Prospect: A Year in the Park

A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?

No, actually, I wouldn't*. Even human foragers don't want to munch English ivy, poison ivy, goutweed, and other invasive plants that have run riot in now-sunny areas of Prospect Park after hundreds of trees fell victim to Superstorm Sandy.

But goats? They'll be happy to help. The park has hired a gang of experienced weed-whackers from green-goats.com, the brainchild of former dairy goat farmers Ann and Larry Cihanek. Their team of power-mowers has already gone to work in Liberty State Park and Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island, among other urban sites; this, however, is the first time that goats have come to the rescue in Brooklyn. And predictably, the media went mad.

 

 

At a press conference yesterday, park officials introduced members of the press to the eight goats who will work, in three teams, in fenced enclosures along the park's steeply hilly and overgrown eastern edge, as part of a multi-year woodlands restoration program.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In small groups, journos were permitted into the enclosure, where they giggled and scrambled and generally fell victim to the curious charm that has made goats the current darlings of Instagram.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not all members of the team were on message. One snoozed obliviously before the Opening Remarks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This guy, named Raptor, was more interested in nibbling bark than weeds. (For this reason, some young trees will get goat-guards.) Raptor is a breed called the La Mancha, bred for almost non-existent outer ears. This collegue more than made up for it with extravagantly lengthy ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photographers called out pleadingly to the goats in paparazzi fashion, but while some had perfected "Blue Steel" and even "Magnum," others shrugged off the attention with goatish aplomb.

    

Few visitors petted the goats, although we were not forbidden to do so, perhaps because we were warned they might have rubbed their hairy flanks on poison ivy. Undeterred, I bonded with a perfectly charming goat named Skittles. I am a goat-whisperer! (Hint: If they are scratching their backs with their horns, scratch that spot for them.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Needles to say, this being Brooklyn, concerns were voiced over the goats winding up as someone's dinner. Mr. Cihanek said he wasn't worried; the goats, he recounted, tend to bring out the protective best in people. The few who have escaped their enclosures have been rounded up and returned, often by folks from cultures fond of their culinary potential. Let's face it: People love these creatures, and not just because their four stomachs can handle 25% of their body weight in vegetation every day. The goats will remain in the park, says the Alliance, "until their work is done."

The woodlands restoration, funded by post-Sandy grant money from the National Parks Service via New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation, goes beyond goats. According to the Prospect Park Alliance, historic preservation work will happen sometime in the future in the (sadly neglected) Vale of Cashmere (whose leaky pond, right, is now a mucky swamp) and also atop Lookout Hill, whose trees were decimated by Sandy.

In the meantime, there are goats!

Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey

A kiddley divey too, Wooden shoe!"

Who ya gonna call? Not these louts.

A local blog, Park Slope Stoop, reports on a new activity for the bored, boozy young: a "Brooklyn Paranormal Society" whose waggish stated mission is "finding ghosts while inebriated." Their recent eveing in Prospect Park apparently attracted a big crowd of Bluto-meets-Venkman wanna-bes, who headed off with some paraphernalia and a "psychic" to laff it up. Here's a shot of the merry-makers on a previous trip to Fort Greene Park last month.

 

Not to go all Sam the Eagle here, but behind these tippling ignorami is the Prison Ship Martyrs' Monument, which marks the site of a crypt containing just some of the mortal remains of more than 11,500 patriots who died hideously of overcrowding, starvation, and disease after the Battle of Brooklyn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My husband is a big fan of "ghost tours," a staple of cute historic towns; I find them hokey and tedious, occasionally brightened by a talented out-of-work actor. Either way, they're a harmless diversion; I've even thought of leading one myself, to recount some of the haunting tales of the park's lost souls as I recounted here. But am I alone in finding the jokey pretext-for-drinking thing here a bit more off-putting? On their Prospect Park ramble, the tour-goers gamboled at the sites of five modern-day murders, some quite fresh in memory. I'm sure the victims' families would be thrilled to know their loved ones live on as post-frat fun fodder. Let's acknowledge them here with respect, so that their deaths in our beautiful park, this month of the dead, may be marked by something other than snickering and getting loaded:

Patricia Shea, a 40-year-old physician's assistant from Rockaway, found strangled in the park in 1982.

