Crazy Stable

Okay, enough of this facile irony! (See below.) Now let's get serious about gift-shopping. This weekend and beyond, the fabulous female artists of Brooklyn have solved your shopping problems: You can hang around fascinating, cool places and buy totally unique gorgeous stuff for people! Or even for yourself! Here's a round-up (with a bonus: an opportunity to tango for hurricane victims. Only here, kiddies, as Cindy Adams might say...read on.)

Books you will not...ever...find in Barnes & Ignoble. Check out the Independent and Small Press Book Fair this Saturday, Dec. 1 (from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.) and Sunday, Dec. 2 (from 11 to 5), at 20 West 44th St. Come to the second floor, where the mistress of the CrazyStable--also the artist and sole proprietor of Tenth Leper Press ("Book Arts to Refresh the Spirit")--will be offering a limited edition of my new book-art work, "Transformation Psalter."  It's a set of four gorgeous little accordion books in a slipcase (all handmade and archival), with images from nature and texts from the Psalms, celebrating the theme of growing and changing into wondrous new identities. There will be lots of other nifty handmade books at my table, too--with a little discount if you mention CrazyStable! The rest of the book fair is also fascinating, with some great panels, readings, and programs, and a host of indie presses selling a cornucopia of offbeat reading. See you there! (Architecture lovers, take note: It's worth the trip just to glimpse the gorgeous landmarked interior of the General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen, which includes a wild two-story balconied library.)

But wait! There's more!

Billyburg baubles. Want the anti-mall-experience? How about a Hipness Trifecta: Williamsburg, crafts, and a venue that calls itself an "arts lounge"! Jewelry designer Sam Tomasello will be among those offering their affordable locally-made wares (that's under-$100-affordable) at the "Dirt Cheap Crafts Fair" at Stain Lounge, this Sunday Dec. 2 from 2 to 8 p.m. It's at 766 Grand St. (L train to Grand, walk one block west). Sam's stuff is maddeningly collectible, including Ming pottery shards, medieval-looking beads, and magical charms.

Artist's trove on sale. Karen Friedland is opening her house-tour-star home to the public for a home studio art show and sale on Dec. 8 and 9 from 1 to 6 p.m. It's a great chance to own one of her dazzlingly colorful original paintings, prints, collages, giclee prints, notecards, and jewelry at gentle prices. (Look for her lush Moroccan paintings if you want a quick cure for Seasonal Affective Disorder.)

Tango for humanity. Finally, this one sounds intriguing: Garden designer Evelyn Tully Costa (who worked marvels of hardscaping for the CrazyStable some years ago) is hosting a five-course feast followed by a tango party at her Union Street home on Sat., Dec. 15, to benefit the victims of Hurricane Noel in her beloved Dominican Republic town of San Jose de Ocoa, where she worked as a journalist. (Evelyn does a lot of interesting things.) The requested admission of at least $25 sounds like a good ticket to a great party; RSVP to her at 718-778-0022.

Now that's holiday preparation, Brooklyn style!

We've come a long way since the Shakers sang about "Simple Gifts." According to the chatter of Seasonal Magazine Advice (including the online kind), Christmas--excuse me, holiday--gift-giving is strewn with more pitfalls than a mined highway to Baghdad. Having toiled as a consumer-magazine-content-generating droid in my journalistic career, I sympathize with the writers and editors who churn out this bilge. "Ten Gifts Not to Give This Year." "Twenty Worst Presents for Him/Her." "Gift Goofs! Top New Trends to Avoid--If You Want Your Relationship to Survive!"

 But I'm not immune to shopping anxiety, either, particularly since I tend to get Weird High-Concept Ideas about Christmas giving. (This year everybody gets: dessert sauces! odd books! almond soap! narcissus bulbs!) We've got a very small family left to shop for, which makes life easier, but the drumbeat of smug warnings about awful gifts is wearing me down. As a reader service, I have synthesized these helpful offerings into one convenient list.

Image: Antique trade card, R.H. Macy & Co.

