David K. Leff, Essayist, Poet, Lecturer

Beneath the Lakes, an Inland Atlantis

Hartford Courant, May 23, 2010

Sparkling in sunlight or bathed in gauzy mist, lakes are among the most alluring elements of Connecticut’s landscape.  But the waters of some of our largest lakes, created by damming river valleys for drinking, flood control or power production during the first part of the twentieth century, hide some unattractive secrets.

 Colebrook River Lake; Barkhamsted, Compensating and Nepaug Reservoirs in the Farmington Valley; and the Saugatuck Reservoir and Candlewood Lake in the southwestern part of the state are among those water bodies that were made possible by drowning farms, small mills, homesteads and entire rural hamlets.  Land for these impoundments, created by both public and private entities, were acquired sometimes by condemnation, but mostly by purchases made in the shadow of eminent domain powers.  Taking private property for public purposes was big news then and remains controversial today as demonstrated by New London’s recent struggle for Suzette Kelo’s little pink house or Rocky Hill’s interest in seizing a former foundry site for a park along the Connecticut River.

Despite acrimonious and protracted legal battles over contemporary cases, their human impacts pale beside the development of the reservoirs, which displaced hundreds of people from their homes; closed schools, churches and stores; rerouted tens-of-miles of road; dismantled highway bridges; and even caused relocation of the dead to new cemeteries on higher ground.  Tiny villages like Valley Forge in Weston and Hartland Hollow in Hartland were wiped off the map.  Although some local bitterness remains today, drinking water, flood protection, electricity, recreational opportunities, and vast tracts of open space have benefited millions of people for generations.

Typically cupped among hills, these manmade impoundments are so beautiful and look so natural that it’s easy to assume they’ve always been there.  Dams are the most obvious signs of human intervention, but evidence of long-lost communities abound in truncated roads that end at the waters’ edge and crumbling foundations lying in the woods or beneath the waves.

Heart's Desire (poem)

I crave damaged things.   I seek what’s splotched, dimpled,
splintered, peculiar, and worn.  Old glass panes
with prismatic sparkles admit me to a delightfully wavy,
distorted world. Comfort beckons from a chair scratched
and nicked with a family’s hard use, or boots scuffed
and creased to a foot’s shape.  Scarred cheeks, chipped
cups, tailless squirrels, charred beams, swayback barns
and dented cars brim with stories.  Liberty rings loudest
from a silent, fractured bell, and Mona Lisa’s reticent smile
outshines any toothpaste grin.  Yet we’re seduced
by Hollywood perfection, the enticing magic of digital
images, and angelic sounds from pitch correction software.
We forget that a broken heart’s boundless, thrumming ache
makes us feel most alive.

Baseball's Real McCoy

If baseball is steeped in tradition, Pawtucket, Rhode Island’s McCoy Stadium is a place where the game is meant to be played.  Home of the Pawtucket Red Sox, Triple-A International League affiliate of the Boston Red Sox, a visitor instantly feels the presence of the past with entry ramp walls lined by several dozen colorful murals of great PawSox alumni.  Many became major league stars like Wade Boggs, Fred Lynn, Jim Rice, Roger Clemens, and Carlton Fisk.  Some are enshrined in baseball’s Hall of Fame.

On a recent sun-washed day, I sat with my neighbor Alan four rows back from the field in seats along the corridor of energy and action that runs from home plate to first base.  The orange-tinted infield clay and crisp grass cut in a striped pattern seemed to glow in the light.  Alan grew up in Pawtucket and spent part of his teen years working in a factory within site of the stands.  For most of the past quarter century we’ve managed to see at least one game each year at McCoy even though it’s an almost two hour trip from home and it wouldn’t be much further to reach iconic Fenway Park in Boston or the New York homes of the Yankees or Mets.

McCoy is a wide horseshoe under a generous grandstand roof.  It has some of the most spacious foul territory in all baseball.  The dugouts are built into an eight foot-high-wall above which the first row of seats begins.  Kids “fish” for autographs by lowering the ball, card, or program they want signed in a carved open milk jug or soda bottle tied to a rope.  The outfield has the usual stacks of colorful billboard and a grassy berm where families can watch the game from a blanket.

Like many minor league parks, fans are close to the action, and the atmosphere is relaxed compared to the big time.  But McCoy stands out because it is a place where fans are knowledgeable and remain engaged in the action regardless of the score.  They’re lavish with their cheers and equally free with their boos.

This is a place of “deep baseball,” not just another entertainment venue.  Loud music, endemic at most stadiums, is generally limited to between innings so a fan can still clearly hear the “thwack” of leather when a fastball finds the catcher’s mitt, the rifle-shot sound of a solid double to center, or the umpire’s impassioned call on strike three.  There are no goofy musical leitmotifs as players come to bat and no wiseacre canned sound effects.  Few promotions interrupt the game’s flow and the mascot keeps children involved while maintaining a low profile.

