From Pasture to Park the Land before

Before it was a park, the land McCarren sits on had a rich and varied history. This narrative explores the area's pre-park existence, from its agricultural roots as part of the Greenpoint farmlands to the political maneuvering that led to its acquisition by the city. Learn about the key figures, including State Senator Patrick McCarren, who championed its creation and secured its future as a public green space.

The Green Point

Before the first brick was laid, before the roar of the factory whistle, before the grid of streets imposed its rigid geometry, there was only the land. To understand the story of McCarren Park, one must first erase the familiar landscape of ball fields, running tracks, and swimming pools from the mind's eye. Imagine instead a gentle, rolling terrain of pasture and plowland, a place defined by the rhythm of the seasons rather than the ticking of the clock. This was the 'Green Point,' a name given by the Dutch settlers in the 17th century for the verdant spit of land jutting into the East River. It was a place of immense natural bounty. The soil, a rich glacial loam, was perfect for farming. The land was part of the original Dutch patent granted to Dirck Volckertsen de Noorman, a Norwegian carpenter who arrived in New Amsterdam and established a farm here around 1645. For nearly two centuries, this patch of what would become North Brooklyn was a quiet agricultural hinterland, a world away from the burgeoning city of New York across the water. The dominant families of the area—the Meseroles, the Bennets, the Calyers—divided the landscape into a patchwork of large farms. Their names still echo in the streets of the neighborhood today. They cultivated market crops destined for the tables of Manhattan: potatoes, cabbages, and corn. Cattle grazed in open pastures, their lowing the loudest sound for miles. Small wood-frame farmhouses, surrounded by orchards and barns, dotted the landscape. The area that would become McCarren Park was likely a combination of these uses—part cultivated field, part grazing pasture, perhaps with a woodlot providing fuel and building materials. Life was dictated by the sun and the soil. The day began at dawn with the milking of cows and the feeding of livestock. It ended with the setting sun, the air filled with the scent of hay and damp earth. The East River was not a barrier but a highway, with small ferries and skiffs carrying produce to the markets of the city. The shoreline, not yet hardened by bulkheads and piers, was a marshy expanse, teeming with waterfowl and fish. Bushwick Creek, a tidal inlet that once snaked its way inland, formed the southern boundary of this pastoral world. It is difficult to stand in the center of the park today and conjure this lost world. The drone of the BQE, the clatter of the G train, the constant hum of a million lives being lived in close proximity—these sounds have replaced the whisper of wind through cornstalks. Yet, the land itself remembers. The gentle slope from the center of the park down towards the east and north is a remnant of that original topography. It is a ghost of the hillocks and meadows that the Meserole family once farmed. The very existence of the park is a testament to the fact that, before it was a public commons, it was a working landscape, a place of sustenance and quiet labor that laid the agricultural foundation for the metropolis to come.

