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!

It's always nerve-wracking to leave the CrazyStable in foster care while we go on vacation. This is a house that treats its "house-sitters" in much the same manner as Wednesday and Pugsley Addams would have treated a fresh-faced babysitter who suggested a fun game of hide-and-seek. This year, we prevailed upon dear friends who met the key criteria for house- and cat-care duties: huge hearts, sharp wits, resourcefulness, and sufficient familiarity with our "lifestyle" to avoid excessive shock when experiencing it at close range in our absence. And then we prayed to the various domestic gods in charge of kitty health crises, vengeful basement plumbing, burglars and alarm systems, and rabid squirrels to show mercy to these good people for a week.

We spent a week in healthy, happy Fort Collins, Colorado, in Beloved Cousin's peaceful and smooth-running ranch house. (I take back everything bad I've ever said about ranch houses; no stairs to climb equals bliss.) We marveled at Beloved Cousin's lush and productive garden, and at Fort Collins' dazzling sunshine, ample bike paths, and stunning views of the nearby Rocky Mountains. Back in Brooklyn, our friends poured out chow and sifted litter. Good, good friends.

The cats were reported to have behaved excellently, no doubt due to the tender care they received, producing only one hairball and several pounds of hot-weather fluff tumbleweeds on the staircase. (Our friends even shouldered the absurd duty of replacing the pens and markers on my upstairs desk so that Lexi could "steal" them and place them around the house all over again, because I feared the loss of her "hobby" would be stressful for her in our absence. As I said, huge hearts.)

The house...well, it could have been worse, but...Sweet Judas on a stick, the front doorknob fell off. Right in my dutiful friend's hand. She called me in Colorado, guilt-ridden that somehow she had "killed" it. How to explain that our doorknobs fall off? ("Look around!" I exhorted her. "Find one functional doorknob in the entire house! See?") By cell phone, I guided her through the labyrinthine process of entering through the back door, with its maze of cheesy plywood "doors" with rickety latches for various levels of Cat Containment. I also counseled her to simply stick the knob back on by any means necessary, including duct tape, all the while realizing that dear friend, who lives in an immaculate and manageable apartment, did not sign on for duct-taping doorknobs.

When we got home, still stunned by re-entry into the Greater Metropolitan Smog Field, we did the Basil Fawlty dance of doom with the doorknob (metal fatigue had caused a screw to simply fall off), and fixed it, sort of. (It no longer screws back onto the spindle if you use the escutcheon plate, which probably never went with that doorknob, anyway.) I have long yearned after a restored antique entry set in keeping with the age and dignity (splutter, snort) of the CrazyStable, but that dream will have to get on line with the others. We spent the money from our Law & Order shoot on our trip out West, where men ride broncos and doorknobs turn with a smooth, firm click, and it was worth every penny.

Image: The Addams Family

This guy is so speedy compared to my progress in the garden this year.

 

 

 

 

 
There are still a ton of plants in pots, and now it's time to panic because a week's vacation is upon us.  

Somewhere in there, waiting for a "forever home," are a blueberry bush, some bamboo, and a Fragrant Cloud rose, among others. Oh, and a lacecap hydrangea. All exemplars of my Garden Consumer Philosophy: Buy only the freshest, healthiest plant stock. Then take it home and kill it.
With excellent help from Child, I was able to get my parsley and dill seedlings into window boxes. I have never managed to fulfill my fantasy of an herbal container garden just waiting for that Martha Stewarty dinner-time snippage.

 

We managed to clear a weedy patch near the back door and get in two different tomato plants (the "Patio" one bred for containers was still thriving, the "heirloom French" one was presque mort), plus a Japanese eggplant and a bunch of Thai peppers.

The raspberries and ferns have gone beserk again, marching forward in dense clumps. But the overall effect is still soothing; the Child described it as "wild but cozy."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And the catmint has survived its yearly steamrolling by the neighborhood cats; a cabbage white seemed pleased. I wonder how much everything will grow while I'm away? 

 

 

 

 

 

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.