Mellon Park

Pittsburgh Parks: Places of Peace

I had a teacher once who asked me to write about my favorite place–the catch was the place I described couldn’t be larger than 25 square feet. I couldn’t seem to choose the perfect place then. But four years later, I live in a different city, and I know my answer now: beneath this one big, leafy tree in Mellon Park. 

This past spring, I started venturing to the park nearly every day. To read, to write, to think. To people-watch. To get a break from assignments, or even to do them sometimes. I’d take a beach towel rolled up in my tote bag to spread over the grass on the sloping hill that constitutes Mellon Park. Hardly a ten-minute walk from my apartment, it was the nearest green space I could find. I’d watch the traffic on Fifth Avenue rumble by, the buses waiting at the school across the street, the silhouette of the church spire in the distance to the North. 

One evening, I stayed past sunset. I slipped off my shoes to rest my feet in the cool grass. The breeze started to chill as the sun approached the horizon, and I wrapped my sweater tighter around my shoulders. I thought about how I had just finished my second year of college. About how sometimes I missed who I used to be–where I used to be. 

I’d lived in Pittsburgh for two years, and sometimes the city felt just as foreign to me as it did on that first day I moved into my dorm at Pitt. I remember feeling such wonder and excitement then. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen buildings so tall, so impressive.

I grew up in a tiny rural farming town, or as I usually just refer to it: the country. Country like “population: 687 people” country. Country like “county fairs and cornfields and cows” country. Country like “high school milk-chugging contests” and “bring your tractor to school day” country. Country like “Trump flags on front porches” and “all white faces except one” country. 

Perhaps you can imagine why I wanted–desperately–to leave my hometown. To escape to a glittering city full of vitality and diversity and possibility. I wanted to be different, to be anything but stuck–suffocated. 

So, a college in the city was a no-brainer. I settled on Pittsburgh, albeit slightly disappointed it wasn’t bigger and farther away from little Spencer, Ohio. 

I didn’t know then Pittsburgh would become a place I resented. 

I’d lost track of time in these nostalgic ponderings. The sun was setting now, brilliantly orange and pink. But people in the park still remained: a young couple lying on top of one another in the grass nearby, one reading aloud–they just finished their takeout; a group of friends huddling cross-legged on a white sheet–a picnic, laughter; a middle-aged man throwing a blue ball and an orange ball for his dog rolling in the grass–one ball just wasn’t enough; a girl in a hammock reading a book, arms extended above her, swaying gently in the breeze. 

I was reluctant to leave the park and go home. Well, not capital H “Home.” But I didn’t know what to call it: my cozy college apartment in the suburbs of Shadyside, Pittsburgh. Home for now? Home away from home? Never really a home but a decent place to live for a few years? “Home” had always been a loaded word for me. But even if I couldn’t define it, I did have a place that felt like I thought home should feel: repose, comfort, belonging. Peace. That ever elusive contentment–the more I searched for it, the more I couldn’t seem to capture it. That’s what the 25 square feet beneath the tree at Mellon Park was to me. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I started to discover the downsides to my choice of new abode within my first semester of living here in Pittsburgh. I hated that I could never seem to find a truly quiet place to study. My ears seemed overly sensitive to the incessant hum of traffic and the wail of sirens. I’d always preferred rainy, gray days to bright, sunny ones, but there was something overbearing about the Pittsburgh Gray. When the snow fell in December and melted into piles of dirty slush, soaking my shoes as I walked to class, I felt lost in those ever-present dark clouds. 

In this new “home” that didn’t really feel like home, awe dissolved into ordinary. Thrilling newness became exhausting. I missed driving on country roads. I missed taking sunset walks, where the only signs of life to encounter were the wildflowers springing up defiantly in the ditch along the road. I missed ambling green corn stalks and sunlight shimmering on the lake by my house. I missed the nights of pure darkness, gazing up at stars pin pricking a velvet blanket of black. I missed trees. I missed the quiet. I was surrounded by life and movement constantly, but I’d never been lonelier. The city haunted me. How could I ever have left home? 

I felt this way for a long time. Still do, on occasion. But in parks, I found the closest thing to home–to peace living in Pittsburgh. 

