Prospect: A Year in the Park

Planting time in New Amsterdam

Those are sprouts of rye poking up in the little farm behind the Lefferts Historic House, Prospect Park's transplanted Dutch farmhouse. It is, basically, my dream house. It was built around 1783 a few blocks away (and moved here in 1913). The Lefferts family burned its predecessor to the ground--burned down their own house--in 1776, just before the Battle of Brooklyn, so that the British couldn't get it. And we think we're tough when we sit in a park with a sign and a bongo!

The house and garden are full of simple but immensely appealing interactive stuff for the kids.

 

Farm chores as play...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

... and the timeless appeal of Flatbush's fertile soil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An early Dutch version of Wii.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I caught a fascinating lecture by food historian Peter G. Rose about early Dutch cooking and foodstuffs. We owe them for pretzels, cookies, and pancakes...the debt can never be repaid. I also bought Ms. Rose's book, Food, Drink and Celebrations of the Hudson Valley Dutch; it is an early pebble in a coming avalance of research for a Top-Secret Flatbush-Related Project.

 

This hearth, built outdoors for demonstrations, wasn't baking up any pretzels today, but it gives an idea of just how gutsy cooks had to be back in the days of old Dutch Vlacke Bos (Flatbush). The builders incorporated a brick from the Lefferts House, probably one made in the nearby kiln or "stone bakery" (steenbakkery) near a clay pit at present-day Rogers Avenue and Lefferts Street. Built to last.

Solstice lookout

Sunset, the day of the solstice; the sun was vanishing behind the buildings of Windsor Terrace by 3:30 p.m. I wanted, Druid-like, to capture its last rays, so I headed up Lookout Hill, the tallest point in Prospect Park.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lookout Hill is one of those spots in the park that one is warned against visiting alone, but when leafless, it seems exposed as well as remote. Condom wrappers and other nasty bits attest to its seclusion, but even in waning daylight I felt fairly safe with the occasional jogger...and an intrepid mom and kids who were using the hill as a family Stairmaster.

 

 

 

 

 

The flattish, circular top of Lookout Hill would be a great place for a Wiccan ceremony to worship the distant sun, but for a while I was completely alone. To the south, I could see...good grief, was that the Coney Island parachute jump? It was. Turning a few degress to my left, I looked down on the lake and away to the erstwhile fields of Flatbush where we live.

 

 

 

 

 

As I left the park, the festive decor glowed in the shadows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BARKING MAD THANKS!

...to all who have ordered a copy of Park Bark: At Play with the Dogs of Brooklyn, my photo homage book to the canines of Prospect Park and their owners.   Go here for easy PayPal ordering...and remember, Valentine's Day is coming up fast!

Take one park and call me in the morning

Just as we prepare to hole up for the winter with our holiday haul of video games (or, for some who shall remain very nameless, our cats), comes a heartbreaking article in the New York Times on "nature deficit disorder" and the burden of "diseases of indoor living" tied to inactivity and obesity. Are there no health clubs? asks the Scrooge-Zeitgeist. For children already being swallowed by overweight, are there no gym classes? (Alas, they've probably cancelled recess to cram for another standardized test.) And for those bodies diseased and broken down from years of indolence, are there no hospitals and nursing homes?

 

A new wave of health visionaries take a different tack: Get the hell outside and play. And for those of us blessed to have one nearby: GO. TO. THE. PARK. Too obvious? Think again. Some doctors, reports Jane Brody, "have begun writing specific prescriptions for outdoor activity, providing patients with maps, guidelines and programs of gradually increased activity based on their abilities."

 

 

 

 

 

 

The doctors I've met barely have time to scribble the name of a drug on their prescribing pad, but never mind. What a concept. Such prescriptions are necessary, said Daphne Miller, MD, a family doc in San Francisco, because many people "are unfamiliar with the outdoors--they're scared to walk through a park, and they don't know what to do when they get there."

 

 

 

 

This is incredible, pathetic—and true. Of course, a few decades ago, being scared to walk through Prospect Park was probably a wise choice for enhancing one's mortality odds. But today, when the city's parks are so much safer, it's no longer an excuse. And what of "not knowing what to do when they get there"? Don't laugh. I worked for years as a docent at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Classes of inner-city schoolchildren would recoil at the sight of lush green lawns ("that's nasty and dirty, Teacher! I'm not sitting there!") and scream in terror at a squirrel ("a rat! a rat! It's gonna bite me!") I am not making this up. Teenagers on field trips would drag their feet through the forest path and the rose garden and make a beeline for the benches, where they would pummel and harass one another while complaining of exhaustion after a 10-minute walk. This was before the age of kiddie cell phones; now they could just ignore their surroundings and text each other.

