the framework of history and whispers from the bridges

Friday, February 7th, 2014; 2:18 p.m. 

I've been hesitant to look up the history of my place. I wanted to get to know it on its own terms first, as I saw it, as it exists one-dimensionally through my eyes. 

Context can change everything. I think this is the beauty and curse of the creative workshop, maybe specifically creative nonfiction workshops. We get to know each other so quickly and so intimately because the content we are putting forth every week is the stuff of our lives, some of the most private and personal parts. This allows us to give each other better feedback, to know where gaps exist and to be able to allude to past essays and midnight bar conversations to enrich essays-in-the-making. 

But we also become irreversibly biased towards our peers' work. We have an automatic interest in their work because we know the creators, the people whose lives we are getting a better picture of. It takes a lot of hard work and mental agility to try to read a piece as a random person picking up a magazine would. Sometimes we know too much to be wholly critical. 

It's the same reason I don't like to watch movie previews or scan the backs of books before I read them. Sometimes, not knowing as much lets me form a more honest opinion. 

And so I've liked getting to know my spot on my own, with no intention other than to look deeply at what is already there. I can see the trees how I like to, make up stories about who has walked through here or over the bridges, without much outside influence. 

But, after four weeks, I have decided to learn my place in a new way. I've researched some of its history, gotten to know its story form the human perspective a bit better, and it's helping me to locate my place in space and time. 

I found the following information on the Pittsburgh Parks Conservancy website:

(I did my best not to summarize this history verbatim, though it is fairly straightforward).

Mary Elizabeth Croghan was initially willed Schenley Park, which was known as "Mt. Airy tract" in the 1800s, by her maternal grandfather, General James O'Hara. However, in 1842, when Mary was 15 years old, she created an international scandal by leaving her boarding school in Staten Island to elope to England with 43-year-old Captain Edward Schenley. Mary's father, enraged by the scandal, took action to win the title to her property, which he did. However, he and Mary eventually reconciled and she inherited the land from her father in 1850 when he died. 

Edward Bigelow, the Director of Public Works for Pittsburgh, wanted to create a grand park system and couldn't imagine doing so without the Mt. Airy tract. In 1889, Bigelow learned that a real estate developer's agent was on his way to London to try to buy the land from Mary Schenley. In response, Bigelow sent an East Liberty lawyer to London to try to buy the property first. He ended up reaching London two days before the developer's agent. 

In 1889, Mary gave the 300 acres of Mt. Airy tract to the city with the option of purchasing 120 more, which the city did in 1891. The only conditions from Mary were that the park be named after her and never sold. 

Bigelow connected all parts of the park system with boulevards and began building bridges in Schenley to make it easier for people to travel through and enjoy. Two of the three bridges remain, though many of the initial attractions in the park have disappeared, including a 120-foot circular electric fountain on Flagstaff Hill, the Schenley Casino, which was located where the Frick Fine Arts Building now stands, and a band shell where Anderson Playground is now located. 

In addition to learning about the history of my spot on a grand scale, I also found information about the Visitors Center and Cafe, which I pass each time I walk to my spot. This is one of the last remaining buildings from the park's original creation and is over 100 years old. Before it was renovated to become the Visitors Center and Cafe, it was used as a tool shed, the home of the Pittsburgh Civic Garden Center and a nature museum with all kinds of snakes. In the 1980s, it went into disrepair, but in 2001, it was converted by the Parks Conservancy into the structure it is today. 

I did research online before I visited my spot this week, but I also stopped to look at the signs as I passed them this time, which I don't normally do. I found the most interesting piece of history on these signs. 

In the 1930s, the park got improved further thanks to President Franklin D. Roosevelt's Works Progress Administration program, a response to the lack of jobs and economic stimulation during the Great Depression. Through this program, WPA workers built a dozen of Schenley Park's foot bridges and paths, including the stone steps and ramp that lead from the Visitor's Center to the park--the stairs and ramp that I climb every time I visit my spot.

This is the reason for the etchings in the bridges, which I noticed during my first visit to my spot. 

I actually really love learning more history about my spot. As I sit on my rock, I start to think about this history and what it might mean for today.

I think about the concept of a city park. I think I take that for granted now because this park is four minutes from my home. It just seems like a natural part of where I live. But to live in a city--in addition to the presence of hard-working conservancies--whose residents and urban planners have such an appreciation for green space, is incredibly lucky. To even have the large quantities of natural forest that exist in and around Pittsburgh is a gift. Less than five minutes in a car from where I sit amongst the quiet trees is the hustle and bustle of downtown life. The eclecticism of this urbanature is invigorating and speaks further to the variety of experiences Pittsburgh has to offer, the ways in which the many ideas of creation are always intertwined.

As I sit on my rock, I think about the specific section of forest where my spot is located. I think about the WPA workers from the 1930s who created the steps that I sit next to every week, the bridges I cross over and back every time I come to my spot. 

I think about the stacking of rocks, the mortar laying, the lifting

Now, in my mind’s eye as I look backwards in time, I see people around me hauling stone, cementing, hammering. The workers probably actually moved my rock to where it sits now across from the other rock—gatekeepers of the stairs. I doubt this symmetry of two same-sized rocks happened naturally. I never considered this before. 

I think about the stairs themselves, how they were carved out, the stone laid. I think about the bridges made of tufa, which I learned about my first time here, and what the process must have been for creating them.

I try to picture what the workers looked like. They were probably all men in the 1930s. Did they wear jeans? Have tool belts? How many were there at one time? Did they enjoy the work? Were they grateful for the WPA or did they resent it? Did someone sit on my rock with a thermos full of coffee and a ham sandwich at lunchtime? How long did it take to build the bridges and stairs that I see now? Did they have to take out any trees to carve the stairs? Did they work during all four seasons?

Now, I begin to see my spot as part of a bigger story—a piece of inheritance, a salvation, a part of a country in a struggle to stay on its feet. An object of pride for Pittsburgh and a respite for its people. It makes me want to explore the rest of Schenley, to know all parts of this grand, multi-purpose piece of city nature.

My spot today is still mostly snow-covered. The ground is incredibly slippery, iced-over. The world seems crispy-coated. I had to hold onto the railings with both hands, almost hugging them, to make it down the stairs.

I can hear the stream today, though not any birds right now. I did hear a woodpecker as I was walking the trail, but I could not seem to locate him with my eyes. 

There is something so beautiful about the dark, liquid stream next to the hard white snow. The contradiction is arresting.

The temperature confused me today. Initially, I was freezing. I had on my usual three pants and two jackets, but every time I took my gloves off to snap a picture, I lost feeling in my hands. As I continued walking, I grew warm and had to unzip my outer jacket. But, as I sit on the rock, I cannot feel my ungloved hand and my toes don’t feel like they exist either.

The sky above me is mostly blue, and I try to stay out of the tree’s shadows so that I can soak up more heat.

While I have learned the people’s history of this place, next week I hope to look more into the natural history of what exists here. I have taken some pictures of bark and leaves and will try to get to know my place in this way in the coming week, melding the man-made and the natural for an even fuller picture of my spot. 

bark from the birch tree

a look ahead

I am happy I have begun to know my place more deeply through its history, despite my initial hesitation, and I will continue to do so in the coming weeks. My place no longer exists solely in 2014 but across centuries. It was part of the vision of ambitious men and women and part of the process that attempted to bring this country back to life in the 1900s. It isn’t just some random forest but one that has been cared for and worked and sewn into the fabric of this city. I am happy to be a part of it. I am honored to pass on its story.  

Maggie