Since it will become relevant later on, now might be a good time to tell you more about the Swerling clan, and how many either grew up in the park or came here on weekends and during school breaks. Sometimes it seemed as if every tree had three, four, or more family members hanging from a limb, reading a book, or wooing and being wooed, and all at the same time.
I know "wooing" is an old fashioned term, but sedentary as we trees are, we watch. We listen. We notice. We see styles and attitudes change, and we realize that morality, custom, and etiquette are all very much subjected to the inexorable passage of time.
Less so, however, within the confines of the Samuel Swerling Park.
It's almost as if in creating two acres of greenery in the middle of a big city, Sam also created an island that would be impervious to the depredations of the present - whenever that present might happen to be.
Oh, attempts are made and sometimes almost succeed in making us less an entity in and of ourselves and more accessible to the outside world, but they always fail.
They always will fail.
It's not that we are protected by a magic dome suspended over our highest branches. Nor do we disappear every night for a hundred years like the mythical Scottish village of Brigadoon. And we are not exempt from the Rule of Law, which time after time has tried to breach our perimeter and obliterate our autonomy.
It's more that the architecture and essence of the park are such that they prohibit certain types of behavior, and as a consequence, protect everything and everyone inside.
Children, for example. They yell and scream with joyful abandon here, as they do everywhere else. But they do not ridicule inside the park. They do not bully. If they try, as Jarvis Larchmont tried, they are stopped. And more often than not, adults whom they call by their first names on the outside, they address respectfully as Mr. or Mrs. Smith or Aunt Ellen and Uncle Pete, within the confines of the Samuel Swerling Park.
Children also play long forgotten games here.
Games their parents remember the minute they walk through our gate, and immediately teach to their young. Blind Man's Bluff and Red Rover. Tag and SPUD. Dodge ball, kick the can, and hide and seek. Sam and Alonso even created a blacktopped expanse south of the Children's Garden where boys and girls are encouraged to play marbles, hopscotch and jacks.
The main attractions, though, are and always will be the climbing trees. We stand steadfast and tall, with drum-rolls of love coursing through our every branch, twig, and leaf. We love the laughter of children. We love the irresistible touch of small hands and scrambling feet.
It is the breath of life to us.
It is our sunshine.
It is our reason for being.
Oh, the Samuel Swerling Park is a pleasant place to be.
Of course, electronic devices - I have learned to call them that - do not work here. If writers want to write, they must bring pads and pens. If artists want to draw, they must use charcoal, pencils, or paint. Readers must read from books with paper pages. Conversations must be conducted face-to-face. Beepers do not beep; cell phones do not ring; and satellite signals do not penetrate beyond the topmost leaf of the highest tree.
But, as I said before, it is not magic.
It's a signal-blocking device that Esther designed when she was quite young. Her idea (approved by the Board of Trustees, i.e., her grandfather) was to preserve the park's tranquility so that children can run riot with joy while adults are protected from the nagging demands of relentless accessibility.
YOU ARE READING
MY MOSTLY HAPPY LIFE: Autobiography of a Climbing Tree
FantasyOnce upon a time, Samuel Swerling, a World War II veteran and inventor, decided to build a park. It would be filled with trees trained to grow in such a way that children could easily climb them. He hired Alonso Hannah, a one-armed arborist, and b...
