Genius of Place (10 page)

Dr. Akerly, Olmsted's predecessor, didn't have to worry if his wheat crop was undercut. He'd been a retiree with a hobby farm. But Olmsted knew he had to make this work—and fruits and vegetables were the key. Farmers who grew these crops didn't face competition from outside their region. Such foodstuffs couldn't be transported long distances because refrigeration methods were very primitive. Rather, the challenge was finding a market for the produce before it spoiled. But Olmsted was right on
the doorstep of New York City, a vast and ready market for his crops. Olmsted planted cabbage, lima beans, turnips, corn, grapevines, and peach trees.

Living on Staten Island, Olmsted had very different kinds of neighbors than he'd had on Sachem's Head. The Dutch had first settled this area in the early 1600s, and he was surrounded by their descendants, people with names like Sequin, Guyen, Van Pell, and Vanderbilt. William Vanderbilt, eldest son of the Commodore himself, worked a nearby farm as a kind of über-gentleman farmer. Obviously, this was a mere sideline for someone destined to inherit a fortune that would make him the richest man in the world.

Increasingly, Staten Island was also becoming popular as a site for New York City's wealthy to build summer homes or to retire, as Dr. Akerly had. Its original rural character was fast disappearing. By 1848, Staten Island was a mixed community, composed of both farmers and exurbanites, with a population of 15,000. Among Olmsted's other neighbors were William Cullen Bryant, the romantic poet and editor of the
New York Post
, and book-publishing magnate George Putnam. Putnam was actually a cousin of Olmsted's deceased mother, Charlotte, though Olmsted didn't know him very well at this point.

Olmsted was thrilled to be in the midst of this charged intellectual atmosphere, even as a farmer on the sidelines. The move to Staten Island had instantly changed his center of gravity, making it New York City rather than Hartford or New Haven. Manhattan was just a quick ferry ride away.

In a fortunate twist, at around the same time that Olmsted moved to Staten Island, both his brother and Charley Brace moved to New York City. John enrolled at the College of Physicians and Surgeons to complete his medical training. He was well on the way to becoming a doctor. Brace was studying at Union Theological Seminary, contemplating a life in the clergy. He was doing outreach work on Blackwell's Island, the old name for Roosevelt Island. This was the site of an almshouse, asylum, penitentiary, and other institutions for the city's outcasts. Brace was preaching to prisoners and impoverished prostitutes in the final throes of disease.

Both John and Charley were frequent visitors to Tosomock Farm, together and separately. They loved the change of pace. They appreciated being in dense, hectic New York City one moment, but with the magic of a quick ferry ride, they could find themselves in another world altogether—Fred's world. Olmsted furnished his guests with slippers, put out a basket of fresh fruit, and set up armchairs outside in full glorious view of the bay. Of course, Fred's world was also one of unbridled enthusiasm, wild plans, and, with Charley Brace—given their unique personal chemistry—endless argument.

In a letter to Kingsbury, Brace described a weekend spent with Olmsted at Tosomock Farm: “But the amount of talking done upon that visit! One steady stream from six o'clock Saturday night till twelve, beginning next day, and going on till twelve the next night, interrupted only by meals and some insane walks on the beach.” It was, he added, a “torrent of fierce argument, mixed with divers oaths on Fred's part.” Brace, who disciplined himself to always see people in the best possible light, concluded on a generous note: “I must say that Fred is getting to argue with the utmost keenness.”

 

Olmsted began making improvements to the layout of Tosomock Farm. He moved a barn to a new spot behind a knoll, thereby improving the view. He changed the carriage driveway so that it better conformed to his land's topography, approaching the farmhouse in a gentle sweep. When he'd first moved to the farm, there had been a murky little pond that was used to wash off wagons. He shored its edges with stones and planted trees such as ginkgo and black walnut, transforming it into an ornamental pond.

It's fair to say that these efforts represent Olmsted's first foray into landscape architecture. At the same time, the very concept of landscape architecture barely existed, especially in America. There was no vocation called “landscape architect,” and there was no set of professional practices to draw upon. Olmsted was simply doing what came naturally to him. Growing up in Connecticut, he'd developed an appreciation for beautiful landscapes. Now he was working to transform his farm into a suitably lovely spot. His neighbors certainly noted the improvements.

William Vanderbilt even requested that Olmsted do some landscaping on his farm in the New Dorp section of Staten Island.

As Olmsted settled into his new environs, he also began to meet his usual stream of courtable young women. He met them at dances and teas and Sunday sociables—his antennae were always up. When Olmsted learned that King Louis Philippe had abdicated the French throne, he was so eager to share the news that he dashed to a nearby farm owned by someone he'd never before met. During this impromptu visit, he made the acquaintance of Cyrus Perkins, a retired New York City doctor. He also met eighteen-year-old Mary Perkins.

Mary was petite, with penetrating blue eyes and an ever-ready wit. She had been orphaned as a small child, and her grandparents Dr. Perkins and his wife had raised her as their own. The Perkins were wealthy, and their household was a model of refinement. Growing up, Mary had been exposed to the best in art and literature. An original painting by Salvator Rosa hung in their home, as did a portrait of Daniel Webster by James Frothingham. In fact, Webster was a distant relative of the Perkins family. As a little girl, Mary had bounced on the great statesman's knee.

