The climbing tree
Happy 201st birthday, Frederick Law Olmsted.
Frederick Law Olmsted was the landscape architect who designed Riverside. In honor of his 201st birthday today I’m sharing an essay that was first published on Olmsted 200.
The elm tree was a pirate ship. Sometimes it was a castle. After school, I tossed my backpack by its trunk and clambered up its leafy branches.
When darkness and mosquitos began to interrupt my play, I returned to the ominous-looking Victorian house across the street. It was in such a state of disrepair that neighborhood kids called it haunted. I called it home.
The elm tree was in the Akenside/Michaux Pocket Park, a tiny triangle of green space in Riverside, Ill. Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, founders of American landscape architecture, were commissioned to design the village plan in 1868.
Riverside’s defining characteristics include abundant greenery across its two square miles, gas streetlights that dot its winding streets, and historically significant homes with sprawling lawns. The entire village is a National Historic Landmark. I grew up here climbing trees.
Frederick Law Olmsted transformed swampy, unattractive swaths of land into beloved green spaces that were free and open to all. His first effort as chief architect for Manhattan’s Central Park was such a success that he went on to reshape America’s landscape. Though his partner Vaux was a talented draftsman and architect, Olmsted quickly surpassed him in notoriety. Olmsted designed hundreds of city parks, campuses, hospital grounds, cemeteries, and more.
My dad revered Olmsted’s ability to transform outdoor spaces into living art. Dad also had an artistic vision. On the first page of a notebook where Dad documented his house projects, he wrote:
A man who works with his hands is a laborer.
A man who works with his hands and head is a craftsman.
A man who works with his hands, head, and heart is an artist.
— Unattributed inscription in my father’s restoration notebook
Built in 1871, our Second Empire Victorian was one the village’s first houses. Dad envisioned making it the gem of Riverside once again. In his mind, our house would be a work of art that blended seamlessly with Olmsted’s landscape around it.
That is, if Dad could ever finish the project.
Dad installed three antique streetlights on our property, the same that dot Riverside’s streets. He selected earthy paint colors like Summerdale Gold and Country Redwood from a Victorian color palette, meant to be harmonious with nature.
Unhappy with the concrete driveway that ran in a straight line front-to-back, Dad dug all 100 feet of it up. Old photos showed a carriage drive that sloped around the side. Dad dug down to find the original carriage drive to reinstate its curve. Olmsted — whose landscape designs eschewed straight lines — would have approved.
It could be a coincidence that Olmsted had once undertaken a similar project at his Staten Island Farmhouse, where he first began experimenting with landscaping.
Olmsted began making improvements to the layout of Tosomock Farm. He moved a barn to a new spot behind a knoll, thereby improving the view. He changed the carriage driveway so that it better conformed to his land’s topography, approaching the farmhouse in a gentle sweep.
— Justin Martin, Genius of Place: The Life of Frederick Law Olmsted
Dad always had so many projects going at once. Summers were a flurry of activity, when my parents took vacation from their day jobs to work on the house.
Left to entertain myself, I climbed the elm tree in the little park across the street. My favorite solo game was lost explorer. From my tree-top perch, I’d form my hands into the shape of an imaginary telescope and squint, peering for signs of civilization in the distance.
On the hottest days, I’d mosey along the winding Riverside streets to the air-conditioned public library. The half-mile journey should not have taken more than ten minutes. It took me an hour or more. There were so many four-leaf clovers to hunt, so many flowers to inspect, so many cavernous nooks in bushes to explore.
As a nine-year-old, I was experiencing Olmsted’s design exactly how he intended. I had nowhere to be and nothing to do except get lost in my own play.
Olmsted’s 199th birthday in 2021 kicked off a series of events to celebrate his legacy. If the programming doesn’t include the tiny triangle-shaped park where I spent my summers, I might host a solitary celebration of my own.
I’ll pack a book and drive to where Akenside and Michaux Roads intersect. The elm tree with the sturdy climbing branches is gone, likely a victim of Dutch elm disease. A younger hackberry tree stands in its place. I’ll toss my backpack by the trunk and lean against it. I’ll open my book.
While others celebrate Frederick Law Olmsted’s better-known city parks and large-scale landscapes, I’ll sit in one little garden park underneath one tranquil tree, content.
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It’s so incredibly special that such a huge part of your world is carved from Olmsted, his original plans and ideas (and your dad--that is so cool about the driveway!). I want to write down that quote from Olmsted -- what a dreamy world that sounds like!