Something About Harrybrooke

Something About Harrybrooke By Diane K. Quimby

Digital photograph by Diane K. Quimby

I sensed its cathedral atmosphere instantly, the feeling that no matter who or what you know or believe, you are entering a place of reverence. It is the type of reverence that does not come from some authority saying so, but from the place itself. The first time I set foot in Harrybrooke, I knew something was special. When I moved here, I knew nothing about it except that it was a park reserved for town residents. It made me believe that perhaps Eden was a real place, that such sanctuary does not elude this planet. Small fishing boats slip by in the Still River ten feet below the walking road with hardly a murmur. They pass under the road span from the northern confluence with the much larger Housatonic. Swans, white and gray, eddy around a miniature island. No one told these boats to whisper, they just do. I don‟t care to use headphones when I walk because I‟d miss these whispers, I‟d miss the silence, I might even forget my habit of observance. I park my car outside the exit so I can walk in the back way and start my walk at the Sri Chinmoy Peace Mile sign: “Peace does not mean the absence of war. Peace means the presence of harmony, love, satisfaction and oneness. Peace means the unity of the universal heart and the oneness of the universal soul. Peace is the beginning of love. Peace is the completion of truth. Peace is the return to the Source.” This mile was dedicated by the Trustees of Harrybrooke Park “to mankind‟s eternal search for inner peace and outer joy.” It gives visitors direction to begin and end at the sign by following the yellow arrows on the paved roadway. I check my wristwatch, my goal being to return to the sign in less than fifteen minutes. The yellow arrows have now nearly disappeared, the sign is quite faded and I am not familiar with Sri Chinmoy, but I take the sentiments on the sign to heart. I am not here seeking „enlightenment‟, but to

simply walk the earth where things grow and spread and fall and die and regenerate according to their nature, where there is the absence of control, where there is the presence of it being alright to breathe, to perspire and to wonder all at the same time. I focus on the basic race walking techniques of keeping a straight line, no big arm swings, no over-striding or becoming airborne and relax to avoid neck and jaw tension. Even if I walk as fast as I can, I‟ll be traveling less than five miles per hour; too slow for some, but good therapy in an impatient world. The runners will pass me. There is even a walker or two who can‟t resist breaking into a run for a brief stretch, but for me it‟s all about the pace, not the race. Strangers smile and say hello when passing. At times I fall into routine and then the strangers become familiar, like regulars at the grocery store each week. I begin to look for them – same time, same place, same mode of exercise. Then again our schedules change and we become like trains using the same track at different times. Perhaps we‟ll reconnect in another season. Sometimes I find their things, like a button or a tiny yellow plastic fairy and put them in my pocket for safekeeping. There is a huge rule board as set forth in the will of the late Frank A. Harden: *No dogs or pets allowed in park *Noise must be kept at a minimum *No motorcycles or motorbikes allowed in park * No vehicles with loud mufflers * No loud speakers, microphones or amplified music * No sales of any kind allowed on premises * The use of beer or alcoholic beverages must be in moderation, over indulgence will result in being expelled from the park and visiting privileges revoked

* Organizational, business or wedding parties must be reserved ahead at the caretakers cottage * Use of bicycles on road way only * Restrict your play so it does not interfere with others * Be especially careful of older persons * Do not disfigure any trees, shrubs, buildings or fences * Fires must be made in equipment provided or in similar personally owned units * Help keep the park clean by picking-up refuse and bottles and depositing them in cans provided

Please OBSERVE THE PARK HOURS and LEAVE ON POSTED CLOSING TIME THROUGH YOUR HELP WE ALL CAN CONTINUE TO ENJOY HARRYBROOKE PARK THANK YOU – BOARD OF MANAGERS

In these times when rules seem to be plentiful, yet often interpreted as optional, the board appears stern at first glance, but its white lettering scribed like white chalk on deep green softens the message into a parent giving common sense instructions before a child goes off to play. There is a small pond, green and buggy, existing more for flora and fauna than for the benefit of park visitors. A grandmother sits under a tree reading a book as her grandson pokes the water with a long dry branch. There are green metal posts holding up a pair of wavy green wires with the most diminutive series of „Keep Out‟ signs I‟ve ever seen, but Grandma doesn‟t interfere because she wants him to take responsibility for himself. Besides, if he were to lose his footing, it would be a lesson well remembered. Mothers push strollers; fathers ride bikes with the older kids, some with training wheels, most with helmets. The one-way road sends you around a big green expanse of grass with generous distances between historic shade trees and swing sets. The swing sets are simple – no twisting plastic tubes, cargo nets or tires – they are constructed from serious plumbing materials with just a few sling swings so a child can really go sky-high if they aren‟t afraid to use their muscles. The metal slides are high enough to be a short

