Of course any park will have changed over 90 years. The Palisades is no exception. Where there was a place beneath the trees on the riverbank for picnicking, there grows underbrush; where there was a strong dam, there is a crumbled dam and the debris of many floods; Where there was a place for canoeing, there is a modern landing for modern boats. I never managed to find the old inn or many of the houses I saw in the old photos. Perhaps there’s more to this park than I could see from where I stood. I stood far up the hill, and I stood down on the silted shore, and I called that most of the park. There’s more to the place than that – right? There’s a walking path to the north that goes to a cliff, and there are walking trails through the woods above the riverbank, and there’s at least one wooden bridge there. In the midst of autumn, it’s a good place to relax. But I could not find the old inn. So I called the place disappointing.
I was focused on what I had wanted the place to be, rather than what it actually is. What it is is a section of the forest alongside the Cedar River, reserved as a public park. That’s it. That’s all it needs to be, and that’s all it needs to be to be very pretty in the seasons of leaf and flower. I’ve only ever seen the place at the tail end of this, though. I came a week ago, and all the trees were translucent sunlit green, and the color of butter after you leave it out for a day, and succulent scarlet, and crimson, and covering the road’s shoulder the leaves were tan, ochre, and terra-cotta. There is a lawn beside the road just before it begins to slope downward, and the grass was mostly pea-green, although any lawn not heavily managed will have brown mixed in. Dandelions have their own green hue, as do the ones with the broad leaves that are a tempting target for a bored child sitting there, listening to some camp counselor or instructor speak.
But I wanted all this and more. I wanted canoes lined up on a green lawn of the riverbank, and I wanted an old inn with an overhanging porch, and I wanted to be able to reach a cave upriver. I wanted to see evidence of outdoor recreation, like people used to do. But I was disappointed. Instead of an inn, there is a lodge with a simple room; instead of canoes, there is a concrete boat landing. So in returning today, I forgot the sort of color I saw last week, and only thought of what I could not have. People still come here for outdoor recreation. When the weather was warm, a number of Cornell students came here for an elaborate game of Nerf-gun tag called “Humans versus Zombies.” I was thinking instead of what used to be – picnics and tug-of-war and such.
So things seemed a bit disappointing today. Down at the river, there’s a fairly wide beach before you reach the water, and I called it ugly, even though it would seem fine on a happy day. On this beach there are strange, red-stalked plants growing, and flat, tough grasses, and mats of a plant that I have seen growing between the cracks of the front walkway at home. The red plant has its pink flowers out now. Everything is opportunistic, colonizing. Perhaps few things have been here on the sand for long.
Upriver, there’s a spot on the sand where numerous stumps of bushes stand, all of them snapped off. There was some sort of catastrophe here. But what? What could have removed that many bushes at once? I look at the dam that the CCC built, and I see it crumbling, and I see the huge pile of stones before and behind it, and I see the whole tree trunk perched atop the mess, and I remember: the river floods. It flooded a few years ago, and Cedar Rapids is still rebuilding.
Patton said, at least in the movie that bears his name that “anything built by man can be destroyed.” If it isn’t maintained, it falls apart faster. Nobody maintains the dam. I don’t think they have for a long time. Maybe they never did. And I wonder how well this park is maintained. But then, what kind of maintenance can you do besides keeping the grass mown? Maybe it’s better just to let things be.
This was brought to mind when I ate my lunch on the riverbank a week ago, closer to the north end. They have park benches there, and I thought I would have a moment of relaxation and good food. Not so much. A wasp wanted to partake in my sandwich. Since wasps have stingers, they are confident enough that they cannot be shooed away once they land. Nor could I squash the thing, because it was on my sandwich – nor did I want to, really. All it wanted was a few crumbs. In this wasp, I saw a need for patience, for grace, charity, and peace of mind. Some things mean no harm. Wasps are feared, but they don’t sting without cause, and I wasn’t trying to kill this thing, and I wasn’t near the nest. So it was fine. I needed a lot of patience, though, because wasps tend to take their sweet time crawling all over something before feeding.
I had expected to eat my lunch in peace; I found, instead, that peace had to come from me. I had to find peace of mind by realizing that there was no harm in a sudden change of plans. So in this wasp, I saw flexibility. It does not do to hold too tightly to a plan, nor to become flustered when it changes. Nothing ever goes exactly as expected. I was disappointed about the way the Palisades has changed, and as a result, I did not see how it is still lovely. I was looking for places that should have changed over 90 years, and as a result I missed the places that are fascinating now.
But now I know what to look for, and it’s not the ghost of the old park. It’s the spirit of the modern one. The Palisades is still a good place to be.
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