The Village Green in Woodstock, New York

The Village Green in Woodstock, New York

     A few years back, people got upset about the maintenance of the grass on the Woodstock Village Green. Committees were formed, plans were submitted, and action was taken.  They paved the whole thing over with nice pieces of flat bluestone.  It is a lively installation, an engineering feat of circles and squares and intermittent lovely floral plantings.  This seems to have solved the mud problem caused by trudging feet, and created a good place for human activity. 

     I am not against activity, and I am not against solving problems with committees.  I am not going to argue a case for or against space for homegrown protests, teenage gatherings, music and drumming.  I just want to state definitely that I miss green. It used to look like this:

     When I was growing up here in the 1950's and 60's, people were not allowed to walk on the grass of the Village Green.  We could sit on the benches, but not on the war memorial. Once upon a time, the only occasion when people gathered in a group on the Village Green was at Christmas for a candlelight community sing.  Snow covered the green grass, but it was always there ready to peek up again in the spring.  On Memorial Day, the green of the grass would be the witness as the community parade stopped and paid respect to the names listed on the war memorial.  The flag that stood at half-staff would be raised slowly.  People did not stand on the grass.  All summer, the Village Green would, for me, represent the green perfection we could never achieve at home considering the rocky nature of the soil and our disinclination to mow. 

          Times changed. People started to question authority about everything, so standing on the grass and grinding it down to mud made sense.  The vetrans took away the war memorial plaque and set it on a flagpole in the graveyard. Green was banished in favor of the gray of stone. Stone is secure and reliable. It is hard to kill. It is ancient and somewhat sad, but I won’t deny that it is useful.  Humans have used rocks for millions of years as basic infrastructure and for monuments.  However, with the passage of time, stone can become dusty, and it can fracture.  Stone does not replace itself easily.

Stone can’t be substituted for grass without creating a sea change.  Green grass is sweet to the senses.  It has a silent strength, and it is sparkly when wet with rain.  I have heard it said that all greens go together; dark green leaves go with light green moss, lime green goes with olive drab.  Green appears youthful and healthy. 

            As I drive by the center of town, I give the now buried Village Green a quick glance.  In the summer, it is always a busy place. Everyone looks happy walking on the stones, but I still miss green.  Perhaps, the Village Green is going through a very long winter. The strange thing about living most of your life in your hometown is that everything is a potential re-visit.  There is no end to “I remember when’s”.

A Winter Night

Mark usually spent the afternoon in the library then caught a ride home with me when I finished work at six.  He lived about a block away just off the Woodstock Village Green.  That night, it was snowing, so I drove slowly down the unplowed main street. Streetlights and the reflective quality of the snow made the Village Green area look bright.  Very few people were about, and a peculiar quiet had settled in. There was no wind.  The snow just fell in huge fluffy flakes. I parked the car across from the green. 

          Mark said, “Look at that fellow, on the bench”.  

I looked at the snow-covered man sitting quietly on the bench and said, “I’ve seen him in the library--a new guy. He must be freezing”.

          “Yes, yes, I know him.   We have argued because he looks in the same trashcans I do to find food.  I have my territory.  Everyone likes the cans near the pizza place, so we all look there”.

          I said, “It’s dangerous. You could get sick”.

          Mark replied, “I am careful.  I can tell when food is bad”.

          I dropped the subject because an argument about food would cause Mark to close down.   I regarded the man on the bench.  He was not brushing the snow away.  He was just sitting facing the street. He looked large, but maybe he was wearing many layers of clothes.

The car heater was blowing cold air, so I turned off the fan and said

 “ Go see if he is still breathing”.

          “He may know a way to generate heat from within,” Mark said.  Then, for a moment, he was silent as he rooted around in the pockets of his jacket.  He was dressed in the same layers he had worn all winter.  Mark’s water pipes were frozen, so he did not wash.  His unruly gray and black hair was tucked into a dark woolen cap. I thought of the old tale of country people who sewed themselves into their long underwear in December and didn’t change until April. 

Many assumed from appearances that Mark was just a crazy street-person. I knew, though, that Mark had grown up in Chicago, had a law degree from Northwestern and had traveled extensively.  However, in my opinion, he was unprepared for his present life. I taught him how to fortify the foundation of his house for the winter and mend the floor where the raccoons came in at night, but plumbing and heat were way beyond my abilities and dumpster diving was beyond my ken. Mark’s landlord never fixed anything.

          “Do you think we should get him some coffee or something?” I asked.

          Mark ignored my question and continued to look in his pocket until he found a small round stone.  “Do you have a pen?”

          I handed him the black marker I kept in the car.  Mark, a practicing Buddhist, wrote his mantra, OM MANI PADME HUM, on the stone in Tibetan letters, opened the door, crossed the street and went to the snow covered man on the bench. He gave the sitting man the stone.  I could see them converse. The man smiled, accepted the stone and tucked it into his clothing.  After a minute, Mark got back in the car.

          “I feel like I should do something,” I said. “ It’s just too weird. The snow is slowly burying him alive”.

          “He says he is fine. The police will come by from time to time to bring him coffee”.

          “His face is still showing, but, other than that, he and the bench could be one big snowdrift”, I said.

          Without replying, Mark got out of the car, closed the door, and, as was his habit, he tapped twice on the car roof. While walking towards his house he turned back for a moment and gave the thumbs up sign.  I waved, turned up the heat that was, at last, filling the car and started for home.