Stephen Mather of Darien

In July I paid a visit to Darien’s historic Mather Homestead on Brookside Road. Built in 1778, the history of the Mather Homestead resembles that of Sylvester Manor; it was privately held in the same family over the span of several centuries before being incorporated as a historical nonprofit and opened to the public in recent years (2017, to be precise).

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Front of the original 1778 structure.

The stories of many New England towns are animated by a narrative arc that stretches to the origins of the American republic, and Deacon Joseph Mather, the original proprietor of the homestead, features prominently in Darien’s own foundational mythos. Joseph’s father, the Reverend Moses Mather, is related to Increase Mather (of Salem Witch Trial infamy) by way of Increase’s brother, Timothy. The Yale-educated Moses arrived in Darien, then known as Middlesex Parish, in 1740 at the age of twenty-five in order to take up his post as the town’s first Congregational minister. Moses was staunchly anti-Anglican, and during the Revolutionary War he cultivated a reputation as one the most fiery Patriots in the Stamford-Middlesex area. On two occasions, he and his sons were captured by Loyalists from Long Island and imprisoned in New York City. In a separate raid that took place in March of 1781, Tories stormed Joseph Mather’s home while only his  wife, Sarah, was present, and confiscated valuables that were hidden by friends in the family’s well.

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The well where Patriot friends of the Mathers hid valuables like silver and clothing, hoping that the homestead’s relative distance from Long Island Sound would keep the items safe from raids.

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This Depression-era WPA mural in Darien Town Hall depicts the July 1781 Tory raid on the Middlesex church and meetinghouse during an afternoon service presided over by Moses Mather.

Joseph Mather’s property on Brookside Road was occupied by his unmarried daughters until the death of Rana Mather in 1880 at the age of 96. Thereafter, the homestead functioned primarily as a summer residence for the family of Joseph Wakeman Mather (grandson of the elder Joseph), a San Francisco businessman who eventually relocated to Brooklyn. Joseph’s son, Stephen Tyng, became the first director of the National Park Service in 1917. Despite Stephen’s early years and college studies in California, plus a career path that took him to Chicago and Washington, D.C., he considered the house on Brookside Road to be his permanent home. In fact, Stephen was the sole inheritor of the Mather Homestead in 1906, and continued to use it as a summer retreat until his death in 1930.

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Stephen Tyng Mather

I wonder about what impact the setting of southwestern Connecticut had on Stephen Mather. In The Last Undiscovered Place, David K. Leff reflects that Connecticut’s lack of open horizons or sweeping mountain vistas allows for a more nuanced appreciation of the beauty and underlying processes that animate the other-than-human realm, and Stephen seems to have cultivated this appreciation. Mather was instrumental in persuading Congress to expand the park system beyond the dramatic scenery of the West, and by the end of his tenure at the the Department of the Interior, Mount Desert Island, the Shenandoah Valley, and the Great Smoky Mountains were encompassed by national parks.

Stephen Mather would not be the first influential figure in American conservation/environmental thought to carry into adulthood the imprint of a youth rooted in the Constitution State. Frederick Law Olmsted, the famed designer of New York’s Central Park, grew up in Hartford County, and he attributed his vision as a landscape architect to the complementary patterning of the built human world and natural scenery that characterized his birth state. Henry Chandler Cowles, a botanist who pioneered the study of ecological succession, grew up exploring the countryside around the town of Berlin, where he first appreciated the reality that the landscaped is an ever-changing mosaic.

I’ve written repeatedly in previous essays about unearthing sights of natural wonder and  gems of discovery hidden in the overlooked corners of Darien. Using his position of power in Washington, Stephen Mather seems to have instilled that expanded definition of natural wonder in the broader American consciousness via the National Park Service, while Olmsted achieved similar ends by offering a green respite in the middle of Manhattan. Our foundational mythos does not have to rest solely on the pomp and patriotism of exploration across oceans or a war for independence. When we tell ourselves stories of origin and identity, I think all cultures operating in the industrial, hyper-connected world would do well to acknowledge the quiet, humble workings of the land we inhabit.

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Waterfall in Ledge Park, Darien

8:39 to Grand Central

Several days ago I took the train to Manhattan for one of my Avastin infusions at NYU-Langone, and thus joined the roughly 300,000 commuters who rely on Metro North Railroad on a daily basis.

Let me begin by saying that I like riding Metro North. Whether it be Amtrak or commuter rail, I enjoy the rhythm, the feel – the atmosphere – of trains, and believe railroad travel offers the most logical means of transporting large numbers of people between population centers. Yes, passenger railroads in this country has become more than antiquated, especially in the Northeast, and trains are occasionally delayed or cancelled altogether. But nearly two decades of never-ending military campaigns in the Middle East plus a distinctly American aversion to reasonable tax policy and infrastructure spending means that our roads aren’t in much better shape. And whereas one can read a book, pull out a laptop, or take a nap before the local service arrives, there’s not much you can do when stuck in rush hour traffic except wait for the cars ahead of you to ease up on the brake pedal. If you happen to ride Metro North into Manhattan, there’s also the added bonus of rounding out your morning commute at the unequivocally grand Grand Central Terminal.