In the friendly stands at McCoy you realize that it’s not whether you win or lose or even how you play the game that counts most.  What matters is how the ballpark embraces the fans.  For those of us who think the words “play ball” are the best coda to the national anthem, this is paradise.  No wonder that the oldest, and one of the smallest stadiums at the Triple-A level is a leader in attendance.

In a world of manufactured experiences, this ballpark is an island of authenticity, the real McCoy.  As for the game, the lead seesawed; there was some tight pitching, a couple long balls, and dust-cloud plays at the plate.  The PawSox lost a close one, but not a fan was disappointed. 

Peony Heaven

“Welcome to Peony Heaven” reads a big red banner stretched over the rough dirt entry drive to Cricket Hill Garden in Thomaston, Connecticut.  Fortunately, you don’t have to die to enter this paradise though its beauty may convince you that you’ve arrived at a place too good for this world.  Carved into a wooded hillside punctuated by the owner’s home and a pond are seven acres of terraced gardens featuring the showy, plush and densely petaled plants that the growers term “seductive and magical.”

With my friend Bette I wandered the winding paths whose logic was delightfully about floral display and natural slope rather than getting from one place to another.  While we walked, a young woman played a guzheng, or Chinese zither, whose soft, elegant notes wafted on the breeze and transported us far from this typical southern New England hillside.  Delicate umbrellas as beautiful as flowers dot the gardens, protecting blossoms from fading in the sun or excessive moisture that causes mold.  Soft pink and decorated with butterflies and flowers, they float like clouds among the greenery.

Cricket Hill Garden began as a labor of love in the late 1980s when Kasha and David Furman found they couldn’t buy Chinese tree peonies in this country, and that sources in China would only export in large quantities.  Passion outweighed prudence and they found themselves with a lot of plants, some of which they proceeded to sell.  Their devotion remains evident in the care they take with the grounds and a staff so earnest talking about plants you might forget the peonies are for sale.  One of the biggest jobs, we were told, is shaking water out of the blooms after a rainfall.  Now that’s attentiveness.

Peony names are as beautiful and intriguing as the flowers and often tell a story.  Among the more delightful monikers are: “Living Flower of Frosty Dew,”  “Purple Sea Cloud,” “Gold Flecks in Chinese Ink,” “Phoenix Hairpin,” “Purple Butterfly in the Wind,” and “Color of Eternity.”  Clearly this is a place where you might find elves or pixies.

An avid gardener who has lived about half an hour distant for two decades, it remains a mystery how I could have gone so long without finding this slice of Eden that materializes each May and June.  I owe the discovery to Bette’s well tuned ears since she learned of Peony Heaven by overhearing a conversation in a Northampton, Massachusetts shop.  I’m continually amazed at the marvels that exist so close to home and remain to be discovered even by those of us on the lookout for unique and engaging places.  So, if you want to experience heaven while still on this earth, you know where to go.

Rooftop Rhythms

Roofs are everywhere, though we hardly see them.  They’re over our heads, across the street and next door.  When walking or driving we pass galleries of them.  But relegated to the commonplace, necessary and functional they get barely a second glance.

I’m a roof watcher.  I’m forever looking up at their varied shapes, pitches, colors, textures and orientations to the street.  Although architectural praise is lavished on doorways, windows, porches, and wall surfaces, roofs are among the most significant elements in a structure’s appearance.  Perhaps we fail to notice because, except when buildings are terraced into a hillside, roofs rarely greet us at eye level.

Roofs express a range of intriguing geometries.  Most common is the classic triagularity of gable roofs.  Shed roofs are one side of a gable.  Flat roofs, including those with parapet walls rising above the roof deck, are typical of many commercial or industrial structures.  The gambrel style is emblematic of Dutch colonials.  In New England, the saltbox is a regional signature.  Hipped roofs, which slope to all sides, are among my favorites.  In an extreme type known as “mansard,” the lower slope of the roof bends to almost vertical and often contains windows.  A fashionable, French-based style in the late 1860s and early 1870s, it’s had a vernacular revival in today’s strip shopping centers.

Roof watching is best when encountering odd juxtapositions.  Some incongruities are intended by architects and builders, or they may develop as structures changes in time.  The most startling and interesting combinations are the unplanned coincidences created by the mere existence of buildings in proximity to each other.  Combinations are endless and depend not just on the structures themselves, but on the angle of view.  By moving even just a few steps, a roof watcher can create kaleidoscopic changes in what they see.

There is music, a rhythm to rooftops.  Tilt your head upward and let your eyes see the sounds.