Prospect: A Year in the Park

Coole runnings

Yesterday was gorgeous, but the flooded lake-edge bore witness to the recent round of deluges. (This morning, it was undoubtedly replenished.) The lake-next-to-a-lake created double swan clouds.

 

Three swans were hanging around; one had its leathery black foot tucked up at a strange angle as if useless, but its paddling was unaffected.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today is the birthday of William Butler Yeats, shown here looking awfully Daniel-Day-Lewisy. What better excuse for the haunting last stanzas of his famous poem, "The Wild Swans of Coole"?

...I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

And now my heart is sore.

All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,

The first time on this shore,

The bell-beat of their wings above my head,

Trod with a lighter tread.

  

Unwearied still, lover by lover,

They paddle in the cold,

Companionable streams or climb the air;

Their hearts have not grown old;

Passion or conquest, wander where they will,

Attend upon them still.

  

But now they drift on the still water

Mysterious, beautiful;

Among what rushes will they build,

By what lake’s edge or pool

Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day

To find they have flown away?

 

William Butler Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole (1919)

  

Bride price

One helluva sprained ankle has kept me from walks in the park, and this morning it felt great to be back. Deep late-spring green, just after the explosion of spring color has faded, when bridal-veil white takes over in anticipation of June.

I didn't make it over to the Nethermead to see how badly it lies wounded after the controversial GoogaMooga; it was painful enough seeing the overflowing trash cans after the Memorial Day weekend and hearing the whine and crack of yet more post-Sandy tree pruning. The green heart of Brooklyn is a high-maintenance beloved. Reading this article in the New York Times when I got home raised my wrath that, indeed, "creeping privatization" has turned some of our city's most heavily used parks into "beggars."

 

 

About 10 years ago, the city already contributed only about 60 percent of the park budget and the Prospect Park Alliance raised the rest, according to alliance board member Steve Hindy of Brooklyn Brewery. Incredibly, the city now contributes just some 40 percent of the park's budget, and the Alliance "scrapes up the rest from corporations and foundations and by insistently shaking a tin cup before city and state legislators," the article states. 

 

 

 

“Someone should really blow the whistle for what’s happened to parks,” Mr. Hindy notes. “People should let their elected officials know that they have cut the throats of the parks for years.”

 

 

 

 

 

It's frustrating to read that the Central Park Conservancy has $220 million in assets, when we're driven to squash the Nethermead under an onslaught of sausage vendors for $75,000 and pimp out the nation's first urban Audubon Center as a party rental. The Googa Mooga was "free," but its tickets were still an exclusive commodity with a luxury-class upgrade available...which rubs me the wrong way. It should be a fundamental covenant that our elected officials manage our tax dollars well enough to keep our parks meeting their mission: to be there for all the people. Including impromptu girl groups on tree stumps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comparing Prospect Park to Central Park in terms of philanthropic throw weight is like comparing "golden apples to regular oranges," Steve Hindy says. (Strange, given that Vaux and Olmsted considered Prospect Park, not its Manhattan sibling, to be their crowning design achievement.) “In this country, we don’t really fund public infrastructure and public spaces as we do in other countries,” Prospect Park Alliance President Emily Lloyd tactfully told the Times. “It’s always a huge stretch." An even bigger stretch now that Mayor Bloomberg's charitable foundation is apparently cutting Prospect Park out of its quarter-million-dollar annual contribution.

The whole thing reminds me of public schools. They're all "free" and "paid for by our tax dollars," but the kids with rich parents still wind up in lavishly endowed luxury models while the rest of us scrape by.  Next time you meet an elected official, just keep saying, "parks," "parks," and then maybe "parks."

And flights of bacon sing thee to thy rest

Once was enough for me after last year's "Great Googa-Mooga," but Spouse was keen to go, since we had scored two of the coveted free tickets as members of the Prospect Park Alliance. And I was lured by the well-publicized "flights of bacon" in the foodie festival's central "Hamageddon" area, devoted to all things trendy and porcine.

 

 

 

Under a light rain, mostly young folks streamed onto the Nethermead, unrecognizable under its carapace of booths, stages, Port-o-Sans, fencing, and security apparatus. The mighty metal pig was back, although not a functional cooking device this year (the smoke was for show). Crowds were lighter than last year thanks to the weather--plenty, but not a crushing mob. Tent space and seating were scarce; some took shelter under the snout of the Pork Idol.

















