Fall Settles In

An autumnal chill has settled over Frick Park, and a recent rain has left the grass dewy. Clover is sprouting in little clusters-- the whole park is as green as the summer, but it is a grey, breezy September day.

I never mentioned the birch trees before. They are tall and brittle, dropping thin slabs of bark on the pedestrian paths they stretch over. Today, I pick up a piece, and am surprised by its softness. I don’t know what I had expected. Fragility, maybe: perhaps that it would break apart into ashes in my hand. The piece is ashy—or gritty, maybe, a membrane of dirt coating the side that had adhered to the trunk of one of the nearby trees—but it is also sturdy, and velvety soft on its outside.

There is a man standing at the southeastern entrance, the only other person I see. He is uphill from me, and seems to be looking down in a sort of predatory way. Or maybe he suspects that I am lost. I try to look busy for a few minutes. Eventually, he saunters over to a bush, and produces from it a leaf-blower. He turns it on, aiming it thirty degrees or so down towards the path, blowing a tempest of early Fall leaves into chaos and towards a growing pile off of the path. He is a park employee, I assume. He is “beautifying”—moving nature out of the way for the joggers that will visit the park.

 The leaves themselves are still thick, slick, and veiny, but they have fully browned. Not browned, really—from a distance, they look Casper white. But up close, they are clearly beige. I pick one of these up, as well, turn it over in my hands, twirl it by the stem. It has the same sturdy—but dry ashy—quality of the birch bark, and I’m left to wonder a bit about this time of year, when some things are still alive, but others are clearly in the process of annual deterioration. Most of the trees are bare, now. Their dropped leaves don’t layer on the ground, but are scattered here or there in uneven assemblages.

I also begin to notice—for the first time of my visits here—the birds. There are some pigeons that have found their way from the city surrounding the park, and other dove-like birds, but mostly I see finches, sparrows and thrushes—a pretty standard collection in a pretty standard urban park. They are busy; they stay close to the ground, mostly, and flock off in cacophony if I crunch a leaf underneath my foot or make any other disturbing noise too close to them. I don’t usually notice them unless or until they fly off. Their feathers are too demure: the same light brown with speckles that the leaves have, and they camouflage too well.

The park employee has finished blowing the leaves, and meets up with a coworker who has parked his truck near that southeastern entrance. The second man is wearing a neon orange vest, the brightest color in the park, and brighter, even, than the siding of houses that I can see uphill and beyond. They both light up a cigarette (I wonder if they are supposed to, on park property, and all) and I move on.

An Intoduction (Of Sorts...)

Homestead, Pennsylvania, is a borough that clings to the southern bank of the Monongahela River, approximately seven miles from downtown Pittsburgh. In a metropolitan area that is notably segregated, Homestead is relatively diverse: 43% of its population is white, and 51% African-American, according to the United States Census Bureau. In 1940, approximately half of Homestead’s residents lived in the floodplain between the railroad tracks and the river, before the local steel mill was expanded in the area, displacing thousands and wreaking damage on the river’s—and town’s—ecosystem. The mill shuttered for good in 1984, and now the Waterfront shopping complex occupies that land.

From Frick Park, near the geographic center of the town, I am eye-level with the vast tree-canopy of Squirrel Hill South, and—besides a cluster of newish townhomes—there is no visible evidence of human habitation across the river. The park is notable for a few reasons. First, it lies in a watershed between two now-buried tributaries to the Monongahela, the Homestead Run and West Run. It is dug out from a shallow spot between sloping hills to its east and its west. A hard barrier of rock shields it from its northern border at 11^th Avenue, and it opens at a wide slope downhill to its southern border with 10^th.

Frick Park is also a convergence point for the community it serves. Two schools are nearby, and it is within walking distance from both Homestead’s downtown commercial strip on 8^th Avenue during the winter, as well as the residential Uptown area, uphill. It is not uncommon to see parents, children, or school employees utilizing the park at all hours of daylight. It is also central to the more lovingly maintained neighborhoods of Homestead towards McClure Avenue and past it into neighboring Munhall, and the neighborhoods to the west that deal with significant abandonment, small urban prairies erupting between homes.

The park is a leafy block amidst a neighborhood of brick four-squares, bungalows, and churches that are long abandoned, invasive moss and grapevines creeping up their walls. On this day in early September, mature trees—what appear to my untrained eye to be maples—have dropped their yellowing leaves on the ground around the concrete paths. They are not yet brittle, and the trees themselves are still full and mostly green, shielding me from the heat of the sun. There are other signs of Autumn: the squirrels are in their annual frenzy, gathering things dropped by deciduous trees that abut the streets. There is a large, round planter near the epicenter of the park, but the vegetation within has been neglected—what has survived is dry and thorny.

In the coming weeks as I venture into the park and reflect upon it, I would like to pose questions relating not only to the ecosystem that exists within it—the balance of trees and small animals and birds that I see there daily—but also about the people of Homestead and how they interact with it. The city itself is sturdily built, but utilitarian: it is mostly cracked sidewalks, sloping foundations, grit, concrete and dirt. How does this green-space reconnect Homestead’s decidedly working-class residents to their community, and to each other? How does it work as a catalyst in the community, to gather people within a common place, act as a safe space in a sometimes dangerous city, and as a common ground for sharing news, information, and ideas? At some point, I may venture down to the community garden on 7^th Avenue, or to the Riverplex near Sandcastle (which has received significant investment from the public and private sectors), or to the blacktop of Charlie Batch Park (in the interest of contrasting it with Frick), but my posts will always center around here: the most noticeable slice of nature within a fully developed Pittsburgh suburb.