Every so often, I stumble upon a building in Brooklyn Heights that makes me stop in my tracks. Usually it’s some unique detail that gets my imagination racing, a bay window where I could spend the day reading, or a grand entrance I could hang my coat.
As the weather turns warmer, gardens are what grab my attention; wrought-iron tables, moss covered fountains and patches of green where I could drink my tea, lace up my shoes for a run or just sit and listen to the birds.
It’s hard not to dream when you’re walking through a neighborhood like Brooklyn Heights, where the giant brownstones and grand apartment buildings feel almost out of place in the 21st century, or at the very least out of place in the United States. A life in these buildings is Parisian, maybe South American, but certainly not American. You can’t rush in a garden like these; the kitchens aren’t meant for shakes and salads.
The latest building to stop me cold was unconventional: a fire house. I typically cut through the neighborhood on Henry Street, and any exploring I do is an offshoot from Henry, but this past Monday I decided to walk along Hicks, a block closer to the water, and I stumbled upon a beautiful old fire house I had never seen before. Engine 224.
A post on Brownstoner says that the building was constructed in 1903, by Adams & Warren, and an article in The Daily Beast, from 2017, says that the company lost eight men in 9/11. As far as I can tell, the firehouse is still operational today. The American flag hangs proudly from the second story windows, and the bright red station door looks freshly painted. Apart from the window A/C units and some plastic signs, there are no real indications that the building houses firefighters at all – there are no FDNY logos or trucks idling out front.
The building is stunning. What kind of fire station today has a mint green copper roof and stone balcony? And those dormers? They belong on an au pair’s attic apartment, not a fireman’s TV room. I’m sure Sherlock Holmes had a copper roof like that at 221B Baker Street, as did Hercule Poirot at Whitehaven Mansions. The whole idea of oxidized copper requires patience and time; it can’t be bought new. A fire station like this strikes me as incredibly rare.
Thinking more about it, I’m sure I’ve walked past this building before. I must have, either while walking around with Anne or while on a run, but I just never took the time to look at my surroundings. Here I am, living in one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in New York, and I’m overlooking treasures like these on a daily basis. All because I keep my head down and power walk wherever I’m headed. One nice benefit of our current situation is that I have nowhere to go; any walk I take is inherently aimless, and what’s the point of speed walking to nowhere?