thrill for the young and, if the sun is hitting them, they can experience the power of heat conduction. The play equipment is placed as judiciously as haiku so that on a weekday a caregiver and child can have an afternoon romp as if they are on their own private estate. A soothing quiet prevails. Even the ubiquitous Canada Geese seem to be quieter here. One day I come across a goose wearing a wide yellow neckband with the code J922 on it and wonder who is tracking him. Does the rest of the flock notice his necklace? A 175-acre country club politely buffers the four-lane Route 7 that is only half a mile away and shields the park from the „progresses‟ of the twenty-first century. Flickering through the trees on the west bank of the stream, golfers rustle quietly like big game on a preserve. The crack of a golf ball and the galloping of golf cart wheels occasionally knick the silence as they move on to the next hole. Rounding the southern bend, there is a marshy trough where bluebird houses have been installed. Writing as a student and lover of nature rather than a naturalist, I can‟t name offhand the perky magenta weeds that along with the gaudy goldenrod and elegant cattails stick up like pretty hairpins in the wild green tresses of marsh plants, but I am often inspired to look something up when I get home. For visitors who wish to be educated on the spot, some of Harrybrooke‟s trees wear quietly elegant wooden plaques describing their species. On the eastern side, a railroad track fits right in like a giant zipper. It opens up for the cargo train whose rhythmic approach gives me a thrill as it challenges my pace with its old-fashioned allure, clittey-clacking through changing landscapes, frame-by-frame, filling me with anticipation and imagination and perhaps a bit of longing. Vehicles are allowed to drive one way through the park at the posted speed limit of „10 MPH‟ that they try to obey. It‟s the only road I know of where walkers and bicyclists truly feel safe. If drivers pull over to listen to their car radios or have a smoke, the volume is low and the cigarette butts mostly stay inside their vehicles. Unspoken reverence. What is the spell here that seems to take the edge off of teenagers‟ attitudes, that allows smokers and health enthusiasts, toddlers and seniors, serious joggers and casual walkers, golfers and bird-watchers, and even noisy trains to co-exist without annoying each other, without making judgments about each other, at least for half an hour? I do not recall ever wanting to complain about a fellow visitor. If the sunset or a storm is not urging me, I cool down from my walk by heading out on the entry road that goes over a narrow car bridge. Depending on the season, white water rapids sometimes rush on one side as the river descends quickly over bare rock ledges heading northeast, the roar irrigating gunk from my mind like the first relaxing moments in the shower after a long day. On the other side of the bridge, I see another bluebird house on the tip of the little swan island. The flat wideness of the water feels close to my feet and sways my mental equilibrium putting me at a different point of perspective. Sometimes it is more refreshing than frightening to know that I am microscopic at the same instant I am macroscopic, and that “power” is truly relative. One day I decide to challenge my perspective further and reverse my direction on my last lap. I never go clockwise, so like a goldfish in a bowl, my surroundings suddenly seem new again. I find two more geese with yellow neckbands.

Most visits are not long-term affairs. On summer weekends and holidays, the park is livelier and lined with cars parked in natural regimentation. The subtle smells of grilling mix in with pine and grass, and still the acoustics are under control. The restrooms are open and pavilions can be reserved, but there are no concession stands or vendors hawking souvenirs. Nearby Candlewood Lake has all the fun of motor boats and water skiing, beaches and marinas, and there‟s nothing wrong with that. I remember my uncle taking me to a big beach park and buying me a giant swirling lollipop; I liked lollipops, cotton candy, hot dogs and souvenirs as much as any kid, but there‟s something about Harrybrooke that every child needs. They need to go out with a parent or grandparent to collect fall leaves and nuts, to walk without caring about the time it takes, to have a safe place to ride a bike, to stand on a bridge and be fascinated with foam spit, to spy a swan in the wild, to hear people fishing without talking, to come often and see how the seasons alter the landscape, to truly play at their own risk. Best said in the words of Luther Burbank (1849-1926) American botanist, horticulturalist and a pioneer in agricultural science: "Every child should have mud pies, grasshoppers, water bugs, tadpoles, frogs, mud turtles, elderberries, wild strawberries, acorns, chestnuts, trees to climb. Brooks to wade, water lilies, woodchucks, bats, bees, butterflies, various animals to pet, hayfields, pine-cones, rocks to roll, sand, snakes, huckleberries and hornets; and any child who has been deprived of these has been deprived of the best part of education." After many years of searching for a site reminiscent of his native homeland in Ireland, Frank Harden found it here. Upon his death in 1965, he willed it to New Milford for safe keeping and he is still watching. That‟s why Harrybrooke has “golden” rules. That‟s why it has usually been found by word of mouth. That‟s why there is something about Harrybrooke. It is our Brigadoon. Perhaps I shouldn‟t even be writing about it and perhaps, dear reader, you should forget you read this and just know that you have.

August 21, 2006