Bedrock

Not far from where I stand there used to be a pub owned and run by a Scotswoman named Catherine McGown, and later her descendants. Unsurprisingly, it was popularly known as McGown’s Pub. The establishment, which was situated on an aboriginal trail called Old Harlem Road, opened in 1759 and remained in business until the 1840’s; proof that the City’s Bar and Restaurant trade was not always so transient as it is today.

I skirt over and around huge granite outcroppings, striated here and there by an ancient glacier. It is this dark grey stone which is responsible for Manhattan Island as we know it today with it’s massive buildings of towering steel. The hardness and resiliency of The City grows out of the very foundations upon which it is built. Some cities are born in swamps; mine is born of the earth herself.

In 1776, Washington led his colonial army to a point in the Harlem hills north of here after his brilliant but ignominious stealthy retreat from the Battle of Brooklyn. He left behind him a small covering force he thought adequate to at least temporarily hold a British assault on the island from Brooklyn. When the Brits showed up and anchored in Kip’s Bay (in the area of today’s East 34^th Street), Washington’s covering force did not react with stoic heroism. As ship-mounted cannon roared, and the first longboats full of Redcoats touched the shore of Manhattan Island, the colonials panicked, broke ranks, and were in danger of being completely overrun. The chaotic scene was later described by Joseph Martin, a teenaged colonial soldier who was at Kip’s Bay:

Every man that I saw was endeavoring by all sober means to escape from death or captivity, which at that period of time was certain death. The men were confused, being without officers to command them. I do not recollect of seeing a commissioned officer from the time I left the lines on the banks of East River in the morning until I met with one gentlemanly one in the evening. How could the men fight without officers?

From his Fortification further North, General Washington heard the cannon fire and must have known a large British Assault was underway. He mounted his horse and rode swiftly southward to take command of the situation. His path carried him through the place where I now stand, McGown’s pass.

Now, I’m not going to give you any crap about how on second Tuesdays of odd numbered months in the full moon you can still hear the good General’s horse galloping along. But I will say that on an unusually quiet Wednesday afternoon in February, whilst considering the history of this place, one can certainly feel a connection to that deep past. Oh, and just to cap off this history lesson I never intended to give, Washington was able to restore some order to his men, leading them crosstown then up the west side to the safety of the Harlem Hills. Alive to run another day.

And so I ramble along on these winding trails, some of which existed as part of fortifications during the War of 1812, where - no, nevermind, perhaps another day I’ll tell that story. Coming out of the park at 110^th Street I see clearly now the towers of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine up the hill. The almost magnetic draw of such an edifice is too overwhelming for me to resist, even after my long winding path through the park, and my harrowing experience with the Gate People (see article of 2.10.05). The closer I come to the Cathedral, the bigger it gets; which may sound like a simple matter of distance and perspective, but it is something more somehow. They call temples, churches and cathedrals “Houses of Faith”; from the smallest chapel to St. Peter’s Basilica, they are all called the same. Considerations of an almighty power aside, St. John’s seems somehow more to me; it is a building you can place your faith in, and it will hold as much faith as you can possibly muster within it. Now standing here in the shadow of the Cathedral, I can empathize with those men and women of medieval times who were overawed to a state of spiritual reverence by a work of man.

I stand humbled before the doors of the mighty Cathedral. They are cast in bronze by Barbedienne of Paris, forged in the same fires as the Statue of Liberty. Each door is eighteen feet high, six feet wide, and each weighs three tons. The Doors of Faith indeed. High above them is imbedded the Rose Window (pictured above), comprised of over ten thousand separate pieces of glass.

Entering, I find the Cathedral virtually empty. In fact, during the hour or so I spend wandering in its depths, I come to realize that besides the three staff members working at the apse, I am alone here. The scale of the place is beyond my humble powers of description. Hand-cut stone columns reaching forever upward hold the dimly seen roof aloft. One’s spirit could literally soar in those silent heights, and I am unashamed to tell you that mine own spirit took flight as I stood beneath the shallow dome covering the great Crossing. The dome was built as a temporary covering by one Rafael Guastavino in 1909, and took a mere fifteen weeks to complete. The aforementioned Lady Liberty could stand comfortably upright beneath this dome, albeit without her pedestal.

You may wonder how it is I come to be standing beneath a dome which was built as a temporary measure ninety-four years ago. You see, the Cathedral is yet unfinished. There are simply not enough stonemasons left in this modern world who can engage such a project as this. But there is hope; awhile back a program was started to train local kids in the arts of stone working and masonry, and many professionals donate their time and expertise to the Cathedral. During the Blackout of 2003, I met such a man. He was a retired electrician who volunteered his skills to the Cathedral. I encountered him trying to hitchhike by Prospect Park in Brooklyn, and as luck would have it, I had just secured transportation not minutes before from a family member who lives nearby. After having walked down forty-eight flights of stairs and into Brooklyn from mid-town, I of course stopped for the man. We spoke as we drove along, and it turned out he had walked all the way from the Cathedral, where he had been working when the lights went out. So I drove him to his door, though it was not on the way. It is men such as this who build New York City.

With an unaccustomed feeling of piety and reverence, I step again outside that Faithful House and pause at the top of the steps. Across the street from me stands a building called the Amsterdam House, and I am almost overcome by an onslaught of memories and feelings.

Next on the Flaneur File: Captain Clark’s ancestry, Jerry Seinfeld, and more zany adventures with Christo and Jeanne-Claude.