The Green Point

The Encroaching City

The pastoral dream could not last. By the mid-19th century, the Industrial Revolution, which had already transformed Manhattan, began to cast its long shadow across the East River. The quiet farming communities of Williamsburg and Greenpoint were about to be consumed by an unstoppable wave of progress and population. The catalyst was shipbuilding. The deep waterfront along the East River was ideal for constructing the magnificent clipper ships that dominated global trade. Men like the legendary Donald McKay and local shipwrights established massive yards, their wooden skeletons rising against the sky. With the shipyards came a torrent of attendant industries: ropewalks, sawmills, and foundries. The air, once clean and smelling of the farm, began to thicken with the tang of tar, sawdust, and coal smoke. Then came oil. In the 1860s, Greenpoint became a center for the new and volatile industry of kerosene refining. Charles Pratt's Astral Oil Works, among others, built sprawling complexes of tanks and distillation towers along Newtown Creek. The industry was messy, dangerous, and incredibly profitable. It drew thousands of workers, primarily Irish and German immigrants, who needed places to live. The old farms were an irresistible target for developers. Land that had been valued for its fertility was now appraised by the square foot, its worth measured in its potential to house the workforce of the new industrial age. The grid arrived with a vengeance. Surveyors carved the rolling pastures into a relentless pattern of rectangular blocks. Streets with names like Lorimer, Leonard, and Driggs—some named for the very farming families they were displacing—were laid out on paper and then etched into the dirt. The old farmhouses were torn down one by one, replaced by block after block of wooden tenements and brick row houses. The city of Williamsburgh, incorporated in 1827 and annexed by the City of Brooklyn in 1855, was experiencing explosive growth. Its population swelled from a few thousand to over one hundred thousand in just a few decades. This was a world of stark contrasts. Immense fortunes were being made in the factories and refineries, yet the people who fueled this prosperity lived in increasingly crowded and unsanitary conditions. The land that would become McCarren Park was now at the very heart of this maelstrom. It was an island of undeveloped space, a holdout against the tide. But it was no longer farmland. It was a collection of vacant lots, perhaps used for informal dumping or as a makeshift playground for the neighborhood's children. The pressure to develop it was immense. Every empty parcel was seen as a missed opportunity for another factory, another row of tenements, another dollar to be made. The city was closing in. The open sky of the agricultural past was being replaced by a canopy of smoke and a thicket of rooftops. The quiet was shattered by the clang of hammers on steel, the rumble of horse-drawn carts on cobblestone, and the cries of street vendors. In this dense, noisy, and often grimy new world, the memory of green fields and open space began to fade. Yet, it was precisely this loss that would give birth to the idea that some of the land must be saved—not for profit, but for people.

A Vision for Open Space

As American cities swelled with the pressures of immigration and industrialization in the latter half of the 19th century, a new and urgent public health crisis emerged. The crowded, poorly ventilated tenements became breeding grounds for diseases like tuberculosis, cholera, and typhoid. Infant mortality rates were shockingly high. Reformers, doctors, and civic leaders began to connect the dots between the grim urban environment and the poor health of its citizens. Out of this crisis came a powerful idea: the public park. It was a revolutionary concept, championed by visionaries like landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted and his partner Calvert Vaux. They argued that parks were not mere luxuries or decorative ornaments for a city. They were essential infrastructure, vital for the physical and moral well-being of the populace. They called them 'urban lungs,' places where the working class could escape the foul air and claustrophobic conditions of their neighborhoods, breathe fresh air, and reconnect with the restorative powers of nature. This movement gained incredible momentum. The creation of Central Park in Manhattan in the 1850s and Brooklyn's own Prospect Park in the 1860s set a powerful precedent. These were not just patches of green; they were masterpieces of landscape design, carefully engineered to create a sense of rustic escape in the heart of the metropolis. They proved that a city could, and should, invest vast sums of public money to set aside land for the common good. The argument for parks was multifaceted. Medically, they were seen as an antidote to the 'miasma' or bad air believed to cause disease. Socially, they were viewed as democratizing spaces where people of all classes could mingle, promoting social cohesion and civic pride. Morally, they were intended to provide a wholesome alternative to the saloon and the dance hall, encouraging healthy recreation and family activities. For children, especially, they were seen as crucial for healthy development, offering a safe place to play away from the dangers of the street. By the 1890s, this philosophy had trickled down from the grand projects like Prospect Park to a focus on smaller, neighborhood parks. The city was growing too fast, and it was becoming clear that not everyone could easily travel to the large, central parks. The new goal was to place parks within walking distance of the most densely populated areas. The land bordered by Nassau Avenue, Lorimer Street, Manhattan Avenue, and Bayard Street—the future site of McCarren Park—was in the heart of one of the most crowded districts in the entire country. The thousands of families packed into the tenements of Greenpoint and Williamsburg had almost no access to public green space. The stage was set. The need was undeniable, the philosophical justification was well-established, and the precedent had been set. All that was required was a political champion, someone with the power, the vision, and the sheer force of will to turn this patch of neglected, privately owned lots into a public sanctuary. That champion would emerge from the very heart of Brooklyn's powerful and complex political machine.