 

 

 

Allyn Winslow, a 42-year-old drama teacher from Brooklyn, shot to death while resisting a group of teen-agers trying to steal his bicycle on Quaker Hill in June, 1993

 

 

 

 

William Oliver, 61, a "peaceful soul" and avid walker stabbed to death while walking in the Vale of Cashmere in April, 2006

 

 

 

 

Mohammad Afzaf (photo unavailable), 41, reportedly suffering from mental illness and possibly homeless, beaten and left for dead in a wooded area near a jogging path in July, 2008

 

 

Julio Locarno, 23, shot near the Parade Grounds in 2011 while himself facing a homicide charge

 

 

Of course, this douchebaggery has drawn a little burst of media coverage, and the next outing--to Green-Wood Cemetery--will undoubtedly be a hit. (The trip, not listed on Green-Wood's official events calendar, promises, "We’ll stroll through the cemetery, visiting points of interest, while swiggin’, gigglin’ and taking pictures...pack a flask." Perhaps the cemetery's caretakers could follow the gang with a portable urinal.) Count me out.  

Porky Plateau

There was no breeze to be found on Breeze Hill when we headed up for the opening day of Smorgasburg, the oh-so-Brooklyn phenomenon of all things curated and artisanal, in Prospect Park. We had despaired of the fair's recent incarnation in the new Brooklyn Bridge Park, which we renamed "The Sun's Anvil"; it doesn't feel right to "fork over" big bucks for fancy chow and then have to eat it squatting on a dusty curb or juggle it on the hoof. With the vast acres of Prospect Park, we figured, the hungry hordes would fan out--bringing both the possibility of new audiences discovering its treasures, and pigs turning it into their personal trough.

Breeze Hill is a somewhat neglected plateau overlooking the gorgeously restored Music Grove area; in my few visits there, it has been home to dumpsters and such. It's somewhat isolated and not readily seen from outside, but the hip folks found it, following their noses to the smell of barbecue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bam! We'd barely made landfall when we encountered two manbuns and a quilt with fey young ladies weaving $10 flower crowns (an activity we deemed "very Zooey").

 

 

 

The sun beat down mercilessly, but the crowds were undeterred. Biggest draw seemed to be the "Ramen Burger." I counted 32 people waiting patiently to obtain this delicacy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The vendors are a perfect kaleidoscope of all current "new Brooklyn" obsessions: irony, meat, no meat, etc.

   

"Lawless Jerky" came in mango and curry flavors, but I opted for the classic. I am ashamed to say I paid $6 for a bag of it, but I had to reward the guy for listening to me tell him how I had a granduncle named "Lawless Loadsman." It is awfully good, but not that much better than the gas-station stuff.

As for the garbage situation, it was spiralling out of control at several locations...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...but a representative from the Prospect Park Alliance assured me that the Smorg team had been sworn to a total clean-up by day's end. (I haven't gotten over there since to verify.) These guys were trying their damnedest to keep up with the tide of cups, troughs, and plates cast off by the gourmets.

 

 

 

 

As for Where to Eat Your Stuff, the answer yesterday was: Right there. In a park of more than 500 acres, it seemed the entire crowd had jammed themselves under 3 big trees in the center of the vendors, like a herd of cows in a blazing pasture. "I guess they want to be where the action is," Spouse observed.

 

But if they'd only skibbled down a steep, uneven granite stairs to the Music Grove, they could have basked on a bench in the shade, surrounded by busts of great composers (and now, alas, overlooked by a bloating condo at the park's eastern edge).

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few folks, like these quaint corn-nibblers, did take up the option, but the glade was surprisingly empty. Park newcomers may not even realize it's there (although the Alliance was earnestly providing maps at the chief Smorg entry point).

