I ventured the other day to the Sandcastle Riverplex, an open park and event space which lies on the southern bank of the Monongahela. This spot is of particular interest, since the West Run estuary empties into the river at this point. The banks are low, and from the thicket of trees that line the water, I can get just close enough to see the Run funneling out into the Mon like a waterfall through a wide, open sewage pipe.
Separating the Riverplex from the railroad tracks and the rest of the borough of Homestead is the Steel Valley bike trail, which carries a constant stream of travelers from its genesis on the Southside, past concrete plants at the base of steep river bluffs, before it joins with a larger trail that continues onward all the way through Maryland to Washington, approximately charting the course of the Mon. This day, as any day, there are all types of folks riding bikes along the trail-- some serious, dressed in full-body workout suits, and some casual.
I want to compare this place to Frick Park, and among the things that I notice is that the Riverplex is wide and open, cleared of trees, and that the grass here is springtime green and neatly trimmed. What trees have been planted above the thickets on the bank have an artificial quality to them: they are immature, and placed meticulously in their spots by some landscaper. The place reminds me of a well-maintained English garden.
Even on the banks of the Mon themselves, the trees seem younger, shorter, and thinner than what I am used to at Frick. I assume that the old growth trees-- once downed by lightning, or flood-- get carried away with the river. But I speculate, also, that as this area was once largely industrial, perhaps there was old-growth forest that was simply cleared away. I decide to take a leaf and slab of bark with me from the Riverplex back to Frick to see if I can compare it with another tree's.
The leaf is thin and serrated around its edge, like a bay-leaf. It is a bit waxy or glossy to feel. The bark is a robust brown, heavy and full of life.
I am not much for identifying trees, but I do find what I think to be a match in Frick Park, only here the tree shows its age: there are deep, scar-like crevices up and down its trunk, and branches shooting off in complete disorder. Its leaves are a bit wilt-ier and frailer than those of its "brother" along the river's banks.
When I get home, I play around on my computer to see if I can identify the tree, googling "trees of Pittsburgh," and find a source from the Phipps Conservatory that I think may be of some help. It has a long, intimidating list of trees, organized by their common names (I do not have the patience for Latin), and no images or descriptions are shown until I click on the entry titles. I am left to ponder a bit on what it means to be at the crossroads of the Northeast and Midwest, where forest meets forest, where one climate meets another, and to ponder on the complexity and variety of trees, and how it has been so rare for me to notice their distinctness.
After sometime, I believe that I have found my tree. I think it is a Black Cherry, or a Hackberry, the latter of which-- I learn-- grows abundantly in river valleys. These are beautiful, folksy names. To me, they give the trees personality, lend them a rhythm. I haven't ever thought so much about trees before, but even the names are beautiful in their grittiness.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Playing in the Park
The weather has taken a turn. It is cool-- not cold, at least not by my seasoned Midwestern standards-- but cool, nonetheless. I have abandoned short sleeves.
But it occurs to me as I am sitting in the park that this weather is not unlike how it feels in early Spring, and if I de-contextualize it-- forget that a few weeks ago the temperatures were in the Summery mid-70's-- it becomes rather pleasant. I am reminded of the course readings this week, how Sheryl St. Germain sees signs, albeit small ones, of Spring and the continuation of life and of renewal, even in the dead of an Iowa winter.
There are more families in the park today than usual, and I wonder if this thought has occurred to the parents, as well. Maybe, like me, they left their homes this morning to the sight of dewy perspiration-- thawed out frosts, perhaps-- on car windshields, and braced themselves against cold. Maybe, like me, they had resigned themselves to the idea this morning that the next several months of cold were upon us. And maybe, like me, as the day has warmed gradually, they have realized that the time they have to spend comfortably outside with children and other family members is increasingly limited.
Outside of a large den of trees, there is an open spot of grass just large enough for a father to throw a football back and forth with his son. The dad can throw a spiral, but the son cannot. Near to them, there is a strip of asphalt that leads out to the street, and they have positioned themselves in such a way to avoid the ball going there, and perhaps to avoid the kid running absentmindedly after it.
Not far from them there is a very young girl-- four or five years old, I'd guess-- gathering leaves, maybe some of the same leaves that I saw on my last visit. She may be related to them, but I cannot be sure. There are adults sitting on a few of the benches, some old enough to be grandparents. In this community, grandparents, aunts, uncles, older siblings and cousins all work communally to raise children in parks while parents work long hours at the Waterfront, or in Squirrel Hill, or deeper into the city.
Here, I am seeing the community engage with the park, and am struck again by its value. As I examine the park itself over time, I may begin to think about the larger questions surrounding park design and layout, how residents' access to park space can be hindered or improved, and the role that the park plays not just as community gathering space, but as community advocate and agent: a place that metaphorical gives lifeblood to the surrounding neighborhoods, and serves as a point of pride.
I realize, now, from my last observation of the maintenance worker, that he was doing his own small part to instill pride and to make the park something that can be showcased and shown off. It is ingenuous for me to judge him; certainly, he has a role. His leaf-blowing antics may distract me from my point of interest from time-to-time (the leaves themselves), but ultimately, he has as much right to this space as I do.
But it occurs to me as I am sitting in the park that this weather is not unlike how it feels in early Spring, and if I de-contextualize it-- forget that a few weeks ago the temperatures were in the Summery mid-70's-- it becomes rather pleasant. I am reminded of the course readings this week, how Sheryl St. Germain sees signs, albeit small ones, of Spring and the continuation of life and of renewal, even in the dead of an Iowa winter.
There are more families in the park today than usual, and I wonder if this thought has occurred to the parents, as well. Maybe, like me, they left their homes this morning to the sight of dewy perspiration-- thawed out frosts, perhaps-- on car windshields, and braced themselves against cold. Maybe, like me, they had resigned themselves to the idea this morning that the next several months of cold were upon us. And maybe, like me, as the day has warmed gradually, they have realized that the time they have to spend comfortably outside with children and other family members is increasingly limited.
Outside of a large den of trees, there is an open spot of grass just large enough for a father to throw a football back and forth with his son. The dad can throw a spiral, but the son cannot. Near to them, there is a strip of asphalt that leads out to the street, and they have positioned themselves in such a way to avoid the ball going there, and perhaps to avoid the kid running absentmindedly after it.
Not far from them there is a very young girl-- four or five years old, I'd guess-- gathering leaves, maybe some of the same leaves that I saw on my last visit. She may be related to them, but I cannot be sure. There are adults sitting on a few of the benches, some old enough to be grandparents. In this community, grandparents, aunts, uncles, older siblings and cousins all work communally to raise children in parks while parents work long hours at the Waterfront, or in Squirrel Hill, or deeper into the city.
Here, I am seeing the community engage with the park, and am struck again by its value. As I examine the park itself over time, I may begin to think about the larger questions surrounding park design and layout, how residents' access to park space can be hindered or improved, and the role that the park plays not just as community gathering space, but as community advocate and agent: a place that metaphorical gives lifeblood to the surrounding neighborhoods, and serves as a point of pride.
I realize, now, from my last observation of the maintenance worker, that he was doing his own small part to instill pride and to make the park something that can be showcased and shown off. It is ingenuous for me to judge him; certainly, he has a role. His leaf-blowing antics may distract me from my point of interest from time-to-time (the leaves themselves), but ultimately, he has as much right to this space as I do.
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