Prospect: A Year in the Park

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.  

Sakura MacSelfie

We skipped the crowds for the Brooklyn Botanic Garden's Sakura Matsuri festival, but the cherry blossoms (at least those trees already blooming after this laggardly spring) were only slightly less mobbed last Tuesday, when the breeze was balmy and the admission was free. Hanami, the traditional contemplation of transient blooms, seemed to have undergone a profound transition this year, happening mostly through handheld screens of every size and description.

 

This bloomer on the Cherry Esplanade was surrounded with two kinds of buzz: pollinators, and photo-op seekers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Young or older, no one can resist posing in front of the foamy mounds of flowers.

 


This lovely Instagrammer wore a chic jacket in a complementary shade of creamy raspberry.

 

But some folks did seem a bit preoccupied with the whole selfie thing...

...including users of the rapidly proliferating "selfie sticks."

 

Over in the pavilion of the Japanese Garden, it came as a relief to see someone taking a picture with a good "old-fashioned" camera...or better yet, just gazing at the beauty through a pair of young eyes.

 

 

Our collective propensity to forget

The day before yesterday, August 27, was the 238th anniversary of the Battle of Brooklyn, which raged right through Prospect Park. I've written about it here and here, but for a rich and thought-provoking account that asks a key question—"Why the hell is there almost no sign of such a historic battle right in the middle of Brooklyn?"—go here.

 

Detail, 1776 map of Battle of Brooklyn, NY Public Library

 

My easy answer is, because we got our butts kicked (although, as historians remind us, thanks to a magnificently executed retreat, the patriots "lived to fight another day." Well, some of them did, who weren't cut to pieces by the British and Hessians.) The piece, by Ben Nadler and Oksana Mironova of Urban Omnibus ("an online publication dedicated to defining and enriching the culture of citymaking") goes deeper, and examines why Prospect Park boasts just three obscure monuments to its blood-soaked Revolutionary past, all clustered in the leafy glade of Battle Pass (better known as "the East Drive sort of behind the Zoo"). The answers pull in a whole bunch of issues around how we memorialize violence and war, how we pay for parks, and what is demanded by human bones beneath our feet. They wrap it up beautifully, thus:

Olmsted and Vaux’s intention for Battle Pass — topographical preservation, without an ornate memorial — contrasts with commemorations of wars fought beyond the borders of Brooklyn, like the Civil War memorial arch in Grand Army Plaza or the WWI memorial at Lakeside. The Battle Pass approach allows for more open-ended interpretations of history than these nationalistic monuments, but the simplicity of Battle Pass dissatisfied future generations, and more visible memorials were added to supplement Olmsted and Vaux’s memorialization by preservation. Their intention, to imbue an active public space with historical memory, is perhaps too understated to confront our collective propensity to forget. Still, Battle Pass can serve as a prompt to consider how to keep sites of historical memory in the public sphere. If we seek to remember through monumentality, yet fear entrusting our monuments to the private or commercial sphere, we must consider what it means to preserve and act as stewards for our collective history.

 

On hallowed ground

If this doesn't fit your image of a Victorian burial ground, then you don't know Green-Wood Cemetery. The flags were flying along "Battle Avenue" in Brooklyn's grandly historic graveyard yesterday as a host of re-enactors in 1776 regalia celebrated the 236th anniversary of the Battle of Brooklyn. The cemetery sits atop "Battle Hill," the highest point in Brooklyn, with a stunning view of the harbor that bristled with King George's fleet, which had sailed through the Narrows to kick our rebel butts.

 

 

   

Subversive fun to be reminded just how much little boys of all ages love guns. This musket was a perfect reproduction of a "Brown Bess," the patriots' already-obsolescent workhorse weapon. Despite a loading protocol that involves biting twists of paper and jamming in a ball with a long rod, a crack musketeer could reload four times a minute, said our demonstrator.

 

 

  

  

  

 

 

  

 

The profusion of weapons proved inspirational. America's freedom: not defended with gender-neutral toys and cooperative games!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cannons were precious treasures in the battle, and the patriots spent much energy hauling "field pieces" like this one from place to place. The report ignited by this cannon-master (minus cannonball) was deafening; Brooklyn's hills must have echoed terrifyingly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Really good re-enactors spark the imagination with a startling truth: Those distant textbook wars were fought by real people. They put a human face on history.

   

 

And speaking of gender roles: Girls can play guys! (We have more practice with ponytails anyway.) I think I see my retirement hobby, and it does not include wearing a corset and quilting on the sidelines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carrying regimental flags (including many from our French allies), we all marched up Battle Hill to the statue of Minerva, who gazes across the harbor directly to Lady Liberty. A wreath was laid, the Declaration of Independence was read, and I confess to feeling a little choked up as I said the Pledge of Allegiance.