 

But I've also seen the outdoors work its magic. Produce one big plastic ball from the 99-cent store and you've got an exercise session. Crush one fragrant leaf and pass it around, and you've got aromatherapy for the ADHD contingent. Roll over a log to uncover a pillbug and you can motivate the next quarter-hour of a nature walk. Promise them ice cream and they'll climb a mountain.

 

 

 

And as for us grown-ups, well, half the battle can be crossing the street, literally. That's why I started this blog—to motivate myself to visit Prospect Park every day because I lived across the street and was still too lazy to go. As for "what to do when you get there," first off, don't be intimidated by the wiry joggers and Lycra-clad bike racers. Just walk around. Go to the park's website or stop by the Audubon Center for a map. Try a path you've never taken before. Drag your kids along. Bring a ball. Smell stuff. Get out of breath for awhile.

Then go for ice cream...because there's more to life than "doing it for your health."

Mums goeth before a fall

Hope you had a glorious holiday weekend. Mine began, as usual, at the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket, where the cushion mums were stacked in delirious ranks. Autumn-mania-wise, all the dominoes toppled last Saturday. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mums lead to pumpkins. Already, small children are obsessing over the right size, shape and stem morphology. (Note color-spectrum extension via cherry tomato in the background, very nice!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pumpkins lead to Indian corn. Or perhaps, on this Columbus Day weekend, it should be called Original Owners' Corn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Corn leads to zany gourds. Ah, such infinite wartiness!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I bought a preposterous load of veggies, plus fragrant Concord grapes for my annual grape pie. Speaking of baking, an engaging lady named Jennie Schacht was cooking up a heavenly apple-compote with vanilla ice cream to promote her new book, Farmers' Market Desserts. (It is now officially on my Christmas list.)

What were the favorite sinful recipes of the farmers at our New York greenmarkets? According to Ms. Schacht, most of them insist their fruits are so good, they just eat them plain. Wrong answer.   

 

Tornado? What tornado?

Grand Army Plaza got hammered by last Thursday's roving twisters and microburst, but all was blessed and sunny at today's Greenmarket. A zydeco-flavored band played before a backdrop of police tape and downed branches.

 

Just inside the park, kids and parents put tree wreckage to imaginative use.

 

A teepee of sticks is a fascinating place, and here nature has provided what the neighboring botanic garden had to pay an artist to produce.

Meanwhile, the harvest has fully unfurled its flag. We dragged home the makings for a huge ratatouille, and more of this summer's exquisite corn.

Today's Greenmarket guest was a vivacious author and blogger, Karen Seiger, with her nifty new book, Markets of New York City. Not just farmers, but craft, flea, holiday, and food; the book is sharply designed, and the author also took all the pictures. Asked if she's a photographer, she replied, "I am now!" That's the spirit! The book would make a great gift for an urbane shopaholic; to buy it, go here.

GREENMARKET DOG OF THE DAY

Moose, a Golden Retriever, met my eyes and then leaned his head against my knee adoringly. His babysitter reports that he loves eating and, well, loving folks up.

City of angels

Under appropriately mournful skies, I visited Green-Wood Cemetery, the Necropolis of Greater Parkopolis, this afternoon for a talk by Peter Quinn, whose historical novel Banished Children of Eve I'm enjoying. The lecture was here in their jewel-box of a chapel.







I skipped the trolley tour of famous dead people that followed, opting instead to traverse Green-Wood on foot with map in hand.



At left, he's not on the map of celebrity residents, but should be: James S.T. Stranahan, the "Father of Prospect Park." I profiled him here last year on AYITP. His funeral cortege wound through the park before arriving here to lay the great man to rest in his 90th year. One of the family's markers surrounding the central monument reads simply, "Infant Daughter."







The isolation and unearthly peace of Green-Wood (even with occasional tootlings by the trolley) were profound. Despite this angel's reminder, my endless weekend to-do list seemed distant and irrelevant.

Having entered through the Gothic gate on Fifth Avenue, I emerged at the "Addams Family" brownstone house on Fort Hamilton Parkway. There, I took a closer look at the handsome little gatehouse that we've passed so often in the car.

It turns out that this mansard-roofed dollhouse is Brooklyn's niftiest comfort station: men on the left, ladies on the right, and a small "lounge" with a life-size soldier statue in the center. And, lest you freshen up without some Victorian moral uplift, there are three charming reliefs showing life's brief hourglass running down, from carefree youth (with allegorical squirrel)...

through hard-working adulthood (as a surveyor or draftsman?)...

...to weary old age.