That's a shame...because anyone who wanted to walk off their roast-pork-and-pepper sandwich (yes, I indulged in half of one from Federoff's Roast Pork) could have been here in under five minutes.

And if they'd kept going five more minutes, they could have paddled off those porky calories on the lake itself, on the fleet of new boats in bathtub-toy blue.

And if they'd walked all the way to the Grecian Shelter, as we did on our way home, they might even have snared an "inbitation" to Serenity's spooky birthday party. We declined, and headed home to digest and rehydrate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grounded

Well, it has been awhile since I rode on the World's Best Carousel. But Spouse and I went for a spin over the weekend, and I was crushed when the ever-cordial Lucio (the longtime master of this painted stable, and one of its restorer-craftsmen) reluctantly informed us of a new rule: Jumpers for adults only.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What? I mean, what? Racing through the forest of steeds on the platform before it grinds into motion, picking out the most impressive jumper...that's half the fun! What happened?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucio explained that three people had piled onto a single horse and busted the turning mechanism up top. Idiots. And after what must have been a costly repair to this priceless, meticulously restored gem, I guess "legal" decided that the only guarantee against a repeat was this draconian rule. But...damn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My suave stag is just one of many excellent stationary guys on the Prospect Park Carousel, and there is still so much to love: the way the green park outside flies by in a blur, the gorgeous decorations, and of course the mighty Wurlitzer band organ* thumping away. (Plenty of carousels use awful recorded music or worse yet, none.) The melody that greeted us on start-up? "Welcome Back," followed by a slightly wonky rendition of "Lara's Theme." (See below for why band organs have that delightfully off-kilter sound.)

But here's a big Brooklyn raspberry to the idiots who spoiled the jumpers for the "grown-ups," a term we must use loosely.

* From the park's sign outside the Carousel: The Malkin Band Organ is a Wurlitzer Model 153 Band Organ. The organ was originally manufactured circa 1916 by the Rudolph Wurlitzer Company in North Tonawanda, New York, and completely restored by the Prospect Park Alliance in 1990. Expert craftsman Tim Westman rebuilt the internal mechanism, while the series of paintings on the outside of the organ were rediscovered and completely restored by artist Will Morton VIII. The Malkin Band Organ has a duplex roll mechanism, 16 bells, 141 pipes, 2 drums, and a cymbal. The organ functions via a pressure pump, which supplies air, and a vacuum pump, which turns the roll. The original Wurlitzer music rolls were made of cardboard and covered by a unique wax craft paper that is no longer manufactured. A distinctive feature of these band organs is that they are non-chromatic and lack certain notes, such as D sharp. Experts estimate that there are about 50 Model 153's remaining in the world. 

The Accidental Archivist

Check out a cool interview here with Prospect Park's very own historian and archivist, Amy Peck, on the blog of StoryKeep, a firm that creates tribute videos and books. I've had the pleasure of meeting Amy a few times; her enthusiasm is infectious, the very opposite of the notion of an archivist as a curator of dusty memories. Did you know that the park may be the repository of two lost time capsules?

And if you're parky enough to follow this blog, you may be interested in

AMY'S ARCHIVEY GOODNESS FACEBOOK FOLLOWS

* The Frederick Law Olmsted National Historic Site (it's a national park in Brookline, Massachusetts).

* The Calvert Vaux Preservation Alliance.

* The New York City Transit Museum.

* The Brooklyn Historical Society.

* The Library of American Landscape History.

and the digitized photo collections of the New York Public Library and the Museum of the City of New York.

Amy, let me add one indispensable gem to that list: Forgotten New York!

Mere veil of cash

A fortnight ago, I managed to get completely lost in Prospect Park on the way to a members-only tour led by the Prospect Park Alliance. Late for our meet-up at Grand Army Plaza, I decided to go straight to the tour's destination, the Vale of Cashmere. It had been ages since I'd ventured into the secluded and neglected gem. 