 

 

 

 

 

Because, you see, it could all so easily have been lost during those August days of 1776. A startling reminder came from General Adkins, the current commander of the Maryland Regiment whose troops made a legendary sacrifice at the nearby Gowanus and its Old Stone House, absorbing the fury of British bayonets and cannons while the bulk of Washington's troops retreated, escaped, and (after more years of brutal fighting) eventually won our liberty.

 

 

 

 

The general's reference to the "far frontiers of freedom," in Afghanistan and elsewhere, was a chilling reminder, on a festive summer day, that the battle against tyranny never ends.

 

Always some drama or other

This guest park entry will run in reverse chronological order.

Scene III: A perfect summer evening at the Old Stone House, its Revolutionary War museum serving as a staging area. An attentive Park Slope crowd turns out at twilight for an inventive and affecting original production of "The Island of Dr. Moreau" by the Piper Theater Company.  (You can catch it again next Saturday July 21 at 8 p.m. at the same venue; and it's free.)

 

 

 

 

 

Honestly, no one in the world works harder and more joyfully than young, ambitious actors. These ones threw themselves into their bare-bones show with brio on a sultry night, competing with an urban cacaphony of sirens, airplanes, and car horns. At one point, when a character onstage screamed in horror, some wag down on Fourth Avenue screamed back. The cast was unfazed.

 

 

 

 

 

Scene II: That afternoon. A few toddlers clamber over the empty stage in front of the reconstructed 1699 Dutch farmhouse. Today, it sits tucked between a lovely new playground and a swath of artificial turf for ball games, overlooking a Staples and a few blocks from the Gowanus Canal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene I: August 27, 1776. The house is caught up in the bloodiest encounter of the Battle of Brooklyn, the American Revolution's first pitched battle. Rifle fire and the screams of fallen men rend the air around the marshy farmland, as vastly outnumbered Americans struggle to hold off British and Hessian troops.

 

 

 

 

 

Meanwhile, most of Washington's army retreats from around the area of today's Prospect Park to evacuate across the East River later that night, regroup, and fight on for freedom. The defense of the Stone House meant capture or death for hundreds of patriots. But the legendary valor of William Alexander (known until that day as a vain and gouty inebriate who insisted upon the doubtful title of Lord Stirling) and the elite fighting men of William Smallwood's Marylanders regiment, may well have kept the Revolution from ending that muggy and terrifying day.

 

No heffalumps, either

Today's adventure: in which Pooh (sans Piglet) heads for the Hundred-Acre Wood to pick up nasties with a litter mob but finds...no one about.

Well, okay, it was scheduled for 9 a.m. and I got there at 9:12, the sort of idiotic stunt that is typical of me—blog about something and get there late. But how far could they have got with latex gloves and grabbers?

 

 

 

 

 

I listened attentively for the sound of gleeful disgust as the crew exorcised the remains of various dangerous (well, safer, actually) liaisons. Nothing but birdsong...lots of it. One of those perfect "I'm in Brooklyn?" moments.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here are three blurry birds of the day:

     

Catbird! Cardinal! And way up there, outrageously yellow, a Baltimore Oriole! Also heard: flickers and a thrush. Also seen: black-capped chickadees, zillions of robins, a black-throated warbler, a hawk cruising the Long Meadow, and a very sociable red-winged blackbird:

 

 

 

 

 

 

I mosied over to the Vale of Cashmere, another locale often littered with icky debris, and still was almost entirely alone. (If I get mugged here, mates, I muttered to the invisible mob...)

 

In fact, the place looked as if a cleaning crew had just been by; fresh bags in the trash, and no depravity evident except for a donut feast. Sadly, the Vale's gorgeous serpentine pond lies drained.

 

All alone, I found a recently festooned May-pole. No one to dance about it with, however! So...how did I miss you guys? (According to instigator Marie of 66 Square Feet, a small but promising mob did show up at some point, although one "got lost in the bushes" for awhile, and we're doing it again in 2 weeks; I'll be there.)

Join us in vanquishing squalor!

Whenever I rest in the Midwood, near Prospect Park's Battle Pass, I marvel at how a sacred American battlefield (the Battle of Brooklyn, our first big smackdown of the Revolution) hides in plain, if lovely, sight. Where these daffodils recently bloomed, patriots were skewered to trees by Prussian and British bayonets. Nothing marks the hallowed ground except two bronze plaques affixed to boulders.

 

 

 

 

 

But there's a sadder incongruity: The wooded area is a cruising ground often littered with the nasty remnants of "romantic" encounters and assorted binges. Huge props go to fellow blogger Marie Viljoen of 66 Square Feet for getting outraged enough to prod the park into providing backup and supplies for a "Litter Mob" set to attack the area with gloves, bags and picker-uppers.

