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26
Dec 22

Holiday Train Show at the New York Botanical Garden, part four

We visited the holiday train show, featuring 25 trains and almost 200 miniature buildings made of bark, leaves, and other materials. I took a lot of photos of the models of those historic and iconic places. Here are some of them. (Part one is here. Here is part two. See part three here.)

Radio City’s four-tiered auditorium was the world’s largest when it opened in 1932. But the model here might be one of the smallest in the world.

Right next to the entertainment venue is Saks Fifth Avenue, which is just around the corner and two-tenths of a mile away in real life.

Four miles uptown, you can catch a show at the center of American culture, the Apollo.

The neo-classical theater opened in 1913. Seventy years later it was added to the National Register of Historic Places. More than a million people visit the Apollo each year.

In between them, in real life, anyway, is The Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of the world’s largest art museums.

The actual museum, some quarter mile in length, is actually a combination of more than 20 pre-existing structures, but most aren’t visible from outside. I wonder if the model makers took that detail to heart when they built this version.

Here’s a model showing the Roosevelt Island lighthouse, which has been a site from the East River since 1872. It occupies the northernmost point of the island between Manhattan and Long Island.

Gothic lighthouses are some of the less aesthetically appealing lighthouses, but I’ll take the model. About 50 feet tall, the light was operated until about 1940. A restoration was completed in 1998. It was added to the the National Register of Historic Places in 1972 and, because, I guess, New York has a more exacting set of standards, it was named a city landmark in 1976.

The LuEsther T. Mertz Library is located at the New York Botanical Garden, which is where this exhibit is held. I didn’t realize this at the time, which is probably just as well. It would have made me dizzy. This model is about 1,300 feet, as the crow flies, from the building that inspired it.

Begging the question, where do they store all these models when they aren’t on display here? Begging a further question, why doesn’t every one of these have a “NO TOUCHING” sign nearby? Begging a still-further question, how are all of the visitors resisting the urge to touch all of these?

Anyway, the Renaissance Revival style building was designed in 1896 and finished in 1901. And the Mertz was the first museum in the nation with a collection focused exclusively on botany.

And now I’m dizzy. This is a miniature of the Enid A. Haupt Conservatory. We are standing in that building for that photograph.

That central dome is the big room where this model is displayed. Built between 1899 and 1922, it has been renovated four or five times over the last years. The conservatory is the botanical garden’s main draw, in particular for the palm and cacti exhibits, and also because it houses events like this.

Here’s the representation of the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge. The real one, opened in 1909 connects Queens to Manhattan. For a few years, it was the longest cantilever in North America.

It was named for the former New York City mayor in 2011. This bridge, Wikipedia tells me, is the first entry point into Manhattan for runners of the New York City Marathon. It is the last exit off the island if you’re doing the Five Boro Bike Tour, which sounds fun.

Now we come to the Lorillard Snuff Mill, now known as the Lillian and Amy Goldman Stone Mill. Built in 1840, it is the country’s oldest existing tobacco manufacturing building. This is also a part of the botanical garden.

The Lorillards moved their business to New Jersey in 1870. The city bought the land and gave it to the New York Botanical Garden. It was renovated in the 1950s and was again restored in 2010, a $10.5 million affair. There are offices and catering there now. They also host weddings. In 2019, they were charging between $2,250 and $2,750 for “the newly refurbished, farm chic stone mill” offering “a paramount combination of historic charm and modern comforts.”

Finally, this is the first, and last, model you see. And it is giant. When Macy’s Herald Square opened at 34th Street and Broadway, in 1902, it was so far removed from the rest of the city’s shopping that they had a steam wagonette bringing customers 20 blocks uptown.

The real building is 2.5 million square feet, half of which is retail space, making it the largest department store in the United States. By the 1930s the global designation for the largest retail had moved to Australia, but this Macy’s is still among the largest in the world. Those numbers are abstractions, so I looked this up. The mall near where I grew up has 1.4 million square feet of retail, and there’s something like 150 stores in there. Or, put another way, the total square footage of that Macy’s is about 6 times larger than NASA’s Vehicle Assembly Building, you know, where they build the large pre-manufactured space vehicle components. The Willis Tower, in Chicago, is twice as large as the Herald Square store. Today’s largest retailer, Wikipedia assures me, is Shinsegae Centum City, in South Korea, is a mall more than twice as large.