I headed straight for the Flights of Bacon. They consisted of 7 li'l pieces from various Exquisitely Artisanal Purveyors, the sort of folks who probably grow and hew their own apple trees for smoking wood and make their own brine from reclaimed Coney Island waves. The price? $12.

 

That put me to flight.

 

 

 

 

 

However, those who did indulge attracted bacon groupies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a mere $10 I got a tasty little pulled-pork sandwich on a bun, but it was no better than supermarket Lloyd's. Spouse got 2 petite Dumont Burgers, which looked like hockey pucks but were super-rare and exquisite; under field conditions, one could almost convince oneself they were worth $5 each.

Here were two alliances I didn't want to try.

Everybody says they're great, but I'm not tempted...at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here we see some sort of tipping point, Brooklyn-wise. Into self-parody, or beyond it?

(The dark-grey knobs are presumably the snails. "Snail and Rabbit" are two words that should only go together in a children's book about two little friends who learn that varying speeds of locomotion needn't preclude a lovely friendship.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And speaking of self-parody, these two guys from Central Casting actually seem to be excited about their only-sort-of-ironic Googa-Mooga Trading Cards. Perhaps they were saying, "I'll trade you a Daniel Boulud for a Dale Talde!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

We left after licking out a tiny $5 cup of Blue Marble ice cream; the rain and beer were producing a damp, subdued Woodstock vibe among the celebrants, who had begun to huddle under blankets with their maple cotton candy and grilled oysters. My highlight was meeting some easygoing non-Brooklynites: Charlie Smith (right), the sculptor who fabricated the Mighty Metal Pig (and various things for Burning Man and the like), and his girlfriend Sweet Stuff and his buddy Hot Stuff (or so their labels said). They're from Atlanta and seemed to be enjoying the show; for the maker of an idol to Ironic Decadence, Charlie was a nice, down-to-earth guy.

UPDATE: RAIN AND WRATH

Sunday's dismal rain has prompted the cancellation of Day Two of the GGM. Meanwhile, the ongoing, acrimonious blogosphere debate over the "pimping out" of the park to the GGM promoters--including accusations of de-facto racial exclusivity and the discomfiture of green herons--has cropped up in the New York Times here. I can't vouch for the numbers being thrown around (the park's alleged $75,000 take from the event is decried as paltry), but the broader debate over the use of parks is heating up.

Quiet riot

I confess: I've been avoiding Sakura Matsuri, the Brooklyn Botanic Garden's cherry-blossom festival, for awhile now. In the rare years (like this one) when the blossoms manage to coincide with the event, it's mobbed; when the blossoms are too early or already underfoot, it's still mobbed. The point of "hanami" ("flower viewing") is admittedly to party; apparently there's a Japanese saying, "Dumplings rather than flowers." But the last time we went, we even waited 40 minutes for a Bento box.

But I won't miss the annual "running of the perennials": the BBG Members' Preview of their annual plant sale. At 4:30 sharp, garden loons descend with rusty red Radio Flyer wagons on the Cherry Esplanade, which was still madly blossoming yesterday after last weekend's orgy of hanamania. Young children did backflips on the tender grass; older ones, like mine, were pressganged into helping plant-crazed parents haul their loot.

 

 

 

I got heucheras, which thrive in my shady, arid problem patches, and 3 different kinds of cherry tomatos, because the big beefy heirlooms keep dying tragically in midseason of unnamed diseases. There's also a rose geranium and an alpine strawberry in there, an Asian eggplant and a "Labrador violet," which is dainty and not at all like a goofy drooling dog.

 

 

 

 

 

It was just about the quintessence of spring, this last day of April—cool breeze, fresh green, and overhead the lavish blooms that my college-bound daughter described at age 5 as looking like "the trees were wearing fluffy pink sweaters." And now, to kill those plants.

All photographs Brenda L. Becker

Yours cordially, God

Prospect Park West, April 27

Spring is the Period

Express from God.

Among the other seasons

Himself abide,

But during March and April

None stir abroad

Without a cordial interview

With God.

--Emily Dickinson

Green, back

Has this winter been more interminable than most? Last March featured a bizarre turbo-springing heat wave, and by now the magnolias had shot their bolts and the hyacinths were fainting. This year, on the verge of April, the park is still mostly bare (except for brave daffodils in the undergrowth), and in my own garden, the croci have mostly forgotten to party.

