Photos courtesy the author.
This story is part of our ongoing series From the Ground Up, a collaboration between Narratively and ScottsMiracle-Gro exploring the lives, memories, and connections rooted in the yards, fields, and green spaces we call home.
Midway through October, the trucks and the trailers begin to pull into Masconomo Park early in the week. Day by day the field transforms. Watchful little eyes track the unfolding of the Ferris wheel, the Scrambler, the carousel, the cotton candy stand. Harvest Fest has come to town.
We parents might drag our feet a bit at this weekend invasion; we might think of the fall chores left unattended at home; we might grumble at the cash-only treats and the grimy games and the quickly spent ticket sheets. After all, it’s not summer anymore. The school year is buzzing and the holidays are coming and everything’s in full gear. There’s a windy chill in the air. Who’s really looking for noisy thrills on this open weekend before the lead-up to Halloween?
But of course we show up anyway: we always knew we would, that there wasn’t any real choice to make. And because we do, we get to feast once again on the harvest fruits of our harborside community, a small town called Manchester-by-the-Sea on the North Shore of Massachusetts.
Our village park stands at the edge of the town center, bordered by water on three sides and anchored by a baseball diamond and field, a playground, and a white gazebo overlooking the harbor. During Harvest Fest, sputtering trucks clutter the field’s perimeter and obscure the usual view of the town docks and the marshy inlet where egrets perch at low tide. But to our kids, today the view from the park has never been better: rides, concessions, hay bales and friends in all directions.
The Harvest Fest’s appeal lies in its under-attended, off-season charm. If the fair came during the high days of summer, when streams of visitors trek past the park from the train station to the beach and back, the lines would be sweaty and the faces unknown. But it’s just us locals who have been pulled in for this one, and accordingly, the fair remains our own children’s romping ground.
The rides are running at a quarter capacity; there are no lines for even the most popular attractions. There’s no Disney polish and no claustrophobic rush. I settle in and tuck away my phone because there’s no need to coordinate plans. Everyone’s here already; there’s nowhere else to be. The community is cocooned today in our foliage-adorned park. My wound-up kids have become boomerangs, relishing ride-sized bites of freedom with peers then checking back in. I breathe in the sea-salt air and linger to chat with a neighbor, taking in the colorful canopy overhead and the happy shrieks of children all around as they zigzag across the shorn autumn field.
Even if I don’t have eyes on my own child, I can trust that someone I trust does. In turn, it’s second nature to look out for all the kids in my field of vision — for someone will inevitably lose their parent or their friend (or their lunch!) on a wild ride. The social compact is unspoken but binding. No one is anonymous in this shared space.
My daughter and her friend can manage their own treats this year; I stand back with her friend’s mom to look on. The children’s cheeks glow as they shake powdered sugar onto a heaped plate of fried dough and devour it together, framed by the blue harbor and the orange trees and the low sun gleaming gold behind them. It’s pure grace to be here, and we feel it in our bones today.
We head home with arms sore from lugging our little ones, fingers tingling from the autumn chill, heads spinning from whipping rides and fluorescent lights — and warmth kindled between us and in us.
They’ve dribbled ice cream on the war memorial statue; they’ve learned to climb trees by the marshy grass and pump on swings at the blue playground. They’ve grabbed Easter eggs in rainboots when the field is greening and puddling; they’ve jingled bells for Santa’s arrival by boat when the field is cold and crunchy and the gazebo glows with twinkly lights.
In this place that feels like an extension of home, our kids can test boundaries, take risks and deepen bonds — and so can we. I have huddled with fellow parents behind cloth masks here when the pandemic pushed playdates outdoors and shuttered most activities besides community soccer. The hunger to connect drove us together on the sidelines and fostered lasting solidarity as our growing kids peeled off to different corners of the park.
Over time, our kids have logged countless unfettered childhood hours here, thanks in large part to the countless hours that community members log to sustain the park’s vitality. Like backyard fairies quietly adding sparkle to a garden, volunteers work early and often to rearrange this park into everything from a playground to a stage, a sports arena, a meetinghouse and a festival.
Our village is full of people who are leaving it all on the field for the kids. This time it was the Booster Club running point; the fair is their mainstay fundraiser for student athletes. Other times it’s the Mother’s Club, the Parks and Rec department, the members of dozens of community groups and volunteer boards. It’s the deep bench of fellow parents, caregivers, coaches and educators who support our kids here. And it’s every encourager who shows up on the field, from the college students who stop to patronize lemonade stands on their way to the beach, to the elderly dog-walkers who stroll the park paths and cheer kids on as they run the bases.
We all reap the fruit. At Masconomo Park today, any reluctance disintegrates as other parents and I stand on the withering fall grass, strewn with ticketstubs and curling leaves and popcorn kernels, and watch our children growing up on this field. This park holds our shared labor and love for the children who scamper across it, growing all the time. Each time we show up here, the ground feels a little sturdier, strengthened by the memories and traditions we create and carry together.