On this most recent trip into the city, however, I found myself thinking about the unquestioned modes of living that undergird our modern commutes in all their forms, and how radically novel the idea of the commute is. The rhythms of our days are shaped according to necessity, and for the vast majority of human history the biological imperatives of energy conservation have bound our days within an overland radius that rarely exceeded ten or twenty miles. Yet this physical limitation of a day’s or week’s tasks cultivated an exceptional depth of knowledge of one’s immediate surroundings. The Tri-State area’s Lenape and Quinnipiac inhabitants knew just which springs yielded the sweetest water, which valley’s soils were best suited for maize and tobacco planting, and which coves were populated by reliable shellfish beds. They had to possess this knowledge in order to make a living with what was available.

Life today in the New York greater metropolitan area are governed by an entirely different suite of imperatives. Will traffic be heavier on the Merritt Parkway or I-95? Tomorrow will be rainy; should we take the kids to the aquarium instead of the zoo? Many people, my parents included, end up in Darien because they’ve pondered the long term: which suburb has the best schools? Will my home be worth more after I’ve paid off the mortgage? These are the sorts of questions that the Industrial Revolution and the combustion engine have made possible. The automobile, expressway, railroad, and airport means we can work and live wherever we choose, regardless of the logic of the landscape, and count on civil engineers to smooth out any wrinkles. Destructive storm surges? Higher sea walls should do the trick. Chronic drought? Start digging those aqueducts.

Being a relatively old city that predates interstate highways and mass landscape modification, New York and its periphery aren’t saddled with quite as many design follies as America’s newer megalopolises. It isn’t sinking like Miami and Houston, or desiccated like Phoenix and LA. Instead, New York owes it’s status as a global financial capital to it’s natural deep water harbor, a fact of the terrain that immediately caught the attention of the commercially-minded Henry Hudson, who sailed through the Verrazano Narrows under the flag of the Dutch Republic in 1609. But, of course, Europe’s Age of Exploration was a commercial endeavor. The Dutch and English, followed by the American Republic, transformed New York Harbor into a nerve center of Atlantic shipping, and the rest is history. So the reality remains that New York sits at the helm of corporate globalization, and the increasingly financialized nature of the world economy means that the five boroughs and their outlying suburbs have become even more untethered from biophysical reality.

When I’m waiting at Noroton Heights Station, the closer of Darien’s two Metro North stations to my home, it’s not uncommon for me to cross paths with a smartly dressed former high school classmate of mine. We’ll catch up on what we’re up to, and my classmate will invariably tell me he or she has an internship/job at a financial firm, or a marketing firm, or consulting firm. I never remember the specifics names, and I sometimes perform a mental eye-roll at the cliché. (“You grew up in Darien and work in finance? How unique!”) But I know my snark isn’t justified. My classmates are only making a living with what is available, and in 2018 in Fairfield County there is no shortage of jobs related to servicing the corporate world’s finances (My classmates are also working at least. I’m still a student.)

So it is that on this most recent commute in and out of the city, I found myself looking out the window and wondering how many of Westchester and Fairfield County’s 1.9 million residents really know this place when we see most of it while in transit, when the necessities of our days orbit around Manhattan instead of the nearest springs and shellfish bed. Sure, I fancy myself a pedestrian naturalist, and I can point out the sugar maples and shagbark hickories leaning over the railroad tracks. But can I tell you off the top of my head how all of those trees are pollinated? Er, no. What about the sexual habits of the eels who used to surge up Connecticut’s tidal rivers every spring? Ditto. I don’t have much on my fellow commuters in terms of deep ecological knowledge.

Readers of Thoreau, that Yankee contrarian who insisted that “the swiftest traveller is he that goes afoot,” and that “We do not ride on the railroad, it rides upon us,” will be more than familiar with my musings. Almost every American environmental thinker since the Transcendentalists has decried an estrangement from the landscape wrought by our fixation on profit. But what of it? Should I refuse my Avastin treatments and instead wade through the salt marshes of Long Island Sound while schwann cells multiply unchecked throughout my body? Should my high school friends ditch their suits and take up ornithology? Or maybe we in the West should cut to the chase and flagellate ourselves for the original sin of the steam engine? Human life, like ecology, is complex, and the responsibilities that give shape to personal habits and decisions span our families, our communities, our culture, and even history itself. Such a web of connections cannot be dismantled in a day.

So the question remains: if we are committed to reversing our dislocation from the land, what to do when faced with the rigid scaffolding of the status quo? In “Homebound, Once More,” I recount the richness that has been added to my life by exploring the cracks and interrogating the commonplace of Darien, and here I’d like to suggest that such a practice of probing the contours of one’s own locale is a first step towards bridging the divide between our lives and the physical places where we live. Anyone can do this. You don’t need to claim Native American ancestry or live sixty miles from the nearest post office to forge a deep connection with stone and water. Learn to identify the shrubs growing in the abandoned lot down the road. Spread out a blanket at the nearest park and observe the birds, insects, and people coming to life on a sunny day. Or marvel at the way the roots of a mature oak will chew up and mangle a neglected stretch of sidewalk. If Sylvester Manor on Shelter Island teaches us about righting the injustices of history, and the Mohawk people of St. Lawrence Valley offer a model for commitment to a single landscape through centuries of dispossession, then a study of Darien suggests that a re-enchantment with the wider world is possible in the most unassuming of places. Thoreau famously found spiritual correspondence in the thawing sand of a railroad embankment, and we can do the same if we look hard enough.

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Tilly Pond Park with the Darien train station in the background.