Ben Bull –
When I asked the wifey if there was anything she wanted to do on the weekend, she said, “Why don’t we go to the new park?”
“A new park? Are you sure?”
The new plaza, according to my wife, who is reading from her phone, is called, Biidaasige Park.
“Tomorrow is opening weekend.”
The next day we head over. As we turn onto Cherry Street, a funny thing happens: everything clicks.
There’s a separate sidewalk, wide enough for two people to pass unimpeded in both directions, and a segregated bike lane. And only a single lane of motor traffic both ways. There’s even a dedicated bridge for transit (coming soon!).
And we haven’t even reached the park.
As we approach the intersection at Cherry and Commissioners Street, we notice people strolling across the road purposefully – like they have somewhere they really want to go. Kids are slurping on lollipops, cyclists are slowing down.
I scratch my head. Something weird is going on here …
We hear a faint drumming in the distance. Someone is screeching on a loudspeaker and there are the unmistakable shrill sounds of children at play.
We reach the park and dive headfirst into the melee.
There’s an art event at the entrance. Rows of kids are seated at a long table making masks and other assorted arts and crafts. Their little brows are furrowed and they are making remarkably little noise.
We follow the winding paths with their new gravel smell alongside the newly dug canals.
A scraggly-looking bloke in a Dirty Dancing t-shirt and a tie-dye bandana is paddling beside us. We look the other way until we reach the kiddie park by the Old Fire Hall on Commissioners Street.
Wow. It’s not often you see something so unique and inspired that it takes you a while to put all the pieces together.
There’s a massive wooden owl, which ought to be a token art piece thrown in to help us absorb another mind-numbing concrete plaza, but this is something different. Kids are running in and out of the structure. The owl is facing a First Nations-inspired sand box, tiered with rocks and teeming with kids.
The park has a hand-operated water pump, which the little tykes are working feverishly up and down. The water splashes onto the rocks and puddles at the bottom, where a cave-child sits, caked in sand mud, making sand pies.
I look around for the parent, but they have evidently jumped into the canal or been hauled away by child services.
We take a right turn and head over the bridge. The other side is a bit of a work in progress, but it’s a pleasant stroll all the same.
There are little sidewalk shenanigans as we weave our way back around, with bikes and pedestrians vying for supremacy on the newly minted paths. Is it a bike path or a sidewalk?
Let’s hope the park people don’t opt for signage to settle this dispute. The only way to keep cyclists out is to actually keep them out. A metal barrier at the entrance should do the trick, along with a few patches of lumpy gravel.
Winding back around, we watch the drum circle and order some churros from the food truck.
I look around. This doesn’t feel like token First Nation-ism. This is no, “let’s name a park by committee and hope everybody feels included.” This feels like a meaningful interpretation of identity.
The park flows. It winds, it weaves and it leads you to some actual places. There’s a picnic spot under the bridge over there, a place to put your kayak in here. There’s even a zip line for your kids.
It’s not often we are awe inspired by something new in this city – but when it happens it is a very nice surprise.
