Keep Hart Park inviting and intact
Very recently many of us have been captive to Ken Burns' series of television documentaries featuring the history of our national parks. We have learned more than we could have imagined about the efforts of visionary and courageous American men and women to save many of our greatest natural assets for the appreciation and enjoyment of generations to come. Our passion for these priceless treasures is clear in the printed words of their proponents, and in poetic testimonials of people interviewed during visits there.
National parks are our most impressive treasures. But in many communities across this great and land-rich country, there are also natural jewels in the form of local parks. One of them is ours, here in Bakersfield. It is Hart Park.
Occasionally in the history of this public park, its values have been threatened by development proposals. So far, the concerted efforts of park lovers have been sufficient to keep the environment natural and, very importantly, free of charge to all visitors. Currently there are dialogues occurring between citizens and local officials in the interest of maintaining traditional park values. Possibilities for preservation of historic structures are also being explored.
My own history with Hart Park goes back to my childhood. Once the park's log cabin-style mill stood stout and working, a child's delight, its water wheel moved to churning by a fresh stream rich with tadpoles. On weekends a miniature train ran near the mill on narrow rails, its capped and jolly engineer blasting his horn, rousing cheers from little passengers and loud scolding from perennial peacocks whose descendents would also strut and fan.
In summer, a lake-sized swimming pool, filled with water from the river, challenged us as swimmers while our frightened mothers clung to the chain link fence and cried out warnings, never having heard of the pollutants that posed a greater threat.
Later, riding our horses, we descended the narrow canyon that opens to the park, and picnicked by the river before the long ride back with exhausted dogs across our saddles. Horizons were empty, but sure and inner impulses led us home, always just at the parental deadline set for sundown.
Returning after several years away from Bakersfield, I began to enjoy the park again, and with a German shepherd for assurance, I walked paths along the bountiful Kern, listening to a silence that invited birdsong and the river's sibilant murmur and swirl. In spring I climbed bordering slopes and walked through acres of wildflowers that covered gentle hills on the southern side, startling rabbits and rousing other tunnel-dwelling creatures.
Now, in my seventy-fifth year, I return to this place on autumn mornings, and find it only subtly changed. Descendent peacocks preen and gabble on the same lawn in front of the old ranger's house, and still roost on its gables. Great and venerable trees have years to go. The river murmurs its habitual song, its paths familiar and clear. Only the old mill is frail and falling, having lived its best time, as I have lived mine. Today I passed a little family at one of the tables, and noticed the baby's joy. They may have looked for peacock feathers to take home, as I once did. The park is theirs to love.
Ann Williams is a retired high school English teacher who volunteers for groups including Friends of the Library.
