Cool Universe

Take it Outside

Of walks past

Before I moved this summer, from a large house in the city, to a small one, my daily walking route was my neighborhood of nineteenth-century houses. My favorite part of the circuit was a little piece of the semi-wild, known as ‘the dingle.’ Geologically speaking, a dingle (or dell) is a narrow depression between two, steep hills, a gouge made by the passing of a glacier during the last ice age. I’d sometimes stand at its edge and try to imagine that ancient scenario, however, it was through a local history exhibit at city hall where I gleaned information more relevant and closer to our time.

Before houses were built here in the 1890s and early 1900s, the area was a recreational resource called Ingersoll Grove. City people, on their days off from work, came to take the waters (reputed to have restorative powers) and picnic under the trees. A yellowed postcard image of the spot showed a young woman in a long skirt sitting demurely in a row boat. The name “Ingersoll Grove” today belongs to a residential street. Its houses turn their backs on the dingle, all that remains of the site.  

Edged with an asphalt walkway, the dingle is surrounded on three sides by quiet streets. It’s far end is bordered by the railroad and in summer, you hardly notice the blue painted fuel tanks on the far side of the tracks. The brook, which a century ago could float a small boat, still flows through the center of the basin, but it is much altered. One end has become a small marsh where cattails grow. The stream itself is reduced to an eighteen-inch wide trickle that runs toward Gasoline Alley.

Even so, each time I entered the dingle, I was open to discovering something special, whether the sight of a flower in bloom, a chance encounter with wildlife, or something else entirely. One early summer the smell of broken greenery was so strong, it sent me back to 1960, when I was six and Hurricane Donna completely stripped our willow tree. The pile of fronds covering our driveway was as high as my waist, the scent of them imprinted itself on my brain. Down the walk, I discovered the source of the scent, a large tree that had fallen across the walk. It happened to be a willow. Like many of the trees in this spot, its roots were in the steep side of the hill. Once the tree had grown to a good size, it couldn’t keep a purchase in the soil and gravity had its way. The unfortunate willow was covered with young silver green leaves. As I climbed over it to continue on my way I felt melancholy.

Other days, besides noticing new fallen trees, I’d see the occasional rabbit or chipmunk. I’d thrill to burr of a red-bellied woodpecker, sometimes, I’d actually see one, or the less showy, hairy woodpecker. When rain swelled the wide end of the brook, it was not unusual to see a couple of mallard ducks in for a swim. Red-tailed hawks often landed in a tall pine tree. I’d often walk home with my head tilted upward watching pairs of the great birds soaring gracefully overhead.

Besides these everyday miracles, I’ve had absolutely unforgettable memories of this postage-stamp bit. One magical dusk, the dingle played host to a flock of small owls. They swooped into the low tree branches and (since I informed and hushed other walkers) they seemed content to allow we humans to peer at them in fascination. Thought I tried desperately to enough detail to identify them in the dying light, to this day, I can’t say who those mysterious owls were.

Another summer, my twelve-year-old son and I walked from home to the dingle in search of a spot to shield the artificial lights that interfered with our view of a meteor shower. In the dark, we made our way down to the water at the center where it was spanned by large, flat boulders placed as stepping stones. My son and I lay back on the rocks, head to head, looking skyward. Under the spell of the night we were silent, communing with the cosmos. Thus time passed, until the basso voice of a bullfrog boomed out from between the rocks, - mere inches from our ears! We rose into the air simultaneously, as if a thunder bolt had landed between us.

The only time I was ever disappointed in the dingle, it was the fault of less than sensitive humans who disturbed my brief visits. I believe the dingle itself, though reduced from its former natural glory, still possesses restorative powers.

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