 

Entering through a fence break on Flatbush Avenue, I stumbled on a mountain of post-Sandy mulch, a maze of ad-hoc dirt-bike jumps, and a lot of trees. I headed confidently towards the Vale...but wound up instead in the Rose Garden (above), another utterly cloistered garden of mystery. It was empty of humans (and its pools empty of water) on a gorgeous Saturday morning. In the silent sunlight, it managed a sort of David-Lynchian touch of verdant menace.

 

 

 

I thought I knew just how to get to the Vale from the Rose Garden, but instead wound up going in circles, then stumbling onto the East Drive. From this familiar vantage point, I spotted something brand-new: the Donald and Barbara Zucker Natural Exploration Area, a brilliant concept wonderfully executed using the copious deadfall from Sandy and the other weather catastrophes of late.

 

 

 

 

It's a perfect spot for city kids to remedy their "nature deficit disorder" and wallow in the unstructured beetle-poking, water-sloshing, log-jumping idylls that kids used to just do in back yards. vacant lots, or countrysides. Historically, it's also right; in the park's early days, this area near Nellie's Lawn was "the Children's Playground."

   

 

And the stream from an enticing water pump runs straight into...the Vale of Cashmere! The Vale's beautiful but deadly isolation is now broken open by a corridor of stroller moms and dads and their frolicking offspring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And there in the Vale was the tour, led by Justine Heilner, newest member of the park's landscape design team. The reaction of the just-arrived group was one of mingled awe and muted shock...at the weed-choked ruin that should be a glorious Romantic folly with dancing fountains.

 

As we gazed abjectly at the stagnant water, Justine recounted the Vale's history. Its semi-formal design (dating from the 1890s) and even its fanciful name met with the disdain of Frederick Law Olmsted, who championed faux rusticity. Now that the Park's East Side has processed the epic arrival of the Lakeside rink, I wondered, was the Vale next in line for a make-over...and would that mean its demise to make way for another high-profile attraction?

The Vale and Rose Garden are definitely "next" on the agenda, she replied, but "next" means 5 or 10 years before any ribbon-cutting. What that ribbon will adorn is also up for grabs; there are lots of ideas on the table, from renovating the current site to creating a sculpture garden or other new use. 

All of which made me very, very jealous of the Zuckermans, whose vision for the play area could be realized with the wave of a checkbook. How I would love to bankroll the revival of the Vale! Even without Olmsted's blessing, this secret garden in its deep, leafy glacial kettle is one of the most enchanted spaces in the city. It needs "stakeholders," the current buzzword for "people who love and care for something." The current stakeholders are birders, a few dog walkers, and the furtive men who come alone and leave in pairs, hardly the robust constituency to raise dollars for sparkling fountains to dance again. It also needs sensitive oversight to maintain the just-right balance between "peacefully isolated" and "slightly scary." Even without Zuckerdollars, I can at least offer some common-sense ideas that could be done right now.

HOW TO REVIVE THE VALE OF CASHMERE AND ROSE GARDEN RIGHT NOW

* SIGNAGE! During my "lost" ramble, I asked half-a-dozen passers-by where the Vale of Cashmere was. They all looked at me as if I were nuts.

* Cool events! Wrong spot for food trucks (they're doing that at Grand Army Plaza). But how about trendy farm-to-table dinners with all those curated, artisanal Brooklyn gourmets on board? (The Vale is not, by the way, the site of the upcoming "Pop-Up Dinner," I have heard, but it would be perfect for intimate gatherings.) How about art and craft shows? Garden shows? Small-scale theatre under the stars? Folk-music coffeehouse en pleine air?

* Regular visitors! An urban or naturalist-themed book club. Photography, birding, and foraging meet-ups and workshops. Tai chi, dawn or sunset yoga.

* Market the spot aggressively for photo and movie shoots.

* Hold a photography contest for the Vale in Four Seasons.

* For the pools in the Rose Garden (which have never worked right), an open call for art installations that would put them to creative use.

