McClennen Park Daybreak

Driving away from Whipple Hill a massive pterodactyl-like form flew out of the trees and disappeared into the woods on the other side of the road.  In the suburban northeast, you don't encounter many large, wild animals, which makes the sight of a heron in flight all the more special.  When I'm lucky enough to see one, I typically stop and stare with the sort of grin that ought to be reserved for seeing reindeer fly.

I had a feeling I might know where that heron was coming from, so I decided to make a little detour before heading home.   

McClennen Park on Summer St. in Arlington, MA is a great example of government listening to the needs of a community while still retaining natural spaces.  A couple years ago it underwent a major face-lift and since then, it has been a selling tool for developers in the area. 

I have to admit that up until this summer, I only knew the park for what can be seen from the road: a fenced baseball diamond, a skate park (really) and a  colorful, jungle gym structure guaranteed to make little ones desperate to get at it.  But a few weeks ago a friend invited me to go walking with her there, and I got to see a whole different side.

At the center of the park is a massive, grassy hill. It rises up from the surrounding field at an improbable angle.  It has the same look as those hills that are built on top of landfills.  Considering it's located in the middle of a residential area, I'm sure that's not the case, but that is what it looks like. That hill is the reason that McClennen Park feels like two separate parks.  A paved walkway starts near the parking lot by the jungle gym, goes around the base of the mystery hill and disappears into a shady lane lined by milkweed, queen anne's lace, and raspberry bushes.

As a kid I can remember using the brown, end of season milkweed pods in countless Sunday School projects.  A couple remain intact after all this time, tiny winter diaramas that leave a trail of glitter as they travel from a storage box to the Christmas tree each year.  Milkweed pods also played a major role in elementary school earth science.  Our school was near a marsh, so in the fall our teachers would bring us out for a walk and let us pluck the downy insides and toss them (seeds in tow) into the wind.  For the rest of the day we'd pick bits of feathery white from each others' sweaters and hair. 

But this year, is the first time I've seen milkweed before it takes on its papery brown autumn skin.  The pods remind me of fuzzy spring lambs.  The underside of the leaves have a similar fuzzy texture, on a much smaller scale.

Getting back to the trail.  It's a simple loop, with the occasional offshoot connecting to a residential street.  It's a park designed to be used by the people around it, just as parks should be.  The back side of the hill is a sea of wildflowers, a haven for butterflies that completely blocks your view of the man made portions of the park.  There are trees filled with robins and even the occasional oriole.  Benches are placed along the path, so you can sit and watch the creatures who are drawn to the pond nestled in this side of the park.  It's all a wonderful surprise, a hidden gem you'd never expect based on what you can see from the road. 

In the late afternoon walkers abound, but at daybreak, I had it all to myself.  Well, aside from the heron fishing for breakfast, the reclusive duck family and the chorus of frog that is.  I captured the sounds of the morning in a short video.

I know the quality on the video is pretty poor; it was shot with my digital camera, but it does capture the music of the morning well.  Here's a better shot of the heron. 

As I watched, the heron stealthfully stretched out its neck, pointed its need-like beak toward the water and rested in that strained position for an impossibly long time.  I tried not to blink out of fear I'd miss the heron's strike.  Fortunately it was morning and the bird was hungry, so I had the chance to watch him repeat the performance over and over.  Step forward, stretch, point, hold, hold, hold, strike!  Come up with a tiny fish wriggling in its beak.  A shake of the head and a visible swallow and the fish was gone.  After each fish, the heron decorously took a sip of water - to wash it down I suppose.    

The heron appeared utterly uninterested in my presence, even when I jumped to avoid stepping in dog poo.  I suppose the heron is used to having an audience in such a central watering hole.  It's not at all like the elusive White Heron in Sarah Orne Jewett's short story of the same name.  In the story a shy young girl befriends an ornithologist and then has to decide whether or not to show him the heron he seeks to add to his collection.  My description doesn't do the story justice.  You can read the story online or listen to it through the Craftlit podcast. Sarah Orne Jewett lived just over the border in Maine, and I always consider her short story collection The Country of the Pointed Firs, the epitome of what summer in New England is about, even if the stories are set over 100 years ago.  

As I finished the loop around the park, I saw a couple juvenile red-winged blackbirds teetering on the top of cattails and answering the calls of a nearby adult.  These are some of my favorite birds. I know a lot of people associate robins with spring, but plenty of robins decide to stay put and weather the winter.  The cry of the red-winged blackbird however, is a sure sign of spring.  A Canadian friend told me that in Nova Scotia the red-winged blackbird is a bit like that forecasting groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil.  When these birds arrive locals know there's just one more snowfall before spring.

Heading back to the parking lot I saw a dog park of sorts.  Three or four people stood companionably around home plate as their dogs ran free inside the fenced baseball area.  I like the idea of dogs much more than the reality and I become really annoyed by people who ignore leash laws, but the sight of a golden running at full tilt to catch the ball its owner had thrown, was beautiful.  As I watched the dogs romp, an older woman shuffled up the path with two miniature dogs pulling her along.  Once inside the fence, the tiniest of the dogs ran right up to a huge furry beast with hair over its eyes and started a conversation.  In seconds the two were playfully chasing each other.  I heard their happy barks all the way back to my car.  I smiled at the thought of this little scene being played out day after day, before most people are even up.  McClennen Park is well used, and I mean that in every sense.

Comments

[Vicki Chambers]

I came across your blog while googling pictures of the heron at this park. It's my "go to" park when I need a little space, and the heron has become a reminder that I need to slow down, and gracefully step in my life.

Your words captured the park perfectly...

PS - It was a landfill at one point in time - so you were right on the mark in that observation!

[T. Crockett]

Thank you Vicki! Your comments just made my day. I love that image of living life at "heron speed". I know I'll come back to that often.

I haven't been to the park since the seasons changed, I really should get back there and see its autumn face.

[Susan]

Nice post! We live nearby and are very glad to have the park. Btw, the correct spelling is McClennen (it was named for Alan McClennen).

[T. Crockett]

I'm glad you enjoyed it. And thank you for the correction. I think I've fixed all the misspellings now.