The Eagle of Williamsburg

To understand how a collection of dusty lots became a public park, one must understand Patrick Henry McCarren. He was not a landscape architect or a social reformer in the mold of Olmsted. He was a politician, a product of the rough-and-tumble world of late 19th-century machine politics. To his allies, he was a brilliant strategist and a fierce advocate for his constituents. To his enemies, he was a ruthless political boss, the embodiment of the Tammany Hall-style cronyism that dominated the era. Both were right. Born in Massachusetts in 1849 to Irish immigrant parents, McCarren moved to Williamsburg as a child. He came up not through wealth or education, but through grit and political savvy. He worked as a cooper in the sugar refineries that lined the waterfront, learning the concerns of the working man firsthand. He studied law at night and was admitted to the bar, but his true calling was politics. He possessed a natural charisma, a sharp mind for strategy, and an unyielding loyalty to those who were loyal to him. McCarren rose through the ranks of the Brooklyn Democratic Party, building a powerful organization centered in the Eastern District. By the 1890s, as a State Senator, he was one of the most powerful men in New York politics, nicknamed the 'Eagle of Williamsburg' for his commanding presence and sharp political instincts. His control was absolute. He handpicked candidates, dispensed patronage, and wielded immense influence over legislation in Albany and city affairs in Brooklyn. His motivations for championing a new park were likely a mix of genuine civic-mindedness and shrewd political calculation. On one hand, McCarren lived among the people he represented. He saw the crowded tenements, the children playing in garbage-strewn streets, and the toll that industrial life took on families. He understood, on a visceral level, the need for a place of respite and recreation. A park would be a tangible, lasting benefit for the thousands of working-class Irish, German, and later, Polish families who formed his political base. On the other hand, a major public works project like a park was a political goldmine. It was a source of jobs for loyal supporters, from the laborers who would clear the land to the contractors who would build the paths and facilities. It was a high-profile achievement that he could point to, a legacy project that would literally put his name on the map. It allowed him to portray himself as a man of the people, fighting for their well-being against the faceless forces of industry and greedy landlords. It was a project that perfectly blended public good with political power. McCarren was a pragmatist. He knew that noble ideals alone did not build parks; legislation, funding, and political muscle did. He was a master of the backroom deal, the legislative maneuver, and the art of applying pressure where it was most effective. While social reformers wrote eloquent articles about the need for 'urban lungs,' Patrick McCarren was the one who could navigate the labyrinthine corridors of power in Albany and City Hall to actually make it happen. The creation of the park would be his signature legislative achievement, a testament to his ability to harness the machinery of politics to serve the needs of his district.

