The secret garden in Stamford’s downtown
It’s hard to resist pulling metaphors from a garden, where they sprout like weeds (“bad seed,” “late bloomer,” “nip it in the bud”).
One (somewhat) secret garden in downtown Stamford serves as a metaphor for an optimistic future. Where once was asphalt are now beds of perennials. A neglected mass of weeds has been transformed into an oasis. An investment of beauty in a largely forsaken neighborhood has paid off as residents shield the space from vandalism.
The Main Street Garden hugs Stamford Manor, a senior housing complex. At one end of the block is the 132-year-old “Purple Bridge,” a reminder that even wrought iron will not endure neglect. The other end opens to Stamford’s most recognizable locales: Columbus Park, Trump Parc, the Government Center. In the garden’s own backyard is Stamford’s “Oz,” the rejuvenated Mill River Park hosting a carousel, ice rink, serpentine paths and dog park.
When the garden’s chief architect, Laura Godown, offers directions, her landmark is the Meineke (home of the discount muffler) across the street. The garden is simultaneously one of the most eye-catching spots in Stamford — and invisible. I often marvel at natural wonders, such as the sprawling Mianus River Park, that are never explored by many residents, but this one is a kaleidoscope of hues smack in the city’s downtown.
Technically, it is part of Mill River Park, fine print in the deal to finally realize the dream of a mini-Central Park officials passed down like an unused key to the city through most of the 20th century.
“It was an orphan, really, until Laura took it over,” says Arthur Selkowitz, chairman of the Mill River Park Collaborative’s board of directors.
That was about seven years ago. From the curb it was a weed patch, the former site of a business that burned. It had been a place to loiter. Godown dug about 8 inches and hit any gardener’s nemesis: asphalt.
“You should see me with a pickaxe,” she says. “It’s not a pretty sight, but I get the job done.”
Godown says she “always played in gardens,” but didn’t get serious until retiring from a career in finance about 15 years ago. She started volunteering at the New York Botanical Garden, where she learned the nuances of maintaining a public garden.
That work inspired her to strive for similar high standards, which nature has a way of thrusting back to earth.
“Gardens are dynamic. Things work, then they don’t work. Things work for years, then they drop dead. It’s humbling.”
Her career skills turned out to be fruitful in the soil. Her favorite volunteers are accountants, “because we are all OCD, which is great when it comes to weeding.”
Dudley Williams, president of the collaborative, shares stories of people in the neighborhood who thanked him for the “comfort” provided by the garden. He calls it “the most beautifully landscaped part of the park” and stresses that it is a credit to volunteers such as Godown with relatively minor support from the collaborative.
While the garden remains a largely undiscovered gem, Williams says the Mill River Park next door reached its peak of population after the COVID-19 outbreak sent people outdoors. People who routinely drove past the park were finally pausing to walk through it.
“You can’t really appreciate it until you get in it,” Alicia Wettenstein, director of development for the collaborative, says of the park. “It doesn’t really show well from the street.”
Godown almost unconsciously uses gardening shorthand (rhododendrons are “rhodies”), weaves in basic gardening tips (“the easy part is planting, it’s all about the weeding and the grooming”), and sounds determined to save an oak tree that’s been tagged for removal.
She eyeballs the size of the garden as “a football field,” but I tell her it’s considerably shorter and more closely resembles a baseball diamond, with the entrance gate serving as home plate, a bench for visitors to the left and a mound as a centerpiece.
Several of the plantings reveal their identities with small signs to help curious gardeners ( Geum Triflorum/“Prairie Smoke”). While Godown is clearly proud of the garden, she has apparently harbored a fear that it may be as beguiling yet as fleeting as the butterflies it lures.
As Selkowitz credits former Stamford Land Use Bureau Chief Robin Stein for sealing the deal that included the garden turf, he casually notes “that’s why this property can’t be used for anything other than a park.”
Godown is stunned by this revelation, perhaps because housing units seize Stamford spaces like Digitaria sanguinalis (hairy crabgrass).
“I was afraid when I go to the old folk’s home you’d bring in a bulldozer!”
This news seems to inspire her to want to do even more. But first, people need to find the garden. The entrance sign features silhouettes urging visitors not to smoke, drink, litter or allow dogs to relieve themselves in the public space.
Apparently, the dog figure worked too well — confusing passersby into believing canines were not welcome.
“So I drew little turds in there with a marker,” Godown reveals mischievously. “I thought I’d make it a little clearer.”
Though the three-season garden has thrived in this year of despair, volunteers are bracing for the fourth season. Everything will be cut back for the winter months, and the cycle will begin anew come spring.
That will bring us to 2021, and another metaphor. We can survive the harsh season. All it takes is preparation, teamwork, grit — and the right gardener.