Prospect: A Year in the Park

Feathers

This fragrant tree full of white feathery blossoms caught my eye as I cycled through Battle Pass yesterday. It is a Fringe Tree, Chionanthus virginicus (thanks to Flatbush Gardener for the ID).

The blooms surrounded this stern eagle atop a granite plinth. And the plinth marks the site where the Dongan Oak was felled by Revolutionary troops to delay the onslaught of the Redcoats during the Battle of Brooklyn. (The oak, named after an early governor of the area, was one of those colonial borderland markers, along with assorted ditches, hills and boulders, cited in early land records; this tree demarcated the border between the towns of Brooklyn and Flatbush.) One wonders why the Battle of Brooklyn sites are not hallowed in a national park, à la Gettysburg. One possibility: This is New York City. Another possibility: We got walloped ignominiously in this early defeat (although Washington slunk back nobly across the harbor—Washington could slink nobly, I'm certain—and regrouped to fight another day. Or several years, actually.)  At any rate, the eagle keeps watch over hundreds of joggers, cyclists, and stroller-pushers who zip past, most of whom probably have no notion of the bloody drama that unfolded here back in colonial days.

A backward look

En route to Prospect Park for a sunset walk, I stopped at these York-and-Lancaster roses intertwined near a stately old apartment building on Parade Place. The little arbor felled me with remembrance: Exactly 15 years ago, I passed these roses every day on a very different walk, to visit my mother in Caledonian Hospital one block away.


I have blessedly forgotten the precise anniversary in May when my mother fell at 4:30 a.m. on her bedroom carpet and shattered her hip, and our lives.  An ambulance took her the few short blocks to the hospital, where we lingered in the torpid ER for 12 hours. (Caledonian has since been shuttered and lies alongside the park as a boarded-up ghost; its closing represents no great loss to modern medicine.) As the sun rose that awful morning, I glanced into the park and saw a lone young female jogger sprint past. In that moment, behind the thick hospital windows, I intuited that a prison was springing up invisibly around me. The jogger, now an emissary from a distant land of health and freedom, vanished down the South Lake Drive, and I turned to engage with my new life as a caregiver of a patient with fathomless physical and emotional needs that consumed us both for her remaining six years.

What is it about the water's edge that draws us when we're burdened with memory? Distraction and release, I guess. The goslings were much in evidence, already assuming an unpleasant goose-like shape despite their cloak of fuzz. 











A perfect yellow iris bloomed in the lakeside muck.











Now that the phragmites have grown tall again, the marshes along the southern periphery of the lake offer many sheltered cul-de-sacs in which homeless fellows or street people congregate, alone or in small groups, and stow their stuff. Perhaps one of them arranged this tableau befitting my flashbacks: a mighty fallen tree, its core a black void, holding up a naked mattress at the edge of a swamp.




Sitting awhile at the lake's edge, I tried to be present to the blessings that have replaced our burdens: growing daughter instead of declining mother, bicycles instead of wheelchairs, the park instead of the hospital room. Still, it is a sharp-edged consolation that rests on the absence of one you loved so much, as any caregiver knows. Even now, nine years after her death, regret and anger, pain and guilt can all flood back in an instant, and I still find myself searching for some mystical seal of approval that I really, truly did the best I could.

The park didn't fail me; as I turned for home, an angel arose from the depths in benediction.

Well, okay, it was these guys a moment later. But the point was taken. 

These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look...

          Emily Dickinson, Nature

Communion in the haze

The frenzy of the "first official weekend of summer" having been spent, summer herself slipped quietly into Prospect Park as everyone went back to work. Not just 80 degrees, but gloriously humid, creating that hallucinatory haze in the distance, and bringing forth all the meadow and woods perfumes released by a rainy morning in the depths of a sun-warmed afternoon. In a brief visit to the Nethermead, recognition rushed back in from childhood: Oh, yes, this is it. School is almost over. Everything good will come again.

Robins sing differently in summer than in spring, with a lazy contentedness.  Alone on a deserted road, a walker feels as if the earth rises up around her in companionship. (Or you could bring a blessed Brooklyn dog.)

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,     
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!

—Emily Dickinson, Nature
(For the full poem, go here)

Picnicking it Old School

After yesterday's whiff of Memorial Day weekend barbecue madness, we offer today some archivey goodness: picnicking in Prospect Park circa 1953-54, courtesy of the Brooklyn Public Library "Historic Brooklyn Photographs" collection.*

This is "the Wexler family after a picnic."  They look like a fun bunch, but with plenty of edge.

The buffet raiders below are unidentified, although the photo is credited to a Jules Geller. Looks like a Darwinian fight for the food; the littlest Brooklynites are holding their own. 




 







 
 Finally, we have this feisty clan from the Bronx (according to the notes on the original photo, which was grease-penciled for cropping by the Brooklyn Eagle). From left to right, they are "Mrs. Flora Gurn, Regina Pearl, Paul Gurn, Mrs. Louis Pearl and her husband."  Poor Mr. Nameless Pearl, pouring out libations and waiting to be played someday by John Turturro. Meanwhile, is anyone keeping an eye on the baby presumably at rest within that Cadillac of a carriage?