Olmsted got to know Mary and found her a challenging companion. As he confided to friends, he thought her more intellectually gifted than even the vaunted Miss B. This was high praise. He wrote a poem to Mary, inspired by her sharp wit and the softer side that he perceived concealed behind it:

In conjunction with reading the poem to Mary, Olmsted planned to present her with a pair of knives, one sharp, the other blunt. But he doesn't appear to have gone through with this strange little gesture. It seems to have struck him as overly passionate, especially in light of an
earlier impression he'd formed of Mary. He'd never really seen her in
that
way. Shortly after their first meeting, he'd described her in a letter to Kingsbury as “just the thing for a rainy day—not to fall in love with, but to talk with.”

Meantime, he was ping-ponging between various other romantic interests, confused, per usual. He was well into his twenties now, but in matters of the heart, he was more like a teenager. Olmsted's friends and family wondered if he would ever settle down. Maybe he'd become an “old batch”—a probable fate, he'd recently confided to Brace. He was so flighty, so maddeningly inconstant. And he had impossible standards.

In a letter to Kingsbury, John constructed a lengthy and fanciful list of requirements for Fred's ideal bride. It's a penetrating little passage in terms of its ability to capture some kind of essential truth about Frederick Law Olmsted. It reads like a crazy personal ad:

“Fred is finally rather hard up,” John concluded. “He won't be content with less than infinity—while he himself is only finite and a farmer.” John was still talking about his brother's love life, though this last comment carries hints about other possible sources of dissatisfaction.

John didn't have nearly such a lengthy list of romantic requirements. While visiting Tosomock Farm, he got to know Mary Perkins, and they began to court. They even went so far as to read
Modern Painters
by John
Ruskin. Reading together constituted quite an act of intimacy during this era. And
Modern Painters
, with its fevered discourse on beauty and the passion of artists, was the kind of work that could really cause one's heart to race and palms to sweat.

 

While Olmsted remained romantically unsettled, he appeared to have finally found his way to a career. Olmsted really took to Tosomock Farm. He fell into the rhythm. Spring marched toward fall; planting gave way to harvest; 1848 flowed into 1849. A farmer's life was full of rigor, but rewarding, too.

He was forever tinkering with the mix of crops in response to changes in the market. When New York City was flooded with peaches, he made a decision to switch to pears. He began cultivating different varieties. Many of these pears, such as Anjou, were of Gallic origin. Olmsted spoke of them incessantly, and John grew irritated by the parade of foreign names. “We hear nothing but Hog-French continually,” noted John. “I hope we shall reap the benefit tho' at some future time.”

John got to eat pears, all right, and also plums, raspberries, and everything else his brother chose to grow. Olmsted launched a nursery business, too. He ordered thousands of fruit trees and planted the saplings. This made sense: He could sell fruit trees, and his customers could bear the risk of finding a market for the produce. The nursery served to diversify his business, making him less susceptible to the swings in the prices of crops.

Olmsted labored hard. Where he'd been slothful at times during his teen years, he was developing a formidable work ethic—first aboard the
Ronaldson
, now on the farm—and he wasn't averse to putting in long hours when necessary. He wasn't responsible only for himself. Depending on the season, Olmsted supervised as many as eight hired men. He introduced systems and order to Tosomock Farm. Each morning, he presented the foreman of his crew with a list spelling out the exact time that various tasks should be performed. At the close of each day, the men were required to return all the farm implements to their appointed places.

Olmsted had a genuine talent for this work. The neighboring farmers took note. In 1849, a new organization was formed on Staten Island
called the Richmond County Agricultural Society. Olmsted was chosen to act as corresponding secretary. As one of his first acts, Olmsted wrote a lengthy document spelling out the benefits of the new organization and urging others to join. The document was titled “Appeal to the Citizens of Staten Island.” And here's a sampling: “We ask you, then, Fellow Citizens, one and all, to associate in this Society. We entreat you to support it. We believe it will increase the profit of our labor—enhance the value of our lands—throw a garment of beauty around our homes, and above all, and before all, materially promote Moral and Intellectual Improvement—instructing us in the language of Nature, from whose preaching, while we pursue our grateful labors, we shall learn to receive her Fruits as the bounty, and her Beauty as the manifestation of her Creator.”

In his capacity as recording secretary, Olmsted also pushed for a plank road on Staten Island—just like Geddes; he was doing his mentor proud. One thing that's striking about Olmsted is the speed with which he could inhabit a new role. Blink and he was on the threshold of some bold new endeavor. Blink again and he was deep into it. It wasn't so long ago that Olmsted had served the apprenticeship at Fairmount. Now he was a farmer in his own right. And as he'd once told Brace: “For the matter of happiness, there is no body of men that are half as well satisfied with their business as our farmers.”

CHAPTER 5

BUT THE HALCYON stretch on Tosomock Farm—this, too, could not last. When Olmsted learned that his brother and Brace planned a walking tour of England, he could scarcely contain his envy.

John was going partly in an effort to improve his health. Walking in the countryside would do him well, he hoped, and maybe help quell the lingering respiratory ailment that had been bothering him on and off for several years now. Brace was reeling from the recent death of his younger sister, Emma. Walking would be contemplative, a fitting way to mourn her passing. Brace also viewed the trip as an opportunity to learn about the conditions of the poor in another country.

Olmsted dashed off a letter to his father about this walking tour. The letter starts by striking a note of sober assessment. Olmsted wanted to make it clear that he had his priorities straight. Sure, the idea of a walking tour was enticing. It sounded like a real lark. There was also so much work to be done on the farm. But a few paragraphs into the letter, he could restrain himself no longer: “I have a just barely controllable passion for just what John is thinking to undertake.” And he added, “I confess the idea, if I give it the rein of contemplation at all, is so exciting that I can not control it with impartial reason, and so, for the present I try to forget it.”