 

After all these memento mori, I found myself wondering what epitaph I'd choose for myself. I decided on:

I'm still having fun

Flammulated facade

The Prospect Park Boathouse, now known as the Audubon Center, was situated here on the Lullwater in 1905 to catch the rays of the setting sun. The sun almost set on the center in 1964, when it was slated for demolition; a group of preservationists scrambled to save it, and in 1965 the New York Times reported that $225,000 had been allocated to rescue the crumbling structure. Over the years, it was used as a model boathouse, snack bar, and headquarters for park personnel; now it's an education center for kids big and little.

Near closing time, the gorgeously tiled interior was almost deserted except for two fellows discussing metaphysics at a cafe table. Look at how the afternoon light pours in through the columns. Yes, they were ready to tear this down.














The exhibits range from the cozy, like this nest, to the possibly unsettling, like super-chipmunk. Makes you realize how important size and scale are to overall cuteness.

There was a nice hands-on exhibit of pond scum, but I suspect the coolest thing to most kids would be a closer look at this ratty old taxidermy bird set way up high. Nothing beats stuffed dead stuff with creepy eyes.

As I approached the boathouse, I laid out this birdwatching encyclopedia to freecycle; by the time I walked back around, it was gone. Whoever took it can learn the following really excellent words:

Shaggery: a colony of cormorants. (Oh, behave!)

Nidiculous: technical term for young birds that remain in the nest, completely dependent on the parent birds for a period after hatching. (Don't be nidiculous, darling.)

Penduline tits: a kind of bird, not an anatomical description.

Nectivorous: nectar-eating. (Accent on the second syllable, if you wish to accuse someone with nectar dripping off his or her chin.)

And my favorite:

Flammulated: literally, "inflamed" or "tinged with flame" (a "rather overstated" description of a type of owl).

Let's pretend

Today I checked in on the Imagination Playground, near Prospect Park's Lincoln Road exit. It opened in 1997, when my own baby was two years old, although we never paid more than a brief visit. (Now, I wonder why we didn't come more often.) On a perfect summer midday, I found it almost empty, with its charming gates shut but unlocked. A welter of nanny-state signage warned me about everything from applying sunscreen to avoiding "entrapment and entanglement hazards" (although I didn't have to worry about the playground's regularly applied rodent bait—it's buried "in the rat burrows" and thus poses no threat to young humans).

Inside, the only occupants were an actual nanny and an enchanting little girl, who blithely took me by the hand on a tour. We started with the magnificent bronze dragon fountain.

"Is he scary or funny?" I asked. 

 "Funny."

"What do you think his name is?" 

[Reflective pause] "Superhero."

My new friend also loved the sculpture of Peter and Willie, created by artist Otto Neals based on beloved characters by children's author and illustrator Ezra Jack Keats.

"Is this your favorite thing in the playground?" I asked.
"No," she replied, gesturing towards her stroller, "my favorite is my Dora the Explorer things."

We stuck our heads in and out of some colorful animal-shaped cutouts for a while. Suddenly, there was a loud thunderclap directly overhead, followed within seconds by fat raindrops. My guide and her caregiver packed up and hurried home.

So did this long march of day campers, already soaked to the skin by the time they reached the perimeter of the park. Within the hour, the sun was out again.




Nifty Bonus Information:

The park sponsors story time at this playground at 2 p.m. every Saturday and Sunday through August. My daughter and I loved The Snowy Day, but otherwise I knew next to nothing about Keats, and had never seen either Whistle for Willie or Peter's Chair, which depict Peter's dachshund. It turns out that the man who introduced an immortal little black boy into the canon of children's picture books was a Jew from East New York. To learn more, go here. The African-American sculptor Otto Neals is also a painter; according to the park's sign, "he was largely self-taught and honed his skills while dedicating 36 years to the United States Postal Service." Neals, a Brooklynite since early childhood, is still active; Keats died in 1983.

Burning ambition

Rain cleared away in time for a fine evening at the Prospect Park Bandshell, where the Brave New World Repertory Theater presented a stage adaptation of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. Not an easy piece to pull off, but the company is both innovative and ambitious; a few years ago, they presented To Kill a Mockingbird on the front porches of our neighbors in Ditmas Park, to rave reviews.

 

A decent-sized crowd filled in many of these seats.  We split a can of $4 iced coffee three ways; no bargains at the concession stand here, of course. (However, Starbucks was giving away little packets of ground coffee.)





The play, despite being a somewhat creaky and windy artifact, packed a big punch in several places, and the actors were uniformly fresh and sharp in a cleverly staged production. (Although the book is known best as an anti-censorship tract, Bradbury's anti-television rants sounded most prescient.) Here are John Edmond Morgan and the lovely  Angela Lewis.

Behind the band-shell seating area, folks can spread out and picnic on the slope in the lamplight. After a warm ovation for the players, we headed out the Ninth Street exit with the crowd; in the trees overhead, a chorus of katydids ratcheted out their deep summer songs.