An adventure in the park

For the last month I have been swept up by the Boston Park.  You remember the sandstone walks I saw, lifted from under years of sod, back when I had to go see what “dressing a park” was about.

Sandstone pavers being lifted from under the sod

I have been diligent about the township’s other business; I have schlepped children to band practice twice a week, and two Quidditch tournaments, but I’ve lived in the park.  In my head.

When I first saw that park in June I knew it had a story.  I threw it out to the township, tell me the story. Send me an email. Call me. I’ll write it down for you.

At the end of two weeks, except for one person who approached me on the street, nothing.  I suppose this lesson is taught in anthropology 101—if you want to know, get out there and ask. So I did. 

The oldest towns person I spoke with is close to one hundred, and watched the park being made.  One of the road guys and I went out looking for a piece of evidence to substantiate a legend of the park—and found it. 

One township septuagenarian had no use for the park.  “That piece of dirt!”  Many people I chased down did not live in the hamlet of Boston in its heyday.  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.  Why don’t you call…..”  And so it went.

I’m near the end.  I want to polish my paragraphs a bit more, and do some copyrighting of the pictures.  Then it will go up on the township website as a piece of history preserved. I’ll work on redacting some names and publish it here, too.  It’s a grand story.

The relaid sidewalks

Today a peripheral event brought me close to tears. I made it my project, when the township made the website, to scan and post the complete minutes of the township, since its formation in 1811.  Of course some are missing.  Not many, but enough to be aggravating.

I wrote a little article for the community newspaper, Like a Scavenger Hunt, describing how the minutes probably looked, even the location of the homes of the clerks with missing minutes.  Aside from snippy answers from heirs, nothing.

Today I talked to the man whose wife led the drive to save the little park from the great National Park, back in the nineties.  At the end of the conversation he said, “Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to bring you one book of minutes I have.”  A book covering the thirties and the forties.

 

I was supposed to ask about the park.