Something About HarrybrookeBy Diane K. Quimby

Digital photograph by Diane K. Quimby

I sensed its cathedral atmosphere instantly, the feeling that no matter who or whatyou know or believe, you are entering a place of reverence. It is the type of reverence thatdoes not come from some authority saying so, but from the place itself. The first time Iset foot in Harrybrooke, I knew something was special. When I moved here, I knewnothing about it except that it was a park reserved for town residents. It made me believethat 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 withhardly a murmur. They pass under the road span from the northern confluence with themuch larger Housatonic. Swans, white and gray, eddy around a miniature island. No onetold 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 atthe 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 theunity of the universal heart and the oneness of the universal soul. Peace isthe 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 eternalsearch 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, mygoal being to return to the sign in less than fifteen minutes. The yellow arrows have nownearly 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 regenerateaccording 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 armswings, 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 fallinto routine and then the strangers become familiar, like regulars at the grocery store eachweek. I begin to look for them

–

same time, same place, same modeof exercise. Then again our schedules change and we become liketrains using the same track at different times. Perh

aps we‟ll

reconnect in another season. Sometimes I find their things, like abutton or a tiny yellow plastic fairy and put them in my pocket forsafekeeping.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 * Organizational, business or wedding parties must*Noise must be kept at a minimum be reserved ahead at the caretakers cottage*No motorcycles or motorbikes allowed in park * Use of bicycles on road way only* No vehicles with loud mufflers * Restrict your play so it does not interfere with* No loud speakers, microphones or amplified othersmusic * Be especially careful of older persons* No sales of any kind allowed on premises * Do not disfigure any trees, shrubs, buildings or* The use of beer or alcoholic beverages must be in fencesmoderation, over indulgence will result in being * Fires must be made in equipment provided or inexpelled from the park and visiting privileges similar personally owned unitsrevoked * Help keep the park clean by picking-up refuse andbottles 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 boardappears stern at first glance, but its white lettering scribed like white chalk on deep greensoftens the message into a parent giving common sense instructions before a child goesoff to play.There is a small pond, green and buggy, existing more for flora and fauna than forthe benefit of park visitors. A grandmother sits under a tree reading a book as hergrandson 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 forhimself. 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 trainingwheels, 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 setsare simple

–

no twisting plastic tubes, cargo nets or tires

–

they are constructed fromserious plumbing materials with just a few sling swings so a child can really go sky-high

if they aren‟t af

raid 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 heatconduction. The play equipment is placed as judiciously as haiku so that on a weekday acaregiver 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 quieterhere. One day I come across a goose wearing a wide yellow neckband with the code J922on it and wonder who is tracking him. Does the rest of the flock notice his necklace? A175-acre country club politely buffers the four-lane Route 7 that is only half a mile awayand shields the park from

the „progresses‟

of the twenty-first century. Flickering throughthe trees on the west bank of the stream, golfers rustle quietly like big game on apreserve. 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 havebeen 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 elegantcattails stick up like pretty hairpins in the wild green tresses of marsh plants, but I amoften inspired to look something up when I get home. For visitors who wish to beeducated on the spot, s

ome of Harrybrooke‟s trees wear

quietly elegant wooden plaquesdescribing their species. On the eastern side, a railroad track fits right in like a giantzipper. It opens up for the cargo train whose rhythmic approach gives me a thrill as itchallenges my pace with its old-fashioned allure, clittey-clacking through changinglandscapes, frame-by-frame, filling me with anticipation and imagination and perhaps abit 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 andbicyclists 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. Unspokenreverence. 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 andcasual walkers, golfers and bird-watchers, and even noisy trains to co-exist withoutannoying each other, without making judgments about each other, at least for half anhour? I do not recall ever wanting to complain about a fellow visitor.If the sunset or a storm is not urging me, I cooldown from my walk by heading out on the entry road thatgoes over a narrow car bridge. Depending on the season,white water rapids sometimes rush on one side as the riverdescends quickly over bare rock ledges heading northeast,the roar irrigating gunk from my mind like the firstrelaxing moments in the shower after a long day. On theother side of the bridge, I see another bluebird house onthe tip of the little swan island. The flat wideness of the water feels close to my feet andsways my mental equilibrium putting me at a different point of perspective. Sometimes itis more refreshing than frightening to know that I am microscopic at the same instant Iam macroscopic, and that

“

power

”

is truly relative. One day I decide to challenge myperspective further and reverse my direction on my last lap. I never go clockwise, so likea goldfish in a bowl, my surroundings suddenly seem new again. I find two more geesewith yellow neckbands.