The Magic of Macy’s is in this miniature, too. This is actually a giant planter.

And that’s a fitting for a botanical garden, and a fitting place for this series of posts to end. (Part one is here. Here is part two. See part three here.) I hope you’ve enjoyed them as much as I have, and almost as much as I enjoyed the visit.


26
Dec 22

Holiday Train Show at the New York Botanical Garden, part three

We visited the holiday train show. The trains — all 25 of them cruising around on a half-mile of of track — were … fine. What they are weaving around — almost 200 miniature buildings made of bark, leaves, and other materials — is the real attraction. I took a lot of photos of the models of these historic and iconic places. Here are some of them. (Part one is here and part two is here.)

This is Boscobel, which was built for a man named States Dyckman, a British loyalist who maintained and, perhaps, grew his wealth. He was said to be, perhaps, a bit unscrupulous. But the real version of this house was originally on 250 acres. Construction began in 1803, but Dyckman never saw it completed. He died in 1806, his wife and kid were able to move in a few years later.

The federal-style house, with its delicate front facade family and large amounts of glass, stayed in the family until 1920. By 1955 it was scheduled to be demolished. One contractor bid $35 for the job, but it was ultimately moved 15 miles away. One of the co-founders of the Reader’s Digest helped save the place. New York’s governor Nelson Rockefeller said Boscobel was “one of the most beautiful homes ever built in America” when it re-opened in 1961.

Washington Irving lived in the real Sunnyside. The Headless Horseman and Rip Van Winkle characters helped make this place possible in Tarrytown.

In 1835, having lived most of his adult life as a guest in other people’s homes, decided to buy this place. Over the years he expanded on the building, so his “little cottage” took on Dutch Colonial Revival, Scottish Gothic, Tudor Revival and Spanish monastic influences. With the exception of five years when he was ambassador to Spain, Irving lived there for a quarter of a century.

This one models Wave Hill House, home to William Lewis Morris. He was a lawyer, his father was the chief justice of the New York Supreme Court. A host of other notable people lived there. Theodore Roosevelt’s family rented Wave Hill; Mark Twain did, too, at the start of the 20th century.

A later resident was palentologist Bashford Dean, who lived there with his wife, Mary Alice Dyckman, herself a descendant of States Dyckman, above. Since 1960, Wave Hill has belonged to the City of New York. It was added to the roster of the National Register of Historic Places in 1983. Tens of thousands of people visit it annually. Most of them were at this train show, it seemed like.

The New York Public Library, originating from the basic design of library director John Shaw Billings. The reading room? It tops seven floors of stacks. Overall, it made for the largest marble structure ever attempted in the United States.

The cornerstone was laid in 1902. The columns were in place by 1902. Five years of work on the inside began in 1906. Some 75 miles worth of shelves were installed in 1910, and more than a million books were on hand when the place opened in 1911. President William Taft opened the library and an estimated 50,000 people came through the doors on opening day.

Who wants to drive over a Manhattan Bridge made of sticks?

Nearby, as in real life, is the Brooklyn Bridge’s representation. So we’re walking in the East River, I guess.

And a closer look at the Brooklyn Bridge’s iconic stone towers, here made of bark, and other ingredients.

Some years back I read David McCullough’s The Great Bridge about the building of this incredible bridge. It was the first fixed crossing of the East River and the longest suspension bridge in the world at the time of its opening. Truly a marvel of its day, and still today.

The model is something impressive, too. And there are G-scale trains running along up there, too.

The Central Park Dairy, built in 1870, this was the place where kids could get snacks and milk — which was then hard to find in New York.

Today it is an information center for Central Park, and, of course, a gift shop.

Finally, the Trans World Airlines Flight Center, circa 1962, if there was ever a look of the Jet Age, this was it.

Meant to combine the function of a jet terminal with the aesthetics showing the drama of flight, there aren’t many more mid-20th century buildings than this. Also, it became a hotel, fell into disuse, and then became a terminal for other airlines. So, yeah, the story of the second half of the 20th century, too. If you’ve ever wondered about the architectural style, Wikipedia lists it as futurist, neo-futurist and Googie.

Imagine if they’d used a leaf motif in the actual building.

That wraps up the third installment. (Part one is here. Part two is here.) Three posts and 30 photos down, 10 more photos to go.


26
Dec 22

Holiday Train Show at the New York Botanical Garden, part two

We visited the holiday train show, which is something we’ve been invited to by family friends for years. Finally, the timing worked out. The trains — all 25 of them cruising around on a half-mile of of track — were … fine. What they are weaving around — almost 200 scaled down buildings made of bark, leaves, and other materials — is the real attraction. I took a lot of photos of the miniaturized parts of the city. Here are some of them. (Part one is here.)

This is the Terminal Warehouse. See that arch on the bottom? That was the key to the whole operation. You could drive a train into that arch, into the center of the building, for loading and off-loading freight. The Hudson River was nearby, and the area around the warehouse was a bustling center of shipping.

Hundreds of people were killed around the site over the years. In the 80s and 90s it was a popular night club, until the surrounding neighbor started to blight. In the last two decades, the building has been home to food and beverage retailers.

Here’s New York’s City Hall. Built in 1812, Wikipedia tells me this building is the nation’s oldest city hall in the still containing its original governmental functions and is one of the largest government buildings in the world. Even then, 13 agencies answering to the mayor’s office are located elsewhere.

City Hall is listed as a National Historic Landmark and on the National Register of Historic Places.

The cornerstone was laid in 1803, but the project faced delays over complaints about extravagance. The plans were reduced, and browstone was used in the back to lower costs. In the 1950s, the brownstone and original Massachusetts marble was replaced by Alabama limestone.

You’re welcome.

The Washington Arch is a marble memorial arch in Greenwich Village. It marks the 100th anniversary of George Washington’s 1789 inauguration as president.

The real one exists because, in 1889, a large plaster and wood memorial arch was installed by a local business man. It was a hit, and so a new fundraising effort went to work. Three years later, the permanent stone arch was erected.

This is the Park Avenue Armory, built in 1881.

Another name for the building is the Seventh Regiment Armory. The building is known for detailed interior rooms, which seems like a given considering the exterior. This is a big venue, and is today a non-profit powered alternative arts space. Also inside is a small detachment of the New York Army National Guard, two different veterans groups and a local mental health shelter.

Right about here, in the sprawling tour, I had to catch my wording. These, of course, aren’t the actual buildings. That is a big model, but you could probably only fit a few of those things inside it. Of course.

Here is (a naturalist model of) William K. Vanderbilt’s mansion. This was built between 1878 and 1882 on Fifth Avenue. Across the street was William H. Vanderbilt’s much larger mansion. (William H. was the son of the tycoon. William K. was his grandson.)

The French Renaissance-style was razed in 1927. There’s an office building there today.

Here’s a beautiful representation of Saint Bartholomew’s Church, in Manhattan. They hoisted this third version of the church into the air between 1916 through 1919. The land was sold to them by William H. Vanerbilt. Next spring they’ll mark the 100th anniversary of the church’s consecration.

If you like organs, this page has a great breakdown of what’s inside the church.

Speaking of icons, left to right you can see the General Electric Building (1930), the Met Life Insurance Tower (1909), One World Trade Center (2013) and the Woolworth Building (1912).

It was right here where I said, “Ya know, they should lay all of this out as a full scale model of the city.” Our family friend, who was born in New York City, laughed and launched into a discussion about all of the accidental things that are built, somewhat haphazardly, in the city. It was a colorful lecture.

Here’s the Chrysler Building (1930), a little sliver of the Flatiron Building (1903), the Plaza Hotel (1907) and the beautiful St. Patrick’s Cathedral (1879).

I’ve had the good fortune to see St. Patrick’s from several perspectives.

This is the Hurst-Pierrepont Estate. The real one is up the Hudson River.

The two-story brick Gothic villa was built in 1867 and was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1982. It went on the market for $5 million in 2019. It was still for sale last year.

An hour-and-a-half up the Hudson, you’ll find the town of Newburgh, which was where Highland Gardens was located. It was built in the 1830s by an untrained, 20-something architect, Andrew Jackson Downing. This, then, is a model of his own home. He was also a landscape designer and a horticulturist, so the botanical gardens is a good place for this miniature.

And this is a good place to stop this installment. (Part one is here.) Two posts and 21 photos down, 20 more photos to go.


15
Dec 22

Counting hours

After today there’s just a half-day or so left in my work year. And, a few short minutes after that, we’ll be undertaking the great traveling adventure. This realization, this countdown, is oddly conflicting. On one hand, “The holiday break is almost here, and I don’t know that I deserve all of this time off.” On the other hand, “It’s here, already?”

Now, clearly, there’s something wrong, woefully wrong, with that first hand. Deserving it is a silly notion. This is a western and, frankly, dumb concept. Time off is part of my deal. I can take it or lose it, and no one is interested in giving it back. What’s more, I’ve earned it, having carefully accumulated days for just such a traveling adventure as this. I think it’s the mentality of accumulating and hoarding those days off for a year that builds that frame of mind.

Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about as I did a little Christmas shopping this evening. Because, ya know, it seemed like the appropriate time. I went to one store Monday and was uninspired. I tried another place yesterday and was interrupted — all for the best, I am sure. But, this evening I knew I would have some success: I started seeing things I wanted.

And so if you don’t want to chip in, or purchase outright, a new bicycle for me, I found stuff for me. And also for others. Things I didn’t buy. This, which looks cool.

We have a five-foot vinyl tunnel and one of the cats absolutely loves it. Sleeps in it. Ambushes you in it. Takes rides in it. That one is a bit more involved and a bit more expensive; it stayed in the store.

So did this. A few weeks ago I found Zoltar. This evening I saw the keyboard Tom Hanks and Robert Loggia played in Big.

I’m holding out for the full-sized piano, and the ability to do this.

There aren’t many movie scenes more charming than that. That’s really what I’m holding out for on my own dancing piano.

Anyway, some shopping done. Laundry done. Packing and holiday travel to follow.


28
Nov 22

A lament

He was the fastest person I knew as a kid. I guess he had to be. David threw his hands at the ground, ferocious, like the rest of him, but his feet fairly well glided over the grass. We met on the soccer pitch, played together for several years. He was the first person I ever met who learned how to get better at things with relentless practice. I remember more about our friendship than I do his soccer. But I remember this. We were a good team for a while and once we came across a better team that had a superlative striker. Our told him to mark him all night. David gulped, and set out to do it. And for 90 minutes that other dude did nothing against us.

That’s a youth soccer story and so it’s as real as it is meaningless, but that, in some small way, tells the story of David.

He grew up loved, but hard. His mother loved him, but doted on him, but she did that to all of us. His younger brother loved him, too, well, as much as a middle kid could. His two younger sisters worshipped the ground he walked on.

When he was 13, David saved a woman’s life. Got to a car crash and put a tourniquet on a woman before she bled out. Thirteen. I mean, really.

His father was a hard man. He was a Vietnam veteran, a chimney sweep, by trade. A man who knew about scraping out his way, and never afraid of the work. His was a big, strong personality and all that comes with that, for better and worse. David, even as a child, had his own big, strong personality, and some of you know what that might turn into. But his dad had his positive traits. He took his kids to work, took me with him too, and taught us all about spending a day in the sun. We built scaffolding, hauled up bricks, mixed and lifted mortar and tore down scaffolding and it was all probably something you couldn’t do with kids today. David’s dad, though, for a hard man, was generally a fair man. He demanded a lot of that boy, and so the two of them had their struggles, and sometimes I was the tiniest distraction or escape or whatever, and that was good. David was a deep sensitive kid, and it was obvious even among other kids.

That’s David, in the Yankees cap. This was at one of my birthday parties. He found a knife, cleaned it up, made me a sheath by hand. It was the cheapest, best, most thoughtful gift.

When David spent the weekend with me we’d go to the mall or the movies or do some other suburban sort of thing. When I spent the weekend with David, we’d spend the day wondering around downtown.

We moved in different directions, as people do. Different high schools, but stayed in touch. I went off to college and his family moved out of town. Not far, but just far enough. The last time we spent together we went camping, which was David’s natural environment. If there wasn’t a target to shoot at, or a fire to build or a tent raise, he’d find one. It was Christmas time. We had two or three tents and David, his younger brother and I went out in the too-cold and, being older, we tasked his brother with keeping the fire burning all night. Not too long after I woke up the next morning we heard him from over the next hill, “Hey guys! The pond’s froze over!”

No kidding, kid. Where’s my fire? But that was OK. We probably called him some names, but then we laughed about it. David and his brother figured it out, as brothers, the lucky ones, do.

Some time after that, David joined the Army. Became a paratrooper and made sergeant. He went to Iraq and worked on dismantling IEDs, or some such.

When he took off the fatigues he signed on as a security contractor. That’s when we found one another again, online. He was working in Afghanistan at the time. We had some pleasant chats. He was a soulful kid and a thoughtful man. And that sort of work just seemed perfect for him.

He’d met someone, got married, and was splitting time between assignments in troubled nations and at home in the States and at his other home in the Philippines. He loved it there. There was a lot of untouched countryside where he was, and he spent several chats telling me all about it. It felt a little like he had finally been able to tap into this calmness that was always in him that he didn’t know how to call upon.

A few years ago, not too long after his first kid was born, his father died. Then his mother-in-law died, pretty soon after. Last night I found a picture of David and his father, and his father his holding one of David’s kids and he’s looking down with this sense of peace and relief that I never saw in the man. He and his dad figured it out, too, and that was a blessing.

I saw that picture last night because I thought to look him up to see the latest, only to find out that my old friend, David, died at the very end of last year. His wife had died a few months before. They are survived by two little kids and some grieving siblings and probably a lot of friends. David was the sort that made them last, even if they got frayed or distanced around the globe.

He saved a woman’s life when he was 13 years old. He knew how to take in the moment, work hard at it, and make it happen, and I think he used that sort of force in some way or another most all of his life.

The Christmas before last I learned of a very distant great-great-aunt who had died, when I saw her marker at the cemetery. Had I learned of it at the time it would have been of the “Oh, that’s too bad. Her poor husband, her kids and grandkids … ” sort of reaction. Distant, as I say. I was sad because there was no one left on that side of the family that thought to tell me.

Last year, I learned that the woman who taught me how to be a mascot died of cancer in 2019.

This spring, I learned my college roommate died in early 2020. He was a success at everything, except maybe for picking a roommate. I think I frustrated him endlessly, but for two years he was a big brother to me, and I admired most everything about him. We hadn’t been close in ages, but I loved that guy.

This summer, I read that a former student of mine died last fall. It seemed she never seemed to perfectly fit in at a school where perfectly fitting in was criminally important. She had a spark and a vitality, though, that never let that be a problem. She moved to New York and lived one of her dreams, but it was all too short. She was 34.

Finding out things well after the fact brings up its own peculiar sort of helplessness.

Two bike rides this weekend. Twenty-five under-caloried miles on Saturday. I just looked at the scenery on Zwift. There’s neon signs on the stores in the middle of the desert. And the “neon” moves. And when the “neon” is off on most of the signs you can see the other neon “tubes.” They could do a lot more with this setup, but they do an awful lot with this setup. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to notice things like that, but I want to now.

Saturday’s favorite sign was this pig. He waves at you as you go by.

I did a humble little 20-mile ride yesterday. Just wasn’t feeling any of it, but I’ll get back to it this week. I did notice, though, the stars dotting the nightscape, the snow-covered mountains and how the mountains held the clouds around them, as mountains often do.

I closed my eyes for the last five miles. I wanted to see how close I could get to the goal, just from counting the pedal strokes, without watching the graphics.

I made it to within one-tenth of a mile. Which, over five miles, means I should be fairly proud of my counting skills, or fairly disturbed by the amount of time I’ve spent on that particular gear in Zwift, to know the math as I do.

Tomorrow, there will be no neon, no mountains, no pedal strokes. Tomorrow I have to try a run.