Good Design, Better Community

Cedar Park had become a killing field.

by Bruce Schimmel

Good fences, we all know, make good neighbors. But a bad fence can really mess up a place.

Consider the cyclone fence that once encircled a pocket park at Baltimore, between 49th and 50th. Cedar Park is at the heart of its eponymous neighborhood. But, says civic leader Maureen Tate, its fence had turned the park into "a wreck."

In effect, the fence separated the community from its common space, and had turned the Cedar Park into an incubator for crime.

Today, the surrounding community is a mash-up of African-Americans, recent immigrants and a large assortment of bohemians — graced with wallets of various weights.

Since the fence came down two years ago, as part of the park's renovation, Cedar Park has been on an upswing.

The Soviet-style state store was recently upgraded; instead of half-pints of St. Nicolai, it now offers wine tastings. Along Baltimore Avenue, new Italian and Vietnamese eateries have joined Ethiopian family-style restaurants.

Last summer, the Dock Street brewpub took over the old firehouse. After work recently, the pub teemed with toddlers and parents. Over pints of Gold Stock Ale and Bubbly Wit, several giggled and scoffed that some now call Cedar Park "the next Chestnut Hill."

"Chestnut Hill is not who we are," insists Tate, who's lived here for 30 years, where she raised four children. People living here seek diversity, and are mostly indifferent to a bit of urban grittiness.

But until recently, the park that anchored this neighborhood was dragging it down. Tate's Cedar Park Neighbors organization tried in vain to take it back from the drunks and drug dealers. Every spring, for an annual fair, they'd scour the park of trash and drug debris. But the drunks, the dealers and the garbage soon returned.

The chain-link fence was their accomplice. During the day, drinkers lounged against it. At night, dealers ducked behind it, dodging police and stashing their cache along its length.

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It was "a cage," says Tate, one which trapped people inside. About five years ago, the park became a killing field. On Father's Day, it was the scene of twin murders.

Desperate, Cedar Park Neighbors turned to the Community Design Collaborative (CDC), an organization that assists nonprofits with design issues. Safety was paramount, as CDC worked with the community and architects to redesign the park.

Everyone agreed that the fence had to go — except the actual owners of the fence, the city's Department of Recreation. "We were told [that the fence] was a problem," says Tate, "and that it probably couldn't come down." They said the fence made the park safer.

Neighbors "advocated strongly" to the contrary, says Tate, while her group raised nearly a quarter million dollars for park renovations.

Councilwoman Jannie Blackwell arranged for some $165,000. Five-figure donations came through the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society and the University City District, and neighbors pitched in $10,000.

Finally, the city relented, and the fence could come down.

Open and inviting, it's hard to believe that this park was designed foremost for safety. On a sunny afternoon, a dozen children play on a jungle gym at its center — though, as a whiff of spliff attests, the potential for trouble is always present.

At the heart of the park's redesign is a walkway that runs its center length. At night, the sidewalk glows like a ribbon of light.

A safe passage, the sidewalk is slightly elevated, so passers-by can easily keep an eye on those inside. Neighbors can now watch over each other.

Just as a bad fence can make a neighborhood worse, good design can make a community better. Just before Memorial Day, Tate and a gaggle of gardeners were yanking out thorny thistles and planting lilies and mums — even as dusk approached.

"Twilight gardening," Tate laughingly calls it — something that, just two years ago in Cedar Park, would have been unthinkable.

(bruce@schimmel.com)