Entry 6: The Brady of Brady's Run

Thursday, March 16, 2017
Temperature: 32 degrees
Skies partly cloudy.

It's been nearly two months since I started writing about Brady's Run Park. I decide today it's time to learn who this "Brady" actually was. On my way to the park center, I pass the man made lake. Patches of the water is iced over, frozen in place. Near the lake shore, the water ripples in mesmerizing patterns. It's odd to see the moving water lap against the frozen sheets, almost green against the white ice.

I enter the park center, a building that is home to an ice skating rink, walking track, and tennis courts. Hidden beside vending machines for every food and beverage imaginable, I find a bulletin board that answers my question: Who Was Brady?

Captain Samuel Brady lived from 1756 to 1795 and spent much of his life as a frontier scout in Western Pennsylvania and Northeastern Ohio. He fought in the Revolutionary War and served in the Continental Army. Brady was also a "vengeful Indian fighter."

I pause as I read this sentence. Vengeful is not a word one usually encounters at a local park.

Brady adopted this role as "vengeful Indian fighter" following the deaths of his brother and father in skirmishes with the Munsee and Seneca people. He was well known for his violent raids on the local Native Americans.

The bulletin board also mentions all of the other places in Western Pennsylvania and Northeastern Ohio that bear his name: East Brady, PA, Brady's Bend in Armstrong County (where Samuel Brady killed Chief Bald Eagle of the Munsee) and Brady's Leap in Kent, Ohio (where he jumped across the Cuyahoga River in order to escape his Native American captors).

I stare at the drawing of the man this park is named after. I wonder why anyone would name a place after a man who's major accomplishment was "vengeful Indian killer." It's strange thinking about his violent history at a park, a place that to me represents safety. A park is set aside to protect and conserve nature, it provides a safe place for children to play, and people to walk and run. But throughout history, how many people have died in these woods? How many have drowned in this river? How many many men, women, and children died by Brady's hand or his order?

The history of this park swirls in my head as I return to my car. The gray clouds seem darker, the iced over lake is harsh and unforgiving, the crows perched in the path ahead of me seem like an omen.

Entry 5: Maple Syrup Blood Bank

Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Temperature: 59 degrees
Cloudy skies.

I remember the old saying for March: "in like a lion, out like a lamb." I wonder if today is more lion or lamb? The temperature alone is deceiving. It stormed this morning and if the weather forecast is to be trusted, it will storm again soon. The wind is fierce as it beats against my face and knocks branches from trees. Twigs crash around my feet, sending debris in my eyes and nose. I start to wonder if maybe a walk in the woods today was not such a good idea.

I press on, turning round a bend in the trail when I reach an unexpected sight. Before me, trees are connected by yards and yards of blue, phosphorescent rope. It's like a giant, radioactive spider spun its web in this place. The blue rope is such a jarring contrast to the naked brown trees.

What happened here?

I approach one of the trees and examine it closely. The blue material I originally mistook as rope is actually some sort of tube, about the diameter of my thumb. The bark is punctured in a couple of places and blue piping emerges from the tree like alien limbs. Memories of Little House in the Big Woods suddenly rush back to me. Could these trees be sugar maples? Is the piping a tap?

I look again at the scene before me and realize it looks less like a radioactive spider web and more like a blood bank.

I follow the taps down the trail. The pipes connect and consolidate to form a larger tube that stretches down the hill and into a giant barrel- like the ones people use to collect rain water. This must be were the collected sap gathers.

Smoke rises above the trees, adding more gray to the already cloudy sky. I suspect the smoke has something to do with the sugar maple trees and follow it to its source. A moss covered brown building stands in the distance. It looks like a house though it has no windows and smoke pours from its three chimneys. I draw closer. On the door is a sign that says "Sugar Shack." This must be the place where the collected sap goes to be cooked down into the sugary syrup. Another sign stands by the door advertising the "Beaver County Maple Syrup Festival!"

I recall again the experiences of Laura Ingalls Wilder and compare it to this strange industrialized production of maple syrup. But how else is enough sap gathered to fill grocery stores with maple syrup? How else do the people of Bradys Run gather enough sap to host an entire festival? Is one way better than another? I'm not sure. I think on my strange "behind the scenes" experience with the sugar maples and decide to remember it when I next make pancakes.