Saving Brook’s Delay

There’s a spot in Goshen called Brook’s Delay. It is at the base of a steep wooded hillside where a river finally spills over the side of a cliff and creates a gentle waterfall into the brook below. There are trees scattered across the flat landscape surrounding the waters, and a meandering stream that wanders away from the scene.

And its in danger because of threatened development to “improve” the landscape and make it more accessible to anyone other than determined hikers. In my dreams.

Yeah, that was what I dreamed the other night. I woke up, startled by its vivid impression. In the dream I was looking for a press conference where the issues would be presented by a group wanting to preserve Brook’s Delay the way it is. I found a press conference, lugged my bulky equipment out of my car and set it up alongside other reporters getting ready to cover an event, when I realized from their conversation that this press conference was about saving a totally different natural resource.

I growled. I had to pack everything up and lug it back to the car, then keep on looking for the briefing, hoping I hadn’t already missed it.

I tried to explain my mistake without embarrassing myself. Fortunately everyone understood. They’d done the same thing themselves.

Now we all dream, all the time, even those of us who say they never dream. We just don’t remember most of them. Sometimes we wake up, rather surprised, shocked, frightened, alarmed, or pleased, but if we don’t write it down immediately dreams tend to melt away, until there’s nothing left other than the naggingly strong feeling the dream created.

What made me remember this dream in particular? Brook’s Delay. What a neat name! What did it mean? Was there a stream that delayed the waters leaving the brook? Were the waters delayed on their way? Or was there some historical event alluded to? I entered Brook’s Delay in the search engine on my phone and came up with nothing. I guess I hadn’t heard of it somewhere and stored it away in the back of my brain. Somehow or other my sleeping brain created that wonderfully evocative destination in my dreams.

Names matter. Before I moved to Nappanee I lived in a Pennsylvania town called Everett, but its original name was Bloody Run. That was the name of the river – well, actually more of a creek – that meandered through the village. It was named after a battle in the French and Indian War, when the creek supposedly ran red with blood. The townspeople got embarrassed by the rustic nature of the name and eventually voted to get rid of it.

By now you’re asking yourself where is Brook’s Delay, and very likely you realize there can’t be any such place because there are no secluded tree-covered hills, cliffs, and waterfalls in this area. Indeed, Indiana is mostly flat. Unlike many states with National Parks created to preserve breathtaking landscape, we’ve got the Dunes, and that’s about it.

There’s lot to like about Indiana. More interstates converge on Indianapolis than in any other city. There’s corn. And soybeans. And the 500. But saying we’re only two hours from Chicago does not make us a tourist stop. We don’t have a Yosemite, or a Yellowstone, an Arches National Park or a Bryce Canyon.

But at least in my dreams Indiana has one true National Park: Brook’s Delay. You can’t get there from here so it’s safe from exploitation and desecration.

That’s nice to know.