* Intellectual Property Wonk note: The Brooklyn Public Library digital collections site offers a long, aggressive, and (to me) fairly incomprehensible "terms and conditions" section; it seems to imply that I can post their pictures if I don't  do so for commercial gain (roger that).  If I've read this wrong, someone can alert me and I will plunge the Gurns and the Wexlers back into digital obscurity.

Summer and smoke

 
  The blessed sunshine of an early Memorial Day weekend was still in abundant supply at 7:30 p.m. While the evening was a little too cool to feel quite like summer, the air over the picnic grounds near Ninth Street was thick with the perfume of starter fluid and charred meat. And the ground was thick with people and their mobile campsites, many of which included balloons celebrating various events.



As I cycled around the park, I pondered the subtleties of selecting a picnic spot. Grilling is allowed in only a few sections of Prospect Park, and those areas lay under a haze of mouthwatering smoke, with what looked like thousands of picnickers feasting in closely packed quarters. But even non-grillers tended to cluster in crowds. Some chose areas in jarring proximity to the hubbub of the Coney Island Avenue traffic circle, just inside the fence.

When I was young, my family took perverse pride in seeking out the most remote and scenic location possible for the old cooler and blanket. Triumph was secured when we managed to find a Perfect Spot out of sight and earshot of another human being. Looking back, I realize we carried this (and many other preferences ) a bit far. But I still find myself baffled by picknickers who seem to put no premium on seclusion, despite their evident good cheer.

AYITP ON TV!

My park explorations are featured on a segment of "A Walk Around the Blog,"  Monday, May 26 at 9 p.m. on Cablevision channel 69 and Time-Warner Cable channel 56. It will be rebroadcast Thursday at 1 and 9 p.m. and Friday at 3 and 11 p.m., and is already posted on their site. (Thanks to Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn for the heads-up.) They do a nice job with these little features, in which bloggers explore their communities on camera.  I look okay aside from my curious gait (or as some concerned observers call it, my "limp"), but as yet I have been blessedly spared knowing what the heck I said, because Charlie the Kitten seems to have chewed through my computer's speaker cable. I will have to trust that Prospect Lefferts Gardens blogger Charles and I engaged in sparkling banter about development issues. Thanks to the producers for the opportunity!

Mopey redux

         

Back on April 4 (left, above) we met "Mr. Mopey," the weeping tree (a beech, I think) beside the Audubon Center. Yesterday, he was in much higher spirits; cloaked in foliage, he is something magnetic and mysterious.

 This lovely bride and her groom nestled in his branches for picture-taking.


Around the other side, a group of schoolkids dared each other to enter his green tent and vanish. 








Those who stole inside Mopey's cascading branches discovered that  their host was an accomplished contortionist, not to mention a recording tablet for generations of carved messages.  One visitor left a votive offering of a pencil sharpener. 

Best carousel in the world

  Question: Why is life worth living?
  Answer: For lots of reasons, but if you need just one, there's the Prospect Park Carousel.

Emboldened by my new pass allowing unlimited rides, I tugged several actual children onto the gloriously restored 1912 masterpiece on a perfect late spring afternoon. Got a jumper, of course. (Who wants a horse that doesn't go up and down?) I was delighted to see that the gentle Lucio is still at the helm; he has been the master of these steeds since the carousel reopened in 1990, and I have never seen anyone so obviously in love with his job. (Lucio modestly declined to be photographed, but for a wonderful shot of him, go here.)

Now, "best carousel in the world" is quite a claim. On what do I base this bold pronouncement? Glad you asked. I happen to be a carousel wonk, with a life list stretching from Santa Cruz to Lake Compounce, Connecticut. (There is plenty of carousel wonkery to go around.) None can touch Prospect Park's gem, carved by the legendary "Coney Island style" carver Charles Carmel. (For the whole history, go here.) Many vintage carousels have some of these features, but ours combines them in a uniquely powerful and endorphin-flooding way:
* The carousel is relatively small, but seems to move very fast.
* There are some excellent non-horsies, like this deer.
* There is a real, honest-to-God calliope pounding out old-fashioned waltzes and Sousa marches. (I have ridden carousels playing Muzak, or worse yet, nothing at all.)
* Outside, the park zooms past in an emerald blur; it is set like a jewel in the park's "Children's Corner,"  across from a 200-year-old Dutch house, and if you could spin just a little faster, you would start time-traveling like Dr. Who.

And then there is the central structure itself, which has been fantastically adorned with paintings of vanished and still-standing Brooklyn landmarks, like the Botanic Garden, the monument to poet Thomas Moore, and the old  reservoir tower.




Oh, and did we mention a bare-breasted Coney Island mermaid? 

Unlimited rides, yes!

A sensation among the swans

I'm heading off to the park after a two-day absence.  Meanwhile, some archivey goodness on a gorgeous day: We conjure up for your enjoyment the vanished Miniature Yacht Clubhouse, which stood on the western edge of the lake (near Wellhouse Drive) from 1901 to 1956, when it burned down. The house was described in the Brooklyn Eagle as an octagon 50 feet in diameter made of locust and cedar woods hewn in Prospect Park. A porch for spectators was built out over the lake, and at its opening the American Model Yacht Club kept scores of models of famous sailing craft there.

