will not forget the time

  Their old forefathers sang.

  

The rose will redden in the bog,

  The aster on the hill

Her everlasting fashion set,

  And covenant gentians frill,

  

Till summer folds her miracle

  As women do their gown,

Or priests adjust the symbols 

  When sacrament is done.

                    Emily Dickinson