I think it’s often said in rooms of intellectuals or pseudo-intellectuals, in my head they’re sipping tea or smoking cigars and wearing tweed and flat caps, that if the ambitions of so few were as great as the ambitions of even fewer, then the world would be a place of more peaceful grandeur. At least this is what I’d like to hope is the truth (that these tweeded-out intellects are actually thinking these thoughts while what they are thinking harbors an ounce of truth). And what I mean by this babble is that if only those with the power or wealth had the desire and drive that those truly altruistic and ambitious persons had, then this world would likely be a much more beautiful veranda. With this thought in mind I look towards the work of one of these individuals. Now I do not wish to idolize this man beyond what he is, and that is a chemist with a passion for nature and conservation. Yes I’m sure Pierre Du Pont was no saint, but he did have a love for the realm of nature and the cultivation of life. So as I walk the Eden he constructed in Kennett Square Pennsylvania, I am grateful that a man of such wealth could also have a lust for preservation. This Eden, and by no means do I believe that Eden is an exaggeration for the description of Longwood Gardens, is over 1000 acres and houses one of the largest conservatories in the world. Home to over 5,500 types of plants, there is room for days of exploration and education once within the gardens. The sole desire for its original purchase was so that Mr. Du Pont could protect the arboretum on the land from the sale to a logging company. Then owning such a huge farm, the Du Pont’s took to cultivating the land into a public garden, one filled with inspiration from all over the world.

Once a year it seems, my family makes a pilgrimage to these commons. We usually go around the holidays to marvel at the lights and trees ornately and meticulously decorated, an arduous task I assume. This year’s theme was that of gingerbread, and trees twenty to thirty feet high were covered with lacquered gingerbread ornaments. Rooms smelling rich of dried citrus, cranberry, and fresh evergreen, were all dressed for the festivities and the eager eyes of children and adults alike. A vast landscape aglow in the night, weeping willows lit like fireworks frozen in the sky. These grounds and this conservatory are one of the finest areas to escape the anthropic northeast, a place where fantastical landscapes meet reality. And we owe this escape, and this amazing botanical extravaganza to Mr. Du Pont, and for that I am grateful. 

Perambulating in the Wissahickon

September 23^rd 2011, or the Autumnal equinox in the northern hemisphere, marks the dawn of a new period. One in which darkness triumphs over daylight and the sun dips below the horizon long before the bustling of life is ready for rest. Animals prepare for long periods of torpor and acorns are buried like a pirates treasure. An arctic chill sweeps through the northwest and brings an air of heightened energy to the land, likely due to the impending winter months where foraging and frolicking would be a death wish. It’s during this frenzy that I find myself deep in the woods around the Wissahickon creek. This 23 mile, meandering water-way is largely protected under the umbrella of the Fairmont Park system, and provides the residents of Philadelphia with a brief escape from the harsh city of brotherly love. This small stretch of stream is so mesmerizing, partially due to the juxtaposition of concrete and steel several miles away, that numerous American authors found themselves in awe of the beauty. Even Edgar Allen Poe took a brief sojourn from his macabre writing to pen

"Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness that, were it flowing in England, it would be the theme of every bard, and the common topic of every tongue, if, indeed, its banks were not parceled off in lots, at an exorbitant price, as building-sites for the villas of the opulent.”

However for me the beauty of the park is best pronounced when the leaves are aflame and fall sinks its talons deep into the landscape. The colors then remind me of an impressionistic painting, like a walk through a surreal landscape. As I tramp through the hiking paths straying from the main trail known as “forbidden drive”, I stumbled across two young bucks practicing their fights and locking antlers with a clash of bones. This fury, eccenuated by the reds, yellows, and oranges canvasing the trees conveyed fully the message of fall, a message that screamed struggle.