Immigrants to the Park

Walked around the lake at Minnewaska this morning.  Clouds covered the Gunks.  I sped up trying to catch my father and stepmother in their car.  My father was concerned that we get there as early as possible, before the crowds.  The last time we’d tried the road to the parking up at the lake was closed.  This is, one of the major sites of the region and for some reason, even though I lived not far from here as a teen, I’ve never seen it. 

 

I have WQXR on and there is a piano sonata on that sounds Chopin.  The unfathomable autumn canopy pulsates with the angular flourishes that always seem to return to something safe.  The DJ, I suppose one ought to call him the “host” as its WQXR, has an understated mastery of the material, and a rich vocabulary he uses judiciously and I’m enjoying his company.  Then he plays something by Jacques Offenbach, which I try to enjoy but don’t.   I’m distracted from the canopy.  I turn the dial to WFMU but there is no reception.  I slow the car now, as I’ve come up against a car followed by another who is obeying the speed limit. 

I rendezvous with my folks and we go into the slick new welcome center over the lake.  It no doubt commands remarkable views, standing on the site of the old enormous guest schloss that used to stand here, but there is nothing but fog outside.  We all need to pee.  And there is a very earnest and intelligent young man behind the counter who suggests a walk up to Beacon Point, which most people overlook.  There is a pamphlet there on the counter describing the great danger of East Asian immigrants to the park.  The Hemlock Woolly Adelgid who hails from the Far East, sucks on the sap of the stately hemlocks in the park and kills them in the process.  Is that the same hemlock juice that took-out Socrates?

The lake itself is covered in mist.  It’s perfect.  I keep thinking of Schloss Fuschl, near Salzburg where we splurged and took the kids one evening during our drive across Austria.  I explain to my stepmom as we plotz around carriage road, catching glimpses of the water beneath the swirls, that my older one in particular had been so enchanted with the place.  “I think this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”  I seem to remember her saying, dryly. And I’m thinking about all the New Yorkers from the turn of the century or the nineteen twenties who would have made the trek up here to escape the loud, dirty city, to reconnect with something almost European. And we all agree that we're very glad this wasn't turned into a Marriott property the way Schloss Fuschl was, as the hotel chain was reportedly interested in procuring this pristine site.  I’m fixated on all the lovely striped maples I see up here, the big leaves of which have all turned yellow. 

Friday, 10/23/20