At the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket, bags of increasingly aged roots still predominate, but a cheering mountain of spinach appeared before the arch. The sun was strong enough for shades, and hothouse tulips (and pink shirts) bloomed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forced cherry blossoms are a fine choice for local residents, many of whom inhabit homes with 20-foot ceilings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the Blue Moon Fisheries stand, the mackerel are running;  Daughter was enchanted by the perky cartoon fishies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Saturdays, we park on President Street, grab a coffee from the Love Truck guy (who reminds us of Luke in "Gilmore Girls"), and cruise the market, then finish our errands while munching a pastry from Bread Alone (or, if we are virtuous, an apple). President Street should be aflame with forsythia by now, but they are barely budging; however, these enormous hellebores were nodding in a brownstone front garden. They are also called Lenten rose--how appropriate for this tardy spring, since Lent just ended!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keeping so many warm

   

   Yesterday, a rowdy flock of starlings whooped it up in the sycamores along the park's West Drive, oblivious to the cold. They reminded me that it's been ages since we had Emily over.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

--Emily Dickinson

Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson Edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)

Scant signs of spring

Blame the interminable cold, but I haven't been walking in Prospect Park for ages. (Hey, even my crocuses are lagging this year.) With more proof just in that parks ease brain fatigue, I bestirred myself. There weren't a lot of takers for the strong sun and stiff chilly breeze, but these boys of would-be summer gave it their best.

Nearby, these guys practiced some sort of thing with long, shiny metal sticks. Mostly, they dropped them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing is greening up yet; the park seemed bleached and bare in spots. The recent loss of hundreds of trees has made a palpable difference in the feel of things: more sky, less sense of remove from the surrounding city.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Babies remained bundled. By now, green leaves, sandals, and the smell of barbecue grills all seem like a distant fantasy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

However, I did find a very cool decommissioned wasp nest, just lying at my feet. Its marvelously engineered pods were all vacant. I was grateful to be carrying an empty tote sack—one looks a bit absurd carrying a wasp nest down Prospect Park West—and bagged it for my cabinet of curiosities. The Daughter found it fascinating but disgusting, and said that if a wasp roused itself from within and invaded the house, "we will kill you." (For even more disturbing Kunstkammer specimens, go here...if you dare.)

 

A poem while awaiting warmth

Ice Rescue

By Brenda Becker

 

So suddenly you slipped beneath.

You strode out strong across the unmarked white,

Footfalls plunging down on frozen turf.

If there was a sign—

Danger, Stay back—you missed it, future-drawn

Amid the bare trees.

And then, a crack;

A nothingness arose around your feet, and icewater closed fast around your heart.

 

I rushed out to the lake,

My mission clear,

Launched onto my belly, easy now, I’m here,

This is what I do. 

Shifted and reached from deep inside my weight,

Nudged out the ladder, focused on your face,

a soft beacon of terror and apology

above the still dark island of your trust.

 

But the crust gave way,

The ladder was not long enough,

The water was too deep and cold.

I couldn’t reach you, had to turn away, but didn’t leave;

Together we waited, held apart by floe

Until the roar of rescue overhead

Bent the bare trees and opened up the sky.

 

Dancing in the snow

No, I'd never been to the Conservatory Garden in Central Park in my lifetime as a New Yorker. The enormous gates, donated by the Vanderbilts, lured us into this guest park late one afternoon last weekend. These frolicksome maidens didn't seem to feel the chill. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

According to the park's official site, "The northern, French-style garden showcases parterres of germander and spectacular seasonal displays of spring tulips, and Korean chrysanthemums in autumn, all within an ellipse of Japanese holly. In the center is the charming 'Three Dancing Maidens' fountain by German sculptor, Walter Schott, which once stood at the home of Samuel Untermyer's estate, Greystone, in the Bronx."

The garden has what they call great "bones"...design that stands its ground in any season, with or without flounces of flowers.

A rose whose petals are as papery as a dowager's cheek, and a bud that will never bloom, caught the sun's last rays.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The trees in this allee are pink and white crabapples; they framed a stately Italianate rectangle of snow crowned by a skeletal pergola.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In spring, apparently, it all explodes in bloom. (See the park's aerial shot, below.) On this February day, aside from one dog-walker, we had it all to ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo: Central Park Conservancy