For a while, I thought hating city living was all in my head. I just had to adapt, right? But plenty of research illustrates the negative impact living in an urban environment can have on a person’s physical, mental, and emotional health. In a city, you might have more opportunities for work and social connection. Schools, hospitals, businesses can thrive. (In my hometown, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a local store open past 7 p.m.). Public transportation, coffee shops within walking distance, and grocery stores closeby make life convenient. But the constant movement surrounding a person in a densely populated area causes stress–trivial frustrations like a lack of parking, small yards, and traffic. But also more serious complications like pollution, crime, and elevated costs of living. Life in a city is fast-paced and crowded. And it extends even beyond that. Cities present greater risk factors contributing to anxiety and depression. Despite being surrounded by so many people, social isolation isn’t uncommon–as I’ve experienced myself. 

But there are ways to protect your well-being living in a city, and experts often point to accessing green spaces. The Covid-19 pandemic enlightened many city residents to the impact of spending time in nature when they lost the ability to do so. Parks in urban areas where people can spend time in open spaces around trees and engaging in activities within nature have a myriad of benefits: reduced stress, boosted mood, and stronger attention spans for brain health and longevity. But what I see as the most essential benefit to spending time outdoors in green spaces: growth of empathy. What I’ve learned since endeavoring to understand the importance of urban parks boils down to the capability of parks to be community spaces and to foster connection. 

Before I discovered this research, I wondered if it was just me–a country girl out of her depth in the city. Why did I seek an escape in pockets of green across Pittsburgh? And was I the only one? In my quest to unearth why I felt so drawn to parks in Pittsburgh, I spoke with Susan Lucas, a Press Officer in the Pittsburgh Mayor’s Office. She told me about the work of the CitiParks department, the primary organization operating and managing the parks, to make Pittsburgh green spaces accessible and inclusive. 

In her own words, “Parks are for everyone. It is one of those places where all are welcome … It’s a place that I like to think brings communities together. You can meet neighbors you didn’t know you had. You can enjoy fresh air and outdoor space. You can get away from the daily grind of normal life. You can escape the hustle and bustle without leaving the city … [Pittsburgh’s] not that steel town anymore so being outdoors is a recreation opportunity, a relaxation opportunity, and an opportunity to connect with others around you.”

But what does this opportunity really look like for residents besides myself? How does the average Pittsburgher really feel about their parks? I talked with some other frequenters of Mellon Park to find out. I approached a couple doing work on their laptops on a picnic bench on a sunny Thursday morning. There, I met John Paul and Lauren, who told me they enjoy the “peaceful ambiance” they find in parks. 

“I’ve spent the last two years working in the Greensburg area, and it’s all cement, highways, and mini malls,” John Paul said. “So, to be able to come here, it’s awesome. Yeah, I love it.”

I also encountered an elderly woman named Ellen, walking her dog through the paths of Mellon Park. She told me that coming here during Covid kept her sane, and called the park “peaceful.” 

“It’s a great place to walk my dog, and other people are sitting at picnic benches sometimes with their dogs, and we all interact and that’s really wonderful,” Ellen said. 

I was surprised by Ellen’s statement–that she comes to the park to interact with others. 

But I found no one who better expressed the impact of parks on Pittsburghers and their ability to create empathy than Nancy Shaefer, a Park Ranger at Riverview Park in the North Side. After 8 years in the parks, there’s an idea that’s become central to her work and to her life: the value of empathy and human connection.

From what I gathered during our hour-long conversation, a typical day for Nancy looks something like this: She begins her morning with a stroll around the perimeter of Riverview Park. She walks in the grass along the paved circular drive, trekking upwards. As she draws nearer, the observatory crowning the top of the hill grows taller, its rounded dome top towering high. She pants lightly with the effort of the climb, her blood flowing steadily as her body warms up. 

Walking leisurely in the opposite direction is an older Black man she recognizes immediately and greets warmly. Her voice is gravelly but unmistakably friendly. The air is brisk and refreshing, lingering with the scent of fresh-cut grass. A few dirt paths fork off towards the edges of her trajectory, leading downhill, but she doesn’t traverse them yet. 

There are a handful of cars at the park so far, their occupants occasionally visible strolling in the grass. Nancy’s eyes flicker to the fenced in dog park area: a small, shabby square enclosed by chain link fencing. The gate is ajar, and she closes it. 

Continuing her patrol of the perimeter, Nancy passes a 30-something couple pushing a stroller. She smiles at them and they smile back. Before long, the top of the hill begins to round out on the opposite side of the observatory, and Nancy’s strides lengthen as she walks downhill. 

At the bottom, a mother pushes a little girl on the swing set, a yellow-lab off-leash nearby. Nancy searches for the woman’s eye and lifts a hand in greeting. Clad in tan khaki, she knows the woman recognizes her as a park ranger. 