A Dozen Things Not To Give, You Pathetic Turkey

1. Gift cards aren't really gifts, let's face it. It's the "gift" that says, "I stopped at Rite-Aid on the way here."

2. For those hard-to-buy-for types--Aunt Millie, your sullen nephew Jared--don't even bother trying to buy "something personal." They want cash--so if you're squeamish about greenbacks, buy a gift card, fully loaded.

3. 'Tis the season for many of us to become co-dependent enablers--but real friends don't give temptation. C'mon, does your tippling Uncle Bob need another bottle of Scotch, and can you really give Godiva with a clear conscience to your friend Frannie who's on her third go-round with Weight Watchers?

4. 'Tis the season to ruin people's holidays with the bummer of a "good-for-you" present. You know your Uncle Bob wants Glenlivet, not grapefruit (not even the fancy crate of it shipped from Florida). And does your plump chum Frannie really need the Healthy Gourmet Cookbook when what she wants is some once-a-year marzipan? Give 'em what they want, people!

5. We're all drowning in brand-name crap, so how about, this year, bucking the materialistic tide and giving a present of caring--for the needy, for the earth, for a friend's or relative's favorite charity? Since Aunt Millie already "has everything," buy a llama for a needy Bolivian family in her name--it's a feel-good present she won't forget!

6.  Know what we all want for Christmas, kiddies? A present. The kind with wrapping and a bow--not a donation to some noble cause, no matter what we say. Next time you're tempted to sponsor a llama for your well-heeled Aunt Millie, stop, slap yourself, and dodge into Hermes for a nice scarf--because Aunt Millie is giving you a Coach wallet, not a freakin' farm animal.

7. Tired of giving the same old stuff? Personalize it! Whether it's a photo mug with Baby Brandon's picture on it,  a monogrammed tote, or a custom-embroidered dog sweater for Fido, nothing perks up a present like a person's name or face. (Picture the smile on nephew Jared's face when he sees his name graffiti'd onto a new skateboard!)

8. Avoid personalized stuff like the plague.  It's probably embarrassing, and it's definitely non-returnable.

9. Guys: Except for your private enjoyment, forget about the Victoria's Secret catalog. Unless your lady wears such items regularly (like, to the supermarket), a tiger-print thong or black lace push-up corset is just as likely to start the old "What, you wanted a Hooters girl and you got me instead?" line of thought...and that's less fun than a glass of curdled eggnog.

10. Guys: It's about romance, stupid. Even if she puts a blender on her list, she's just testing you. Get some lacy lingerie under that tree if you hope to get lucky under the mistletoe; the blender is just as likely to start the old "What, am I turning into his mother?" line of thought...and that's less fun than a slab of fruitcake.

11. In a mass-produced world, nothing touches the heart like a hand-made gift. Don't think you need to be Martha Stewart; even a beginner at baking, sewing, knitting or crafting can turn out a creative treasure (and save a bundle at the mall as well!)

12. You're not, repeat not, Martha Stewart, sweetie, so skip the home-made craft project and head for the mall. That cute quilted tea cozy looked better in the magazine than it will in the lap of your puzzled Aunt Millie on Christmas morning, and Uncle Bob can live without those hand-crocheted golf club head covers. What Uncle Bob really wants is Scotch--or maybe it was black lacy underwear, I forget.

Now, get out there and shop, dammit, or the terrorists will have won.

"The great majority of people will go on observing forms that cannot be explained; they will keep Christmas Day with Christmas gifts and Christmas benedictions; they will continue to do it; and some day suddenly wake up and discover why."           -- G.K. Chesterton, Generally Speaking
 

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

To paraphrase Dan Ackroyd:  Barbara, you ignorant slut.

The self-proclaimed queen of New York realtors, Barbara Corcoran, has advised the readers of her Daily News column that paving over your garden is a good thing, and will enhance your property value, but you should hurry before the city makes it illegal.  "Hey, a flower garden might look pretty and keep your wife happy," enthuses the creature, "but the space in front of your house is worth a hell of a lot more as a driveway."

So much imbecility, so little bandwidth...so I will defer to the already outraged Forgotten New York and Queens Crap to deliver the goods. Meanwhile, here is an Allegory that will serve to inspire me as I continue my reparative project of de-paving our yard.