* Finally, spread the word that the East Side Revival—a regular corps of dedicated volunteers who work each Monday from 10 to 2 to beautify the area—is the hottest singles opportunity for freelancers in Brooklyn, a magnet for sensitive, hunky guys and ravishing, spunky gals! (It probably is!)

Add your ideas in the comments, please!

 

The Vale in 1903

 

Random parkitude

Some recent links of interest:

The Brooklyn Based site offers a perceptive-sounding review of the skating experience at the new Lakeside rink, with some good practical tips on gaming the inevitable weekend crowds. Writer Kate Hooker found the ice "spectacular," although she had less kind words for their rental skates and locker set-up.

 

 

 

 

 

"The Remains of the Night: Sex, Trash, and Nature in the City" is a thoughtful account by Elizabeth Royte of her participation in the brief, glorious Prospect Park "Litter Mob." I never got around to pitching in with the Mob, an ad-hoc project helmed by activist and blogger Marie Viljoen. whose self-appointed task was to pick up the nastiest leavings of the cruising crowd in Prospect Park's secluded Midwood (and, it was hoped, shame the Parks Department into stepping up their own efforts). 

 

Speaking of the redoubtable Ms. Viljoen, she has written a gorgeous and engaging book, 66 Square Feet: A Delicious Life, One Woman, One Terrace, 92 Recipes, that includes some of her foraging adventures in Prospect Park. She also continues to blog at 66 Square Feet, from her new perch in Harlem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo: Todd Heisler, New York Times

Finally, the New York Times did a nice sampling of obscure monuments in parks around the city; they featured one on Grand Army Plaza that I haven't investigated yet, of Scpttish-born gynecologist Alexander J.C. Skene. "Dedicated in 1905, his monument, in Grand Army Plaza at the entrance to Prospect Park, is an august affair, with a large bronze bust set against a tall slab of white Vermont marble," reports the Times.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The article also mentions the Concert Grove's monument to Irish poet Thomas Moore, with some delicious details I'd never read elsewhere: He loathed Americans, and was mistaken by President Thomas Jefferson for a child on account of being vertically challenged (something you'd never guess from his towering bust). My own expedition to Moore's statue on St. Patrick's Day back in 2008 yielded Asian-American brides and phony hippies, as recounted here.

A 'windfall' for Lakeside?

Photo: Prospect Park Alliance

On the day the first Brooklyn snowflake falls, good news (I think). In what is being reported as a departing gesture of largesse, Mayor-for-a-bit-longer Bloomberg has apparently decided to have the city run the gigantic new Lakeside rink project for a year for free.

 

The implications of the financial arrangements (still uncommented-upon by some key players) are utterly beyond me; this is the sort of thing I had nightmares about covering if I ever became a metro or financial reporter (and lo, I am neither). Gothamist calls it a "wildly generous sweetheart deal," which sounds good to me as a Prospect Park lover/user (and sounds overdue, given our measly support from both the city and the private sector when compared to Central Park). Geoffrey Croft of the sharp-eyed advocacy blog A Walk in the Park (an organ of NYC Park Advocates) is less sanguine. He reports (in what appears to be the original source for this news):

The Alliance will be required to pay the City of New York nothing for the first year and just $100,000 beginning the second year of a 17-year deal  according to the license agreement obtained by NYC Park Advocates. The annual fee to the city increases by just a thousand dollars a year over the life of the deal culminating with $116,097 in the year 2030. The lucrative license agreement -potentially worth tens of millions of dollars over the life of the agreement - seeks to reward the public/private partnership handsomely for raising $19 million of the Lakeside Center's $74 million dollar budget, while also requiring the group to continue to raise private money for the general operation of the public park which they have done for years.

Croft takes the Parks Department and the Alliance to task for not releasing projected revenue figures for the rink; he accuses the city of trying to abdicate its responsibilities through public/private agreements that he calls "pay-to-play funding schemes" that "hand over enormous power and decision-making authority to..groups with little transparency and accountability on what is supposed to be public land."  I have a hard time picturing the Prospect Park Alliance as a secretive or nefarious presence.  Croft really loses me with this claim:

Influential park groups are increasing relying on revenues generated from parkland being diverted from the City's general fund into their coffers.

