Just Like Nothing (else) on Earth: Windmill Park

By Tim Jon

“Well,” I remember thinking, “I’d better make this quick.” You see, as I turned into the drive to seek a parking area for the main character in today’s drama, I noticed a sign indicating official displeasure at my presence therein; now, when I’d looked up the available information on these geographical coordinates, I’d found no hint of such private status. But, sure enough, the placard stated emphatically that these grounds belonged to the folks living in the surrounding neighborhood, and that visitors—well, had best turn around. 

So, like any properly-raised, wayward child, I discretely parked my vehicle, took a few steps toward the small body of water and encircling walking trail, enjoyed the choicest moments of a mild summer pre-dawn, surveyed my surroundings and captured some of the more interesting sights on camera. 

I half expected—the entire few minutes I spent on the forbidden grass and blacktop—that a local official would pop out of the bushes and slap on a pair of handcuffs, confiscate my photography equipment, and most likely, impound my car. Probably seize my home as collateral for the egregiousness I’d transgressed. Having been raised in humble, German-Lutheran culture in the modest Midwest, I’ll probably suffer eternal shame and penance for my one, and only visit to Windmill Park in Ashburn. 

The visit, in fact, was fairly benign. The one other early-morning visitor (obviously a resident who enjoyed a welcome user status at the facility) was taking some exercise on the tennis courts, and offered no interference to my unwarranted intrusion. 

I was able to enjoy the day’s beginning to my heart’s content; I even wistfully thought about taking a stroll around the little body of water within the Park, but thought better of it, and slowly made my way back to the parking area, climbed into my source of transportation, and bid an everlasting (at least in the physical sense) ‘goodbye’ to what I found as an otherwise very inviting place.

I say this because I found the atmosphere of the place absolutely enchanting, what with the gradual lightening of the sky, the spray and mist from the pond fountain, the early-morning silhouette of the gazebo (deserted, of course, at that untimely hour), and a bit further off in the distance, the shape of an historic windmill [hence the name of the facility] cutting into the eastern sky. I will enjoy all those things as long as the memories of any other local visits I’ve recorded in this series. 

And the pre-dawn walk that I never actually got to complete? I guess I leave that to my imagination. 

And yours as well, since you’ve accompanied me on today’s sojourn. You’ve even served as a sort of accomplice in the act of trespass, so beware. If a Park Official stops by your home while you’re happily engaged in this little tale of exploration, don’t point the finger at me; you came along of your own free will. 

Now, if anyone wants to know the exact whereabouts of Windmill Park, it wouldn’t be hard to find: you already know it lies within Ashburn, Virginia—that homogenous blur of humanity to the south and east of Leesburg. 

You can look it up on virtually any electronic device, and it’ll tell you—with explicit directions—how to arrive at the spot in your automobile. You may even see some enchanting pictures, with the pond, the fountain, the gazebo, the quaint little walkway, the tennis courts, and the Park’s namesake—that old windmill, still slicing the air near the entrance to the facility. 

You can read a review or two, describing the wonderful experiences to enjoy there (walks, cook-outs, tennis, exercise for the kids and other activities). 

But—one bit of information you will definitely not find is an official welcome for local storytellers from the County Seat. No. They need to head somewhere else. In fact, hindsight now tells me that we need to keep this particular tale in confidence. 

We can’t have the wrong people find out about this; so, as you’re taking that imaginary stroll around the forbidden pond with me, don’t be surprised if an imaginary official pops out of the bushes and slaps on the cuffs, etcetera, etcetera.