Crazy Stable

This is the farm 20 blocks from my house...well, the one that was there about a century ago, at Church Avenue and 38th Street. If I could lay hands on $102.50 within the next 7 hours, I could buy it on Ebay. I can't, but somebody out there clearly shares my love of Daniel Berry Austin, the most hauntingly wonderful photographer you never heard of. 

Austin's sole presence on the Web, as near as I can figure, is here, in an extensive online archive of the Brooklyn Public Library. Their descriptive background is terse: "1899-1909. Brooklyn, Manhattan. Farms; houses; neighborhoods; landscapes. Many stereoviews. Amateur photographer."

This "amateur," according to a geneology site, was born in 1864, and by 1910 was an accountant living with his in-laws; perhaps his huge oeuvre of spare, elegiac images of a rapidly disappearing Brooklyn (along with many spots in Queens) offered him a soulful escape from everyday life. He went on to work for Standard Oil and to have six children by his wife, Florence; there is no explanation of whether he continued with his photography as his career and family life expanded. The library's Austin collection includes some thrillingly bleak images (my favorite, for the title alone, is "Fire at Dreamland"). But my passion is for his captured glimpses, through a glass darkly, of my beloved Flatbush. (Above is the T. Bergen house, Ocean Avenue and Avenue J.) Most of these pictures of crumbling or abandoned farmsteads seem to have been taken in winter, and the leafless trees stand like mourners around the neglected remnants of a once-thriving Dutch village. If they were indeed taken around the turn of the century, it was precisely at the brink of Flatbush's transformation into a suburb with commuter rail access via the Brighton line. Elegant apartment buildings and posh subdivisions like Prospect Park South would soon sprout over the leveled remains of these bucolic homes and barns.

This is the Samuel J. Lott house, which stood at Flatbush Ave. and Cortelyou Road (now a mix of apartment buildings, commercial strip, and freestanding homes). If you can look at this picture without having the hair raise up on the back of your neck, stop taking those meds you're on.

Now, I have no idea whether or not I'm allowed to post these Brooklyn Public Library photos; I am too slow-witted to figure out most "terms of use" statements. But it seems to me that Austin's work cries out for a coffee table book of its own, with some delicious research to fill in the backstories of these ghostly scenes. Perhaps the invaluable chronicler of Brooklyn, Brian Merlis, could be prevailed upon. Or if he's busy, I'm available!

The boardwalk at Coney Island on the Fourth of July weekend. The Child is eager for a Nathan's hot dog, but we are hunting for the rumored "BBQ truck" said to be ensconced at "Beer Island."

What is Beer Island? A big vacant lot filled with sand and tables. A shack sells a pricey and nicely curated range of beers (the bartender extolls the virtues of a Belgian cherry beer priced at $4 a bottle wholesale—"Let me educate you!" he says, whipping out the bottle. I order a Sam Adams.) Tonight, the clouds continue to spit a little rain even as the sun breaks through, and crowds are light. Ray Charles on a sound system improves the ambiance.

 

This irresistible sign leads us to the Red Truck of Rumor. Inside, a chef named Chris McGee, veteran of posh spots like Blue Smoke, tends a promisingly fragrant smoker; outside, his sweet-faced spouse, Kate Larson, waits tables. 

 

 

 

 

I am no BBQ guru, but it's good food. My brisket sandwich is soft and smoky, depending on the feisty sauce for its kick; Spouse's ribs are fantastic. The surprise was the baked beans, the best in my life, succulent with smoker drippings. 

 

 

 

 

 

From Chris and Kate, we learn that the red truck is a sort of culinary CrazyStable on Wheels. In answer to the obvious question—why did you give up a fast-track chef job to toil in a sandy lot in Coney Island with Port-o-Sans?—the answer seems to be that this fellow loves BBQ like a Kansas City native (which he is) and loves Brooklyn like a New Yorker (which they are now—Bed-Stuy, actually, where he ponders parking the cue-mobile for business in winter). Beer Island, for all its improvised roughness, is actually less stressful than the restaurant world, he says, and indeed both of them looked busy but happy in their shared adventure, feeding the world in Coney Island and encouraging the timid to bypass a hot dog or burger for the deeper mysteries of pulled pork. Good luck, kids; the rest of you, go soon before there are lines like those for Shake Shack.

Yesterday, the sad news passed from neighbor to neighbor: Joe Silverman, the "mayor" of Marlborough Road, was gone, at age 95. It may be a cliche to call someone a pillar of the community, but for half a century, the man known and loved by many as "Papa Yossi" had been exactly that--a grounding point, a tower of strength, and a steadfast support. It is hard to imagine our little piece of Flatbush without him.

At his funeral today, we smiled as we recalled together the feisty little guy who, as his son recalled, "fought for everything." Joe had a gravelly voice that needed no microphone; he was a fixture at every community board or police precinct meeting, taking the floor to deliver his always unequivocal opinion. He revived the Caton Park Block Association almost single-handedly, recalled another old-timer, and the solidarity it created helped steer us through the rapids of the crack-riddled Eighties. When he finally retired from its presidency, we declared him President Emeritus for Life, an honor he seemed to genuinely treasure.

Joe and his family didn't cut and run in the dark days of that crime wave, just as they didn't join the white flight of the Sixties and Seventies. The retired bagel-baker and pattern-maker was not the type for a life of suburban ease; he relished life in his newly multiracial neighborhood, and never lacked for a crusade--always on the side of the underdog. His most courageous hour may have been his outspoken defense of the Korean fruit-store owners who were targeted by the race-baiting "activist" Sonny Carson and his crew for a wildly publicized boycott; having stood up in his time for both Jews and blacks, Joe knew racism when he saw it, and roared his disdain for the thuggish Carson and his minions at every opportunity.