  

 

When? Tomorrow morning, Tuesday, May 10, 9 A.M. If you are a soul unfettered by job constraints at that hour, join us at the intersection of the Center and East Drives (map below shows the spot). Come and let us make reparations for those slobs who would desecrate the beauty of nature and a birthplace of liberty! (Whew--that is a lot of ennobling invocation for a Monday.)

 

 Battle of Brooklyn image: The Old Stone House

 

DID YOU TAKE ANY MEMBER TOURS LAST SATURDAY?

Speaking of crowd-sourcing...

I missed the day of Members-only tours last Saturday--some of them sounded really cool. If you went along and have any good shots or observations, please share; e-mail them to me at brenda "at" tenthleper.us (using the little "at" thingie, not the word "at"). Thanks!

Trooping the color

Last Thursday, the lake in Prospect Park...from a path I never found before. After all this time, there are still discoveries to make. Spouse and Daughter were both on holiday, making it a festive family hike.

The science of cat-lapping may be getting all the buzz, but this guy plunged in for some basic canine guzzling near the Binnen Water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Near the bridge, silky seeds prepared to take flight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's amazing that this hollowed-out tree has survived the year's tree-slaying storms.

 

 

Nearby, another troubled trunk allows for a game of peek-a-boo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On this balmy Veterans' Day, the Marylanders' monument was a jarring reminder that we stood on one of the first great American battlegrounds. 

 

The ribbon on the wreath said "Bravery," but the wind had blown it askew.

 

 

How the mighty have fallen

Yesterday was an incongruously glorious day on which to view Tree Carnage. It was as if the balmy blue sky were blinking innocently: Who, me? In a day, the Prospect Park crews had already turned thickets of freshly felled timber to mountains of chips. The air smelled resinous as a lumberyard. I like the suggestion on Brookynometry that the wood be milled into fundraising crafts.

 

Someone on the crew has a soul. "Big Grandma Green" had crashed to earth (before the storm, according to an astute park observer) behind the Zoo along the East Drive, and was touchingly commemorated. If that date is accurate,  she stood as a wee sapling when Hessian soldiers used their bayonets to pin General Washington's patriots to her larger neighbors in the surrounding forest during the Battle of Brooklyn.

Most of the trees survived the storm, however, and Brooklynites put them to good use as the blessed warmth turned the Long Meadow to muck. This fellow actually had 3 little dogs in attendance, who all looked like storybook piglets.

Not everyone sees trees as an invitation to leisure. These two robins were having a nasty dust-up over nesting rights. Welcome back,guys.

Say thank you to Grandma Green: Go here to donate and help defray the massive expense of the park's storm clean-up.

Birthday phantoms

A late afternoon walk on my 51st birthday finds the park wrapped in deep quiet under a lowering grey sky. As a portent of mysterious things to come, I pass the phantom tollbooth. (This one is near the southwestern entrance; there's another along the West Drive in Park Slope.) What were they for?* I haven't found out yet, but they were made with lovely terra-cotta roof tiles.

(Let's see. Did I spell "phantoms" right in that headline? The day before yesterday, I said I was "peddling" home and only one of you corrected me!)

*See astute comment below.

"A big storm knocked it over," perhaps...but this downed lamppost isn't going anywhere. They've got it caged lest it try to escape.

Turning up Wellhouse Drive, I pass my favorite massive ginkgo tree. It has a Southern Gothic air, lacking only the haunting tresses of Spanish moss.

Around the bend, no one comes near the abandoned Wellhouse (although someone built a nest in its broken window). The stout little building was erected in 1869; crowned with an elaborate tower, it was once the nerve center for a massive engineering operation that pumped 750,000 gallons of water a day up to a reservoir on Lookout Hill.  The tower was long ago demolished, but the 70-foot-deep well still lies below, directly in front and covered over. Let's start an urban legend that someone was buried alive down there. On this hushed early evening, only the catbirds could be heard mewing in the woods...or was that a hollow cry from below?

Up the hill, someone had placed a wreath on the monument to the Marylanders, the regiment that charged the Old Stone House in a suicidal frenzy of courage during the Battle of Brooklyn. Supposedly Washington said of the troops, "What brave fellows I must this day lose" (the words are inscribed on the base of the pillar).

On Terrace Bridge, a fat baby dove was reluctant to fly away.

Breeze Hill is an odd little area, usually quite deserted. This ghostly bike leaned against a dumpster so seldom emptied that saplings sprung from its contents.

As I headed home, one more melancholy mystery arose: Where was this swan's mate? They usually travel in pairs.

Back home, my mate, and Cygnet, waited impatiently to take me out for a Chinese dinner.