Finding Nature in Philadelphia
Publication Year: 2008
In one section of the book, White tours the gardens of colonial botanist John Bartram; his wife, Ann; and their son, writer and naturalist William. Other chapters focus on Deborah Logan, who kept a record of her life on a large farm in the late eighteenth century, and Mary Gibson Henry, twentieth-century botanist, plant collector, and namesake of the lily Hymenocallis henryae. Throughout White weaves passages from diaries, letters, and memoirs from significant Philadephia gardeners into her own striking prose, transforming each place she examines into a palimpsest of the underlying earth and the human landscapes layered over it.
White gives a surprising portrait of the resilience and richness of the natural world in Philadelphia and of the ways that gardening can connect nature to urban space. She shows that although gardens may vanish forever, the meaning and solace inherent in the act of gardening are always waiting to be discovered anew.
Published by: University of Georgia Press
I planted it in my great aunt's backyard in Florida with dust and rocks and dry thick leaves as big as my hand. Light filtered through grapefruit trees. Banana trees rustled in the warm wind. I played there for hours alone with my dolls. One morning I made a water garden in a small dusty pool bordered with stones. I pretended there were seahorses swimming ...
... where I write, an intricate labyrinth bordered in clipped boxwood, the Labyrinthine Garden. Our house sits on the edge of the vanished labyrinth, part of a pleasure garden open for only a few years in the early nineteenth century. From sometime in the 1820s to 1833 there was a pavilion and a narrow ...
... at the edge of the Labyrinthine Garden. Around me people move through the chilled air at five, one leaf or two brushes their shoulders as the yellow leaves float to the pavement. The pruning of light and leaf and heat and flower, of nail, of teeth, of hair, that old repetition of the season closing itself ...
... around the baseball fields at the end of our street I'm on the edge of one kind of landscape and another, my feet poised at the very edge of the coastal plain as I run. My walk home brings me up the hill, a line of rock that extends from here south to Alabama. I'm on the intersecting line, too, of one history ...
... near us on Lemon Hill, the high flat bluff overlooking the river, where Henry Pratt grew all sorts of exotic citrus trees not far from Thomas Penn's greenhouse. This morning I walked up the stone steps past the dry fountain through the woods and past the cream-colored house to the fields. I ...
6. Wild Grasses
... of my surroundings on this warm fall afternoona wild thicket grown up at the end of the street, a slope that once led to the river and hill where William Penn had his vineyard with bitter grapes. The deck garden is swept clean by rain, a persistent Carolina chickadee comes again and again to the empty feeder. Monarchs ...
7. Tulip Tree
... you could walk from our house northwest along the Schuylkill to the Wissahickon, a tributary of the wide, tidal river. It's one of the green arms of Fairmount Park, the extensive park nineteenth-century travelers called "Philadelphia's Garden." Lemon Hill was the first part of the park, bought to preserve the purity ...
... padding along the trodden path that winds under sycamores one hundred years old. I'm walking along the slope of Springettsbury where the land levels off toward the river. As I walk the dirt path I concentrate on the color of the mud, how cold it would feel on my feet, and what it would be like to lie there, ...
9. Water Lilies
... in the shallow watery ghost of the waterworks garden this morning. They were dressed in green fishermen's clothes and had their licenses pinned to their shirts in plastic envelopes. It was sunny, and the wind was mild and from the north. They flicked their lines into the place where the water is midnight ...
... to the hardware store to buy paint or potting soil or nails. We pass the dark stone walls of Eastern State Penitentiary constructed from 1823 to 1836 on land that was part of the north border of Thomas Penn's estate. Later there was a farm here that sold cold drinks and strawberries down the road ...
... reconstructed in one of the rooms of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, perched on the top of Fair Mount where a reservoir once shimmered in the heat. The tea house is delicately and strangely made and a perfect size for him. He longs to touch the bamboo fence, the slim yellow pieces held ...
... that was farmland stretching north and west from Springettsbury, the city is dissolving into chunks of mortar and brick dust. Sometimes a whole row of narrow brick houses or brownstones has vanished. Trees seed themselves in the rotting wood and brick gone back to its elements, aspens or ailanthus leaning up ...
... in the fall of 1748 when Kalm was staying near Philadelphia. On the way from Philadelphia to Bartram's farm on the Schuylkill he passed a flower "in astonishing quantities upon all uncultivated fields, glades, hills and the like." He said the English called it "life everlasting, for its flowers, which ...
14. Holly Tree
the fountains on Logan Square, one of Penn's original parks in his design for the city, were spouting ice. The naked gods and goddesses and their giant green turtles and crabs spewed a shower of glittering cold into the air. The water around the fountain was frozen too, leaves caught in solid shine. I rapped it with my fist ...
... and the spidery leaves of crocus and snowdrops are poking up in the bed on the side of the house. This is a good season for pruning. I know because Locke Woodfin, an arborist, told me this on Thursday. Today is Tuesday. There are seasons in the city. I know people who don't believe this. I went to ...
16. Skunk Cabbage
... as we drove home. We had been to a place where whistling swans spend a few weeks on their way to the Arctic. They fatten up for the journey north after their weeks flying as far as Pennsylvania from the south. We wandered along a trail in the woods through scotch pine and beech ...
... the King's botanist, and the mother of William Bartram, famous for his book of travels to the wilds of Georgia and Florida, had a garden southwest of our house, five miles down the Schuylkill. She lived on the river at the bend called Kingsessing in the second half of the ...
18. Marsh Grass
... pieces of horsehair plaster, spiky sections of brittle lath, and puckered wallpaper in a house not far from Bartram's garden. We're in the flats across the river. On old maps the area is designated as marsh, part of the vast soggy plain that once bordered the mouth of the Schuylkill. John Bartram drained some of this marsh for his fields. Rich sloping land along the river. ...
