Pine Needles and No Mosquitos
My friend Kim and I have made it a ritual to pick a spot in New England in which to hike each Sunday. Last week we attempted Pisgah State Park, only to discover on a hot sunny day why the parking lot was empty and there were warning signs about using Deet bug spray--the mosquitos were horrendous. They were so bad that while wearing my raincoat as protection, and Kim in a long sleeve tee on a 80 degree day, we had to keep moving constantly or our little parade of followers would over take us.
Yesterday we decided to try a very local park. This local park once served as something of a dumping ground. People might squat in the area, dump old tires, beer cans, hunks of metal, you name it. When I was little and living in this area, I remember my mom being a part of the Garden Club--a club that took it upon itself to make this park it's personal makeover project. And so, little by little, foot by foot, the Ashuelot Park began to emerge, first with a flower bed, then with a path, lined with stones, names of financial supporters etched in their surface, and suddenly the garbage disappeared and people with their dogs or children started showing up, lying out in the sun, sneaking their kayaks in the river. Today the park extends well across town and has a whole slew of visitors, complete with a fellow who offers to give people a tour from the cart attached to the back of his bike--for a small donation of course. Just the other day I saw a fellow sitting along the river composing songs on his guitar, playing for the fish, or the birds or the delight of passerbyers such as myself.
With spots of rain showers, Kim and I enjoyed a more private walk, bonding more with the soft crunch of pine needles under our feet or the echos that vibrated around us in the various tunnels for which we crossed under, and then the distinctive clap of metal to ball as we popped out at our old ball field. With snakes, chipmunks, and the river to our left it was a glorious way to enjoy New England without the threat of being eaten alive in the deep woods.
Yesterday we decided to try a very local park. This local park once served as something of a dumping ground. People might squat in the area, dump old tires, beer cans, hunks of metal, you name it. When I was little and living in this area, I remember my mom being a part of the Garden Club--a club that took it upon itself to make this park it's personal makeover project. And so, little by little, foot by foot, the Ashuelot Park began to emerge, first with a flower bed, then with a path, lined with stones, names of financial supporters etched in their surface, and suddenly the garbage disappeared and people with their dogs or children started showing up, lying out in the sun, sneaking their kayaks in the river. Today the park extends well across town and has a whole slew of visitors, complete with a fellow who offers to give people a tour from the cart attached to the back of his bike--for a small donation of course. Just the other day I saw a fellow sitting along the river composing songs on his guitar, playing for the fish, or the birds or the delight of passerbyers such as myself.
With spots of rain showers, Kim and I enjoyed a more private walk, bonding more with the soft crunch of pine needles under our feet or the echos that vibrated around us in the various tunnels for which we crossed under, and then the distinctive clap of metal to ball as we popped out at our old ball field. With snakes, chipmunks, and the river to our left it was a glorious way to enjoy New England without the threat of being eaten alive in the deep woods.
posted by Molly | 6:02 AM
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