Now, these were no mere bathtub boats, according to a story from the Eagle on May 19, 1889 (predating the construction of the clubhouse by more than a decade). "On a Saturday afternoon a fleet of exquisite little yachts spread their white sails in the breeze and skim across the lake, followed lovingly by their makers and owners in rowboats, who are always at hand to help them tack or decide upon the winner of the race," enthused the writer. "Some of these men's playthings are 10 feet overall, and built upon models of grown-up yachts. Two are copies of the America, and one is an exact representation of the Puritan, in proportions, rigging, and build."

Most impressive, if least practical, in this "Lilliputian fleet," was "a clever copy of an old-fashioned man of war about five feet long. It had two rows of port holes, one of which had to be covered, as it was below the water line and caused the mighty little craft to go promptly to the bottom the first time it was launched. It was fitted with  a steam engine in addition to its sails, and in its palmy days went puffing across the lake, firing off its tiny guns and making a great sensation among the swans."

(Somehow, I envision this craft being piloted with frantic eagerness by an elderly Ralph Richardson type, in boater hat and elegant moustache...)

Vigil

Spring in New York always throws one protracted, cold, wet, sullen tantrum before summer breaks its will and sends it packing. Who would think that Memorial Day weekend is upon us?

No one, surely, who shivered in the dripping remains of a 50-degree Tuesday at the Dillon Stewart playground. 

















Next door, however, the sodden turf did not deter a dad and some fierce young ladies from their soccer game.









Returning home later that night, I looked overhead and saw that the sky was clear enough for a star to poke through. The Parade Ground ballfields were floodlit for night play, and utterly empty. It was as if all of Prospect Park were quietly hunkered down, waiting for summer to be unleashed.


A note: Warmest thanks to everyone who left messages of cheer and good will about my TNT ride to Montauk! They are wildly appreciated.

Event day

I was very far from Prospect Park this weekend, but loyal visitors who have borne with my TNT progress reports deserve a debriefing. Yes, I completed the Montauk Century—the metric version (100 km). I was cycling for about 7 hours, not including rest stops, and they were 7 of the most challenging and rewarding hours I've ever spent.

In spite of a lousy forecast, the day was mostly gorgeous, and it only really rained for the last 10 miles or so. (I had wanted prescription cycling sunglasses, but it turned out I needed tiny windshield wipers.) We pedaled through vast wetlands, past farms and fields (in one, a few cows looked up peacefully), and along the lush privet-walled lanes of the Hamptons. Spring comes later out there, and the lilacs and apple blossoms kept me going with clouds of fragrance. (The TNT cheering section with bullhorns and cowbells also helped.) I dutifully sucked back bottle after bottle of water, along with strange energizing products with names like Accelerade and Gu that really do work. I managed not to fall or get a flat, and I wasn't the last one over the finish line.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. Seriously. When I signed up for this quest last January, still debilitated from bronchitis and so deconditioned that I could barely climb out of a subway stop, I thought that it must be the strong folks, the super-achievers like Lance, who would inspire me, but I was wrong. The teammates and friends and strangers who convinced me to keep going and do this were the least likely athletes imaginable, the ones with challenges greater than mine. All of us, certainly all of us who reluctantly elected to do 100 in kilometers instead of miles, were intimately acquainted with frustration, limits, and human frailty. At least one teammate was himself a survivor of blood cancer; another teammate returned to cheer us on while still recovering from injuries she sustained on a training ride. One of my riding buddies kept going after wiping out on some gravel, laying open her knee, and breaking her glasses (repaired by a coach with duct tape along the side of the road). To see people surmount such stuff with grace and enthusiasm is worth more than learning how to cycle up hills.

Not that there's anything wrong with that! The coaches in this program were outstanding, but even more importantly, they treated riders of every ability level with equal caring and respect. For someone who was a classic gym-class nerd, chosen last for every team and humiliated by every sport imaginable, this was an unforgettable gift. Thank you Matt, Felix, and Joyce. And thanks, Julia and company, for the cowbells and the infinite logistical support.

When it was over, Spouse and Child scooped me up, soaked and slightly deranged, and overindulged me in food, praise, and back rubs. This morning, I was relieved to discover that I could still walk, and we poked around Montauk's dunes before heading homeward with my bike in the trunk. The rugosa roses, tough and sweetly perfumed, were just starting to pop open in Hither Hills park.

Several veteran bike centurions have assured me that my "next century" will be in miles, not kilometers, but I'm skeptical—about finding the time for that level of sustained training, and about whether I want or need to ride that much faster and further. This ride was about giving it all that I had, to honor my dad and all the people who gave money to battle the disease that took him from us. But at heart I am a stop-and-smell-the-flowers rider, not a competitor; the journey always seems to matter more than the destination or the mileage.

See you in the park, and thanks to all who rooted for me. Tomorrow, I think I'll just walk.