Sorry, I don't get it; how is that a bad thing? Shouldn't a reasonable amount of the revenue from Lakeside go back into historically underfunded Prospect Park? Or is the agenda here to spread the moolah evenly throughout all parks--especially to some of the even more historically underfunded parks, like poor wretched Flushing-Meadows Corona Park? (Prospect Park may play Cinderella to Central Park, but we're the envy of many obscure outer-borough green spaces with no established advocacy group.) To borrow some current agency jargon, it all seems to be a matter of "silos" and "buckets."  I will invite Mr. Croft to illuminate his objections further, and welcome others to explain the ramifications of this in language suitable to a six-year-old clutching her allowance.

Speaking of journalistic acumen, even the New York Post covered this story, and managed to work in "animal sacrificing rituals," God bless them.  See, I coulda been a metro reporter after all.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

LAKESIDE SKATING PRICES REVEALED

Okay, everyone including me "buried the lede": The NYC Park Advocates report, citing the city's license agreement they have "obtained," claims that ice rink admissions will be $5 on weekdays and $8 on weekends and holidays, with skate rental $5 at all times. That sounds about what the old rink charged, causing me to breathe a huge sigh of relief that they won't be jacking it up to Rock-Center levels. The minimum public hours of operation for skating have been set for Fridays (3 to 9 pm), Saturdays (10-10) and Sundays (10-6), with another 20 hours a week Monday through Thursday on one or another of the two rinks. 

Updraft

From our doorstep every year, I watch a row of young oak trees in the Parade Grounds turn burnished russet. As a rain storm blew closer, I headed for them. Doing crunches on a picnic bench, I watched them blow off and away overhead.

 

This got me contemplating how we are all as individual and ephemeral as oak leaves, until I noticed that the new ladies' room on the Parade Grounds is finally open! Workers have also been dutifully bagging countless leaf-souls. Note to our new Mayor DiBlasio: I can't imagine how much more liberal, er, "progressive," New York could be, but hopefully what the New York Times calls a "sharp leftward turn" will involve more money for parks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the park itself, gorgeous late color is at peak. The cretinous geese were oblivious, but even they seemed to give a collective shudder when this redtail swooped low and perched. And even the redtail seems to realize that a goose is too big a meal for one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But what about for two? Moments later, another hawk flew in. Look closely for their silhouettes! Are they a mated pair, I wonder? I'm not one of those hawk wonks who tracks their every move, but would love to hear from any of you who are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lake's southern shore is still a place of seclusion and mystery. Today's find: a Bob Marley shrine, with bicycles, garbage bags, and lawn chairs nearby but no occupant seemingly in residence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One ruddy oak leaf scuttled at my feet, in a desperate bid to recapture my melancholy attentions. Before I could get a second shot, it blew away.

 

One year since the mayhem

 

Hard to believe a year has passed since Sandy swept away so many lives, and homes, and places of gathering. And trees. The park was butchered, on a scale that dwarfed its previous recent ravages by Hurricane Irene. Days later, it snowed, and more fell.

In a world of instant gratification, it was a harsh reminder that trees can't be replaced with CGI. The "prospect" of Prospect Park is changed, in some places, for the rest of my lifetime. (Not for nothing that Tolkien had his Ents, the wise walking trees, distinguished by their agonizing deliberation in thought, speech, and action.) From Prospect Park Southwest, for example, where the tree above was impaled, you can now see clear from one side to the other; before, there was a mysterious wall of branches and trunks that shielded the park's heart even in winter.

The park's staff have done an incomprehensible amount of work to clear deadfall, prune damaged but salvageable trees, and plant new ones. The work is still ongoing, every day. Not a bad day to make a donation to, or join as a member of, the Prospect Park Alliance in memory of the lost Ents.