“Good morning,” she calls out cheerily. 

“Good morning.” The woman nods back. 

“Hey, I’m Nancy. Nice to see you’re enjoying the park.”

“Thanks,” the woman says, a smile easing onto her face. 

“Would you mind just putting a leash on your dog here? She’s beautiful, and I love dogs. But we do ask that dogs are kept on a leash inside the playground.”

“Oh, sure. I’m sorry.”

“No trouble at all,” Nancy says. “Have a great day. Enjoy!” She retreats from the playground, noticing with a quick glance behind her that the woman has secured a leash around the dog’s collar. 

Her tour of the perimeter complete, Nancy steps through the entrance to the visitor’s center. It’s a small cabin, cold in the wintertime and humid in the summer even with the windows thrown open, but she has her own office space. A revolving chair at a table littered with loose leaf paper, handfuls of collected rocks, and extra pamphlets advertising park programs commands the majority of the room. On another smaller wooden table lies plastic water bottles, shiny medallions leftover from an art project, and sharp tools for cutting trees. Along the walls are framed nature paintings and a mounted deer head.

Nancy swipes her finger along the bookshelf behind the table. I’ve definitely gotta dust today, she thinks, and her mind continues to run through a checklist of tasks for the morning. She recalls a section of a particular winding dirt path in need of some brush clearing, the hiking group arriving at 11am, the ever-present litter on the hillside. 

She pauses just for a moment before gathering her tools and stepping back out into the expanse of the park. She is ready to get to work. 

As someone who facilitates the management and maintenance of Pittsburgh parks, Nancy had significant insight on why Pittsburgh parks matter. “To me, it’s a chance to educate people,” she said. “Rarely do people come to the park with some malicious intent–they do bring their troubles and their problems; the world is on their shoulders. So they can be angry, they can be troubled. But trying to make sure you’re tapping into people’s intent that they’re here to unload, to chill, to meet friends, to recreate–it’s just really, I think, important to approach people from that perspective.” 

Nancy’s job is to be readily available to the community, responding effectively to public safety needs that arise, but also creating events like group hikes, bird watching, children’s crafts, and informational tabling. But in practice, it’s her job to provide for the public and create a space where connection can happen. 

Just in the course of our conversation, I noticed Nancy glancing out the window often. She seemed to be itching to get back in the park. (I could relate to the feeling). It seemed to be an essential part of her life, Riverview Park. More than just a job. 

She even pointed out a few familiar faces that walked by outside the visitor’s center where we sat. She told me about the “oldsters,” walking their dogs or walking into the visitor’s cabin to chat with her. “Every single day,” she laughed. “Some come in here and have therapy. I feel like putting up a little sign ‘five cents to talk to the doctor.’”

She told me about two Black gentlemen, a father and son, who routinely visit the park after dark. They sit at the top of the hill in chairs every night, drinking and smoking. She described the pair as a “safety committee,” “park guardians” warding off anybody intent on harm. Not exactly the good samaritans one might expect, but Nancy assured me of their effectiveness. 

“They’re not scary looking, but they can be when they choose to,” she said, laughing. “So they feel very happy about the role they play.”

It was through experiences like these, the social parts of her job, Nancy shared, that she realized the impact parks have on people. 

“You really get to understand how important parks are,” she said. “In the city, where there’s so much going on and there’s so much stress and pressure–to have these spaces where people can go and just really chill out and relax as they like to do is just so important.” 

Nancy repeatedly used the phrase “the common space” to describe parks. “It’s one of the few places in our culture where we come together,” she said. “It’s the common space, where everyone is welcome. I feel super privileged to be able to guide that.” 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After that first day I discovered Mellon Park last spring, I needed more. More green at Frick Park. More fun activities at Schenley. More gently sloping hills and forest paths at Hartwood Acres. More spots to people-watch at Point State. More quiet and distance from the city at Riverview. 

Each of these parks had something different to offer, but they all provided me respite from the city. I found solace in an ecosystem of green spaces webbed within towers of concrete and networks of asphalt. I found reprieve from the exhaustion of living in a place of such unceasing sound and movement. I found quiet and peace and connection to something much larger than myself. And I continue to find this each time I visit a Pittsburgh park. 

Even more importantly, by connecting with others in these places, I realized I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. I realized that parks bring out optimism and good in people–that everyone needs moments of quiet, of peace among the grass and trees.