The Battle for the Land

Patrick McCarren’s vision was clear, but the path to realizing it was fraught with obstacles. The 38-acre tract of land he coveted was not a single parcel owned by the city; it was a chaotic mosaic of over 300 individual lots owned by a multitude of individuals, families, and estates. Transforming this patchwork into a unified public park required a formidable political and legal campaign. The first step was legislation. In 1895, Senator McCarren introduced a bill in the New York State Legislature authorizing the City of Brooklyn to acquire the land for a public park. This was the easy part. As the powerful boss of the Brooklyn Democratic delegation, McCarren could push such legislation through with relative ease. The bill passed, granting the city the authority to seize the land through the power of eminent domain, a legal process known as condemnation. What followed was a slow, grinding, and often bitter process. The city appointed a three-person commission to oversee the condemnation proceedings. Their job was to determine the 'fair market value' of each of the hundreds of lots and award the owners just compensation. This immediately created conflict. Many landowners felt the city's offers were insultingly low. They had been holding onto these lots as speculative investments, waiting for property values to skyrocket, and they were not inclined to part with them cheaply. Lawyers were hired, and a series of contentious hearings began. Property owners brought in their own appraisers to argue for higher valuations. They pointed to the area's rapid development, the proximity to factories, and the potential for commercial or residential construction. The city's lawyers, in turn, argued that much of the land was undeveloped, uneven, and of limited value. The process dragged on for years, mired in legal challenges and disputes over pennies per square foot. One newspaper at the time described the proceedings as a 'war of experts,' with each side presenting wildly different assessments of the land's worth. McCarren worked tirelessly behind the scenes to keep the project moving. He used his political influence to ensure the city allocated the necessary funds and to pressure the commission to expedite its work. He faced opposition not only from landowners but also from political rivals who saw the park as a wasteful 'McCarren pet project.' They accused him of using the park to enrich his political allies and to solidify his power base. The total cost of land acquisition ballooned, eventually reaching nearly $1.3 million—a staggering sum at the time, equivalent to over $40 million today. Finally, after years of legal wrangling, the commission completed its work. The city took title to the last of the lots in the early 1900s. The battle for the land was won. The chaotic grid of private property lines was officially erased, and the 38-acre tract was now a single piece of public ground. But it was not yet a park. It was a barren expanse of dirt, rocks, and weeds, scarred by the remnants of old property markers and the ghosts of abandoned development plans. The next great task was to shape this raw earth into a place of beauty and recreation.

From Condemnation to Creation

With the land finally in the city's possession, the focus shifted from legal battles to landscape architecture. The task of designing the new park, then known simply as Greenpoint Park, fell to the Brooklyn Department of Parks. The initial years of the 20th century were dedicated to the immense physical labor of transforming the site. The land was graded, topsoil was brought in, and thousands of trees and shrubs were planted. The goal was to create a landscape in the prevailing pastoral style: rolling lawns, gracefully curving paths, and strategically placed groves of trees designed to create a sense of rustic tranquility. Construction began on the park's first amenities. A formal entrance was established, and a perimeter fence was erected. A children's farm garden was one of the earliest features, a nod to the land's agricultural past and a popular element of Progressive-era park design, meant to teach urban children about nature and food. A playground and a wading pool were installed, providing immediate and much-needed recreational outlets for the neighborhood's youth. The park officially opened to the public in phases, with its grand opening celebrated in 1906. Even in its early days, the park was a resounding success. On warm summer evenings, it was filled with families escaping their stuffy apartments. Children who had once played dangerous games in the streets now had fields to run in. It became the community's backyard, a place for picnics, concerts, and quiet contemplation. It was the living embodiment of the 'urban lung' that reformers had envisioned. Patrick McCarren, the park's indispensable champion, would not live to see it fully flourish. He died in 1909, just a few years after the park's opening. In a testament to his immense influence and the gratitude of his community, the New York City Board of Aldermen voted unanimously that same year to officially rename the site 'McCarren Park' in his honor. The name was a permanent tribute to the political boss who had fought for over a decade to make the park a reality. In the century that followed, McCarren Park would evolve with the city around it. The grand McCarren Play Center, with its iconic swimming pool and bathhouse, was added in the 1930s as part of the Works Progress Administration. The baseball diamonds, running track, and tennis courts were built and rebuilt over the decades to meet the changing recreational needs of the community. The park has witnessed demographic shifts, periods of urban decay and neglect, and ultimately, a powerful grassroots-led revitalization. Yet, beneath all these layers of history, the park's fundamental purpose remains unchanged. It is still the green heart of a dense urban landscape. It is still a testament to a time when civic leaders recognized the profound human need for open space. The story of its creation—from the quiet pastures of the Meserole farm, through the smoke and fury of the industrial age, to the political battles in the halls of power—is a powerful reminder that the parks we cherish today did not appear by magic. They were fought for, piece by piece, and stand as lasting monuments to the vision that even in the most crowded of cities, there must be room for nature, for play, and for people.