... from his years of travel in the wild parts of Florida and Georgia all the way to the banks of the Mississippi he rode his horse home. He was alone and traveled north in the winter on the sandy hard beaches of the Carolinas, a solitary man on a horse trotting across the yellow sands on the edge of the Atlantic. He had been in the ...
20. Wild Rice
... live in the shallows of Darby Creek in the John Heinz National Wildlife Refuge at Tinicum, another wild garden in Philadelphia. The tide is out so the water is low and brown. We're surrounded by the grays and browns of late winterthings are still held within themselves here in the marsh. ...
... of the Wissahickon, down the steep paths to where the stream meanders through its course, pooling at the site of old mill ponds and then rushing and splitting over the rocks that tumbled down a long time ago. It's the thick of spring, and I'm amazed that I recognize the faces of ...
... on the green silky water of a ghost river. We don't know it as we chug northwest in our motored barge, but near the shore in the shallow water of the Schuylkill there's a body floating. I'm thinking about all the boats that were here when the Bartrams lived on their farm. All the commerce and activity that ...
23. The Lady Petre Pear Tree
It's 1890 or so. The pear tree is half dead and very large against the white skyluminous on the postcard. The edge of the seed house faces the garden. Other spiky branches spread their limbs in the air. You can't see the house John Bartram built in the photograph. It's hidden. ...
... are thrusting up from the cut branches of our two rose bushes. I pulled off the Christmas greens from the soil this morning. Poked around the cinnamon fern. Fiddleheads are crouched at the base of the fruiting frond, a brown branch with tight brown leaves that weathered the ...
I know the weather for twenty years, a list of familiar birds, the opening petals of winter aconite, the swelling of peach buds, the misty sky, the mild sun, the shiny moon, sultry days and the fields drying up or wet Julys where the hay rotted. I know that some summer nights were so dark with thunder that William Bartram noted that ...
... in the garden on the side of the house. It's perfectly shaped, and the bloom is lime colored with long bright yellow stamens. I bought it at a garden in the bend of the river across from where the shad spawn. The garden is in Gladwyne but Philadelphia is right across the river. It's a garden ...
27. Morning Glory
I now have a focal point, or at least the garden does. I realized this not long ago as I stood in the center of the patio and looked at the bamboo. It's feathery and lovely, bending its long canes this way and that in the dry May wind we've been having now for several weeks. Transplanted, exotic and content ...
... published in 1796 shows Springettsbury and nearby Bush Hill, a house built on land purchased from William Penn. Our community garden&$151;The Spring Gardenssits at the top of the slope above Bush Hill beyond a grove of evergreens that grows in an ordered grid north of the house. It's a cultivated block ...
... into a large blue container of water. As I pull the bucket up filled to the brim with clear lukewarm water I slosh a bit on my hands. Did Ann Bartram have a well where she drew her water those early years on her farm? I can't remember. Or did the Bartrams draw water from the river? I ...
... a committee of gardeners from the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society tromped from garden to garden in the "vicinity" of Philadelphia. In their report published the following February they note that it was too hot to see everything. They left out the vegetable gardens "where Leguminous plants of every kind are ...
... but I'm not. Not by the woman with the perky little dog who greets me on her travels, not by the man sleeping in the park as I run several times past, his encampment a brown sheet, a brown paper bag, a shopping cart with a symbolic fan that's real, propped on its side, a few possessions near his head, boots, a shirtby the third time around the baseball fields ...
Leaning into the pull and tug of the flat, sharp hoe against the dry soil. Dry, I discover, only an inch or two on the top. The depths are cool even in this heat. Yesterday I was looking for Ann Bartram again. I went to Bartram's Garden and read for a couple of hours in the attic above her dairy where the archives are now kept. ...
Across the road from the pasture is the cold stone crypt where they used to keep the bodies in the winter until the ground thawed enough for burial in the spring. His pasture is at the top of a hill that looks out over the rolling pastures below and wood lots and the little streams flowing ...
... from us on the way to the river is an optimistic field. Someone has planted slips of forsythia in a row along two edges and four or five tiny white pine trees in a grid in the center of the rectangular lot. I've watched this patch of land since we moved here, vowing that I'd find out who the owner was and ask if I could plant a garden there. ...
She was about twenty years younger than William Bartram and lived on the farm at Stenton, James Logan's place, from the time of her marriage in 1781 to her death in 1839. Thomas Jefferson called James Logan's grandson George, Deborah's husband, the best farmer in Pennsylvania, both in theory and practice. ...
... is a modest collection of pleasant, common flowers, their petals open to the thick humid air that hangs like cotton above their heads. All the petals and tendrils, the curling tips of vines, unfurl in a delicate gesture all over the garden. I like the mysterious way leaves sometimes turn into twining arms ...
His idea of wild was not wilderness but a kind of ordered use of wild edges. He liked to fill meadows with spring flowers and harvest the useful hay later. He planted the edges of woods with drifts of lupines and lilies, the margins of roads with ferns. On old stumps and large trees he coaxed clematis and honeysuckle. I like one ...
... in the Catholic church yesterday. I arranged the flowers on the altar with Ronnie. It's a fiction, after all, that time is moving slowly here in Philadelphia. I've been through whole leaps of time since we crossed the threshold into this house built on the rocks that once were the foundation of another garden. ...
... where the Labyrinthine Garden stood on a copy of a map from 1833 that sits on my desk. The engraver has written "Pagoda" and circled the word. The pagoda sits in the middle of the outline of the labyrinth on the spot where I now live. Across the street from the garden to the north there are no cross ...
Page Count: 216
Publication Year: 2008
Series Title: Association of Writers and Writing Programs Award for Creative Nonfiction
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