Closing Bell: Keeping Quiet in Park Slope

Brownstoner:

This post recalls the horrific mid-air collision that made a plane crash right in the middle of Park Slope during the early 1960's, when I was a boy in nearby Crown Heights.

The collision, between a jet and a "prop" over New York Bay, forced one of the pilots to try to land in Prospect Park. He missed by a couple of blocks, landing near Seventh Avenue, his plane ripping through brownstone fronts and setting fire to two buildings at the street corner (only recently rebuilt with new condos).

Everyone aboard and several people on the street were killed, except for a young boy on his way to Boston for the winter holidays. The entire country turned to the radio broadcasts recounting his injuries and condition -- until he died.

It was a sad moment for Brooklyn kids, who identified with him, and for whom schools in the vicinity, including mine, were closed early that day. (This was in the midst of the Cold War, and the spectre of planes -- or worse -- dropping from the skies was terrifying; except this time it was real!)

I sat by the radio, too. The boy's parents, not traveling with him, thanked New Yorkers for their prayers. When he died, a collective sigh crossed Brooklyn.

I had family living in the block where the plane fell. For my cousins, it became a point of pride to point out the damage, as if they'd lived through a war. But what a horrible moment. Neighbors on the street were killed, too.

Even now when I walk by that corner on Seventh Avenue I imagine what it must have been like: hanging out on the stoop (which kids always did) and seeing the nose of that plane come roaring down the street.

Nostalgic on Park Avenue

Posted by: NOP at December 15, 2008 4:29 PM

Posters:

Yes, that photo must be eerily similar to the view of the plane as it swerved over Brooklyn before it crashed. It, more than anything, dredged up my boyhood memory.

I fly in and out of New York all the time now, and always try to guess the approach before choosing which side of the cabin to sit. There's nothing like coming into the city over familiar streets (past and present), especially as I did recently for the holidays, when the night was crystal clear and the town's lights were ablaze.

The post's photo looks down into Clinton Hill and Bedford-Stuyvesant. There are University Terrace and Willoughby Walk, the old Mitchell-Lama projects built to either side of Pratt, and Lafayette Gardens, the nearby public housing project, all visible in the shot. (Are they still called these names, or have they been "privatized" and re-branded?) I watched these being built and, even though some may find them architecturally dull, always get a pleasant feeling when I see them from the air -- part of a Brooklyn childhood.

As some of the posters note, the sound of planes can be pleasant. As train whistles once did, they convey distance and travel. Right now helicopters are whirring overhead, guarding Manhattan's air space. Whenever I hear them, I expect to hear a big boom. A very different kind of anticipation. (Back during the Cold War, we thought we'd immolated without warning -- and in our sleep!)

NOP

Posted by: NOP at December 15, 2008 6:57 PM

Z:

I checked out the video. Remarkable. Also note how down-at-the-heels Park Slope looks! (For the area's recent arrivals, it should be a real eye opener. There's nothing upper-middle class about the place!)

The accident was in 1960, even earlier than I remember. And it happened December 16! (How's that for coincidence?)

After Googling around I found an article that claims that the Park Slope preservation movement was kicked off by the tragedy. Apparently Robert Moses wanted to tear down what the piece describes as "the declining neighborhood" and replace it with a housing project, figuring that some of the demolition was already done! The community organized itself, resisted, and the rest is history.

And the little boy was actually from Illinois, about to meet his mother in New York. He lived because he was thrown into a snow bank, and neighbors raced to his aid. He spoke to them, concerned that his mother would be worried about him. He died the next day, at Methodist Hospital. He was eleven.

In two years it'll be the crash's fiftieth anniversary. Maybe it'll be appropriate for local brownstoners to gather, mark the event, and recognize the important influence it had on what they take for granted today.

NOP

Posted by: NOP at December 15, 2008 11:55 PM