But it was Joe's boundless generosity of spirit that poured forth in remembrance. It didn't surprise me to learn that he was an adored uncle and grandfather. The whole world seemed to be his family; on our block, a curious but familiar ritual was Joe's "nursing home barbecues." The bell would ring, and it would be Joe, demanding that all able-bodied men join him in wheeling the residents of a nearby nursing home to the middle of Marlborough Road (cordoned off by his buddies the cops). There, Joe would grill hot dogs, rustle up a kid to sing or do magic tricks, and generally show the frail old folks a few hours of fresh air and fun. The last time he did it, I swear he was himself older than most of his "guests." I am told he performed similar routine miracles for the kids at United Cerebral Palsy.

Partway through Joe's funeral, there was a heavy rumble of footfalls in the back of the chapel; it was the cops from the 70th precinct. More than a dozen of them, come to honor a righteous man who shared their mission of protecting our community, shared it in word and deed. It occurred to me how seldom we are blessed to meet people whose everyday life converges absolutely with their principles. Joe Silverman of Flatbush achieved this integration and authenticity, and retained it to old age. I can't improve on the measured words of his rabbi: "This man," he said, "was a mensch."

Our condolences to his beautiful and indomitable wife Helen, who cared for him heroically, and to his entire family. 

"Seven Generations" by Frederick Franck

 

 If you are (a) an old-house lover and renovator and (b) a passionate Brooklynite, it does not get any cooler than this, people: Check out the oldest house in New York. Hell, this may be the oldest house in this sector of the galaxy--the Wyckoff Farm House and Museum. How old? How's about 1654...and we're not talking "rebuilt on the site" or "moved from elsewhere," no, this baby has clung tenaciously to its tiny fertile patch of Brooklyn clay, in situ, continuously for some 350 years.

I've been meaning to check out this place forever, but never got to it...because, for one thing, it's not easy to get to. Dutch settler Pieter Claesen Wyckoff bought his land in the old village of New Amersfoort, a few miles southeast of our village of Flatbush, and two days' traveling time from Manhattan. Now, buried in the heart of vast East Flatbush, it can still take two days to get to the city, or at least that's how it feels in this two-fare zone. For a more contextual view, let's pull back.

The surrounding farmland was swallowed by residential streets by the first few decades of the 20th century. But what sprouted up like weeds immediately around the little house is now a jarring pastiche of auto body shops, car washes (one is visible at left), and, behind it, a towering menace of a junkyard, a virtual Mordor of auto-squashing. The property, which once held a Mobil station (for which the house served as a shed--!), is now a bucolic pie-wedge lot with a flourishing community garden, but the padlocking gate at right attests to the area's hardscrabble side.

The ancient heart of the house is a single square room (entered from the white door on the right in the photo above--the larger section to the left is "newer," built in the 174o's). Stoop to avoid hitting your head on a beam, and squint, because the windows admit only scant late-November daylight. As our wonderful docent Lucie pointed out, this economy-model home design was basically unchanged since the Middle Ages--a box with an open hearth and dirt (now plank) floors.  The table is about the same age as the house (although from another locale); a family crib and other nifty wood appurtenances like butter churns and candle-making thingies stood nearby. A section of wall, exposed under Plexiglas, showed the original hand-hewn white oak beams and wattle-and-daub construction, and clear as day, we saw 300-year-old corncobs stuck in for insulation. Plentiful and indestructible, they were the fiberglass of their day. But what really blew me away was learning that Mrs. Wyckoff had 11 babies in this room. This was before running water, and before windows had glass. Welcome to medieval Brooklyn.

In the house's midsection, we jumped forward almost half a century, to a more refined space (got to love those Dutch built-ins).   Note a bit of the English-style hearth at right, with some spun flax hung up; after learning what it takes to mill and spin flax, I decided that I would have preferred to skin animals for my clothing. (The fibers are combed through a wire brush called a hackle--hence the term, "raise your hackles." And the stuff that got combed out is tow--perhaps the origin of tow-headed? For more Handy Words for Colonial Gadgets, go here.)

Of course, I was itching to learn the story of the house's incredible survival and restoration. In a nutshell, the Wyckoff family owned it 'til the 1880s, when it was sold and fell on hard times. The house was a sagging shanty by the 1920s, and a ruin by the 1980s, when neighborhood kids set it on fire. (Because of its proximity to an elementary school, it got superquick service from the FDNY and suffered only scorch marks.) Landmarking came in 1961, but it took further decades to oust the gas station, gather support from farflung Wyckoffs (supposedly there are some 50,000 descendants of the 11 babies birthed in that room), and restore it to its primitive splendor. Next year, they're planning to raise a barn, too--a real Dutch one, albeit imported from New Jersey.

So, I've meant to come here for decades, and I finally get here, unknowingly, on what day? I kid you not: Today was Dutch-American Heritage Day. And this weekend is part of "Five Dutch Days in the Five Boroughs," celebrating all things tulipy and wooden shoe-ish throughout the city; tomorrow, the Wyckoff House is offering an attic-to-cellar tour. (On our visit today, the root cellar was off-limits, which saddened me, because I've always wanted a root cellar.)

Now, get over there and see this house, before Barbara Corcoran has it paved over for parking.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New-York, that population, manners, and customs, remain fixed; while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current.

Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow