Brooklyn

Almost 30 years ago, my husband and I stood on a corner in Brooklyn, to watch the New York City Marathon. We were essentially alone watching the runners on that cool fall day so long ago. We watched, as a trickle of runners became thousands of runners, coursing through the streets of New York City, eventually to the large fanfare that would greet them in Manhattan along 1st Ave, Central Park South and in Central Park itself at the finish line.

Since that day, I have watched a lot of NYC marathons. I live on a street that is steps away from 4th Ave, the long stretch the runners hit as they come off the Verrazano’s Bridge. I leave my house early, grab a spot next to a traffic light on my corner, I place a step stool at the base. I bring a warm drink and I sit on the stool and wait. It will be hours before the main body of runners come. I cheer and clap as the early starters pass my spot. Sporadically, a few at a time come by, often with guides by their sides. I think about the commitment it takes to undertake such a feat. Soon my corner where I have set myself up becomes incredibly crowded. Police try to hold back the crowd, as spectators lean out far into the street to catch a glimpse. I now stand on my stool and over the heads of others; I can watch the mass of runners pour down the avenue better than anyone else. I scream, clap and shout the runners names who have them affixed to their jerseys. I become overcome with emotion and sometimes my eyes tear up. The sea of bobbing bodies that is the New York City Marathon, is my favorite event of the year.

What draws me to watch the NYC marathon year after year is the simplicity of the event. It is a footrace where runners take to the streets of New York, running an incredible distance, touching a foot in each of the boroughs to complete the race in the fastest time possible. On the surface that’s all there is to it and it’s free to watch. But it is the stark reality of a 26 mile race juxtaposed against the stories of each and every runner: from the elite runners to the everyday runners, some of whom just might be your neighbors, which make marathon watching such a pleasure. I often wonder what it would be like to inch my way forward to a finish line I could not even see, even if all 26 miles were laid out in a straight line right in front of me. Roughly 30 thousand runners from all over the world take part in the race every year. And every year I marvel at the beauty of the mass of runners as they come barreling down past my lamppost where I stand atop my stool. Arms raised, hands waving, I scream at the runners to forge ahead to the end and with joyful eyes and sometimes with shouts of enthusiasm of their own, the runners answer back and in an instant a bond is formed. On that day a part of them is in me and I in them, as I cheer to heavens “COME ON RUNNERS…YOU CAN DO IT….RUN, RUN, RUN…YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!!!!”

Liz Robbins, author A Race Like No Other, presented a program on the New York City Marathon at the Mid-Manhattan Library on Tuesday October 13th. Liz revealed that the reason why the New York City Marathon is so successful and different from any other marathon is that the race is in the streets of New York, a city of people. Two million race watchers line the street to watch the runners. And runners will testify to what a joy and pleasure it is to run through the neighborhoods, with people cheering, handing out water and marching bands playing music for them. The runners feed off the good energy of the spectators. And there is no race in the world that best does this than the New York City Marathon. During the program Liz asked some of the audience members who had ran the marathon before to talk about what it is like to run this race. Feelings of joy, accomplishment and camaraderie were touched up, as well as debilitating pain. What I found interesting is some participants in the audience did not consider themselves athletes. They took up running late in life, though now they are committed runners, with some having run in hundreds of marathons already.

Lisa Peterson-de Cueva attended Tuesday night's program and posted about the event on her blog.

You might remember from previous posts, that the Lionel Pincus and Princess Firyal Map Division has been busy digitizing our historical map collections, with a strong focus on New York City fire insurance maps. We’ve added some excellent new titles (about 500 maps total) to that collection in recent months detailing Queens and Brooklyn from the early 20th century. The example below is from E. Belcher Hyde’s Atlas of the Borough of Brooklyn, Vol. 7., 1907. This map shows an early Luna Park, Coney Island’s famous amusement park, just four years after it opened to the public, which itself was built on the site of the former Sea Lion Park, home of the world’s first looping roller coaster. And you thought the Cyclone was scary.

By the time I was old enough to understand the relationship between food and culture, it was already too late for me. It seemed like food and culture and the relationship between the two all but died where I came from. I lived in Detroit up until the riots of '68 and then afterwards my family moved to a rural landscape. In a very short time farmland became a busy bustling series of suburbs. It was one massive series of highways, subdivisions and strip malls. If there was any local food identity or culture it was all but eaten up in chain establishments.

Chains took over where mom and pop food businesses reined, long standing food venues where shuttered closed. My father, who was a waiter, worked in one of the finest restaurants in the city of Detroit. In the 1970s the once solidly established restaurant scene tried to hold on during tornado like changes, my father was relegated to wearing a long white apron and plain white shirt with the sleeves rolled up (no more tux and bowtie) and serving lousy pizza to patrons, who sat at tables covered in red and white checkered tablecloths. The once revered Caucus Club stood out like a sore thumb with new blinky lights beckoning customers to come in.

It wasn’t till I moved to New York that I discovered a deeply rich tradition of food culture, both formal and informal. From my favorite local French restaurant Moutard to the summer time street fairs in the Italian neighborhoods, the culture of food thrives in New York City. Food is so alive in this city that everything seems to be centered around the table, be it at a beloved restaurant or at a friend’s house for a gathering or a picnic lunch with family in Prospect Park. Food is the glue that melds all the different cultures in New York City. Everyone has a food history, and it isn’t Ruby Tuesday’s or Dunkin Donuts. Sure there are chain eateries around but the independents are thriving too. God love them both. And in those independents are the seeds of many new food traditions and cultures.

Gastropolis: Food and New York City, editors Annie Hauck-Lawson and Jonathan Deutsch have compiled a list of essays about food in New York City. The book examines food in places, food and people, food and trade and food and symbols. Some essays examine New York City food history, like Harley Spiller’s essay "Chow Fun City: Three Centuries of Chinese Cuisine in New York City," while Annie Hauck-Lawson’s essay "My Little Town: A Brooklyn Girl's Food Voice" examines food culture by way of an intimate portrayal of her family growing up in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Gastropolis is both enjoyable and informative, an excellent partner to bring when you are dining alone at your favorite restaurant.

On Monday April 13 at the Mid-Manhattan Library, at 6:30, please join us as editors Annie Hauck-Lawson and Jonathan Deutsch discuss food culture in New York City.

In a previous post, we looked at maps of Brooklyn from the 19th and early 20th centuries of the neighborhood once called Weeksville, centered on Hunterfly Road. It was there, in 1969, according to The Weeksville Society, that researchers rediscovered the "Hunterfly Road houses," the neighborhood's only remaining residential structures from the period. I'm curious to know if those same researchers used the Photographic Views of New York City, 1870s-1970s, located in The Irma and Paul Milstein Division of United States History, Local History and Genealogy, particularly the photograph below, shot by Percy Loomis Sperr in 1940, in their reports. Click the link at the bottom of this post to see what the Hunterfly Road houses look like today.

Google Maps Streetview

We've digitized more historical maps documenting the changing New York City landscape. Follow the link to a comprehensive listing of close to 2,700 maps showing buildings, old streets, farm lines, streetcar routes historical shorelines and more.

Here's a small section from G.M. Hopkins' 1880 Farm Line Atlas of Brooklyn.

Weeksville was a community of African Americans founded in 1838 by a freed slave named James Weeks in an area straddling modern day Bedford-Stuyvesant and Crown Heights in Brooklyn. By the 1860s, according to Weeksville Society, it had become a cultural nexus and a draft riot safe haven for New York City's growing African American population. While much has been written about its people, both today, as in this NY Times article from 2005 and in the past, as in The Freedman's Torchlight, one of the first African American newspapers, not all that much geographic information remains about this historical landscape. There are traces that surface today, from the Hunterfly Road Houses to Weeksville Park, commemorating a landscape swallowed up by Brooklyn's street grid. One of the remaining pieces of the streetscape is Hunterfly Place.

This one block section of street was once part of the larger Hunterfly Road, the main thoroughfare of Weeksville that ran north to south from what is now Fulton Street to East New York Avenue. The following is a time series of maps of the area published between 1880 and 1908 from the NYPL Digital Gallery that document the physical changes to this community. These maps are part of the larger series of property mapping from the collections of The Lionel Pincus and Princess Firyal Map Division here at the NYPL.

Hopkins, G.M.
Detailed estate and old farm line atlas of the city of Brooklyn
1880

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0ne.. two.. one.. two.. touch, pull, push, glide. Three.. four.. three.. four.. touch, pull, push, glide. Seven.. eight.. seven.. eight.. touch, pull, push, glide. Stroke.. stroke.. breath, stroke.. stroke.. breath. Glide.

The morning sun is refracted in the water. The water shimmers and sparkles. The water is quiet. The lanes are filled with swimmers partaking in a morning ritual. Their arms twirl in a constant rhythm. Their legs kick in sympathy with their arms. From afar it looks and has the feeling of the slow twirl of windmills. And like a windmill, the arms and legs of the swimmers are creating energy, propelling each swimmer forward. Each swimmer’s stroke is unique, like handwriting.  read more »

The power of the Manhattan Bridge cannot be denied. It is an orchestration of rivet studded girders, harp like cables and beautiful beaux art design and it spans the East River like a dancer leaping across a stage. Her audience is the city of New York and specifically its Brooklyn residents. I ride across her expanse daily via the subway. I always position myself by a window. Once the train is delivered from darkness, I stop what I am reading and look out: out the windows, through the massive metal beams, beyond the walkway and out into the city. It is a ride I never tire of because the beauty is apparent and it is relatively short lived. Slowly the train descends into the tunnel on the other side and the journey continues and my eyes return to the page in the book I am reading.  read more »

My father moved into my Brooklyn home about 10 years ago when my mother died, and thus began my career as his personal librarian. When he first moved to Brooklyn, I showed him how to use the bus system so he could travel to and from the Brooklyn Central Library. I gave him a simplified explanation of the Dewey system; telling him what I tell everyone who comes to the reference desk, “think of the number as the address where the subject or book lives on the shelf.” I knew my father’s reading preferences very well and it was with assurance that I sent him to the 940’s to find exactly what he would like. For the most part he took care of his reading material himself, with his weekly jaunts to the library. I would pepper his selections with other books I thought he might enjoy from the collections at Mid-Manhattan. Favorites in the category were Samuel Pepys: The Unequaled Self by Claire Tomalin , Sweet and Low: A Family Story by Rich Cohen, Wild Swans:Three Daughters of China by Jung Chang, The Color of Love: A Mother’s Choice in the Jim Crow South by Gene Cheek and much more. His reading was varied, but mainly it was WWII history he loved and always non-fiction. While at my house he watched no TV. My father just read for his entertainment. As far as I could tell he loved it.

A year and half ago my father became quite ill. I had noticed he did not seem himself so I forced him to go the doctor. I was informed that my father was very sick with congestive heart failure, a common affliction of the elderly. He was so sick there was cause for concern whether he would even live. For 10 days I maintained a presence at the hospital. I sadly watched him turn old right before my eyes. I brought him books while at the hospital but they remained unread. I surmised he was distracted by his plight. Naturally he became depressed. Life was now different and he would have to adjust, or not. The trips to the library would now become memories. Within a matter of days his world became miniscule to what it had been. Miles of travel would now be reduced to blocks, if he was lucky. There was nothing neither he nor I could do; this was life, cruel and ironic.

Once home my father tried to manage a hefty depression. He now had to get used to a new self and that new self would be drastically different from a few weeks before. I brought him books, foolishly thinking reading would be a welcome distraction. How wrong I was. The books gathered dust and their beckoning was left unanswered. I finally broke down and bought him a TV and had cable installed. My kids were thrilled and my father became a zombie in front of the blue screen. He watched for hours and would sleep and then watch more. It broke my heart. He seemed unable to focus on a book. Outwardly he seemed fine, but to me he had become a mere shadow of himself. He no longer seemed an active participant in life, but rather a passive ride taker. I became resigned to my new father and just tried to make him comfortable.

There came a time recently when I brought home two books, the book I was reading A Death in the Family by James Agee and Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides the book I planned to start reading afterwards. My father is Greek and our family is from Detroit so I made a point of showing him Middlesex because of the Greek author and the Detroit setting for his book.

My father in his old age has developed a keen interest in everything Greek. I thought the Eugenides book would interest him, if not to read then to simply marvel at the author’s heritage. To my surprise it was the Agee book that caught his interest. He said about the Agee book, “I always wanted to read this book.” With that, I said “here pops, take it, you read it.” That was months ago and my father has been reading fiction every since. Perhaps by reading fiction my father has been able to recapture a part of life that he has lost in his own life. Author Paul Theroux once said “fiction gives us a second chance that life denies us.” I bring him mysteries like: Georges Simenon, Henning Mankell, Elmore Leonard and other works of fiction from Ian McEwan to Somerset Maugham and many more. I am happy to be of service to my father for as long as it lasts. I am also so thankful to be working at Mid-Manhattan, with such an incredible collection of fiction to choose from.

This bridge changed everything on Staten Island, changing it from a rural area of small towns and open spaces and farms (which I recall) to one of suburbia. I remember going to Fort Wadsworth with my family in the early 1960s to check the progress of the building of the bridge. The fort is now open to the public, and it is managed by the National Park Service and is part of the Gateway National Recreation Area.

Staten Island was a Tory area during the American Revolution. However, I read an account that said Americans were standing in the area of the picture above when British ships left New York after losing the revolution. Apparently the British fired a shot at the new citizens of America as they were yellling insults at the departing soldiers and sailors of their former country.

Two books about the bridge that are available for borrowing are The Bridge by Gay Talese and Spanning the Narrows by Brian Merlis.

The South Beach branch is close by this scene.

At first glance, this picture looks like it has seen better days. To a trained eye, it looks like a remarkable survival.

Which is it?

This picture of the Atlantic Base Ball Club in 1869, from the Albert G. Spalding Collection, is an albumen photographic print, mounted on thin paper board.

Two words come to mind, “fugitive materials.” Because of the albumen photographic printing process, the image will fade every time it is exposed to light. Imagine how many times this picture has been viewed since it was printed in 1869! The wood pulp that formed the photograph’s mounting backboard is also highly unstable. Stanford University has a website devoted to the albumen photographic print and there you can learn all about the printing process and the stability of early photographic prints. For information about preserving photographs and working with acidic papers and board stock, see the American Institute of Conservators (AIC) website. The AIC documentation explains some of the common problems encountered in the preservation of historical artworks.If you’d like to learn about the team, check out the site maintained by their modern-day equivalents, the Atlantic Base Ball Club. Maybe you’ve heard of or participated in re-creation events (i.e. Civil War battles, or Renaissance fairs). Well there is a group of guys in New York who dress up in base ball uniforms just like those in the picture above and play ball.

For more history on the Atlantics, check out an early account of their won/loss record from1858 to 1866 that appeared in The Book of American Pastimes by Charles H. Peverelley (New York, the author, 1866). According to George Touhey, in his A history of the Boston Base Ball Club (Boston: Quinn, 1897), the stars of the team in 1870 were “Ferguson, Zittlein, Start, Pike, Pearce, Chapman, and George Hall.”At the top of the photograph, right in the middle is a small label, pasted right onto the photographic print. Hard to read at this resolution, I think it says,

“FROM: This picture”

“TO: Get photos of [Gump?, Grant?], Zittlein, Pearce, Start, Ferguson“

These appear to be instructions to the photo editor of a publication. So it would seem that this photographic print was part of a publisher’s archive, and not something that would have been framed and hung on the wall as an artistic or documentary memento of the 1869 Atlantics of Brooklyn.

This week we wanted to feature a book that is not found in many library collections. Brooklyn’s Williamsburgh is a labor of love to which author Brian Merlis dedicated about half of his life. It is a compilation of newspaper clippings, old advertisements, photographs, drawings and maps, all pertaining to Williamsburg history. While the documentation of this book is not the best, (there are no footnotes and or references for images) it has a very intimate feeling and is very image rich.