Down the Garden Path

I adore gardens. Not just the back-yard kind, and not really the formal kind, but definitely the arboretum, botanical, or specialist variety. Nothing better than plants with labels if you ask me.

We have some good ones around here, several within a 20 minute drive, and at least a dozen if you don't mind an hour in the car.

Our local arboretum, Tyler Arboretum, is just a hop, skip and a jump away, and we visit nearly weekly. It's the right size for ample exploration, while still providing that sense of familiarity the pre-school set love so. I get a lot of new ideas for my own garden on our visits, especially now that they have a demonstration vegetable garden. But lately, we've been itching for some new adventures, and I have been hoping for fresh inspiration.

Thomas, carefully labeled at Bartram's Garden

Recently, we visited a new (to us) garden: Bartram's Garden, the 18th century home of the naturalist John Bartram. On the drive there, I kept thinking that I had bad directions: it's not in the best neighborhood, and it seems awfully urban to be the site of the oldest surviving botanical garden in the U.S. (The two previous statements are positively saturated with understatement.) It's not the sort of area you want your car to break down in late at night. Actually, you'd probably want to avoid breaking down at any time of day, but then again, who likes dropping her drive shaft anywhere? (I've done it, it's scary and I don't recommend it, even in the relative safety of a suburban office park.)

Once we got there, and recovered from the wrong turn into Bartram's Estates (a very, VERY different type of project from the one the 18th century Quaker had in mind) I discovered a true urban oasis. It seriously is like a secret garden. Only it is far too wonderful to be a secret. Really, Philly people, go visit and support this magical place.

A thoughtful friend had invited us to join her and her daughter for Little Explorers, an hour-long session the education department does for 3 to 4-year-olds. The program was perfect: the kids were taken out to the meadow to collect materials to create their own bird's nests. The teachers were great and made sure they gave each child some individual attention, without seeming pushy or irritatingly over-enthusiastic. Then there was a story, some animal crackers and the craft. After the craft, the kids trooped outside again to see some real bird's nests and have a little song and puppet show. Thomas was entranced and developed a crush on one of the teachers (the one who handed him delicious animal crackers, of course!) Once the program ended, we picnicked with our friends and explored the gardens a bit.

Notice the stacked stone wall. I wonder how long that one has been there.

A couple of days later, we made the trip out to Winterthur, my old book stomping grounds. No, it's not new to us, but for some reason, I was able to look at parts of it with fresh eyes. That could be due to the ambitious garden restorations they are undertaking, or perhaps the distance of two years since I resigned.

The children's garden at Winterthur, Enchanted Woods, is well worth a visit. However, it can be a bit of a hike up there with a three-year-old, especially if that three-year-old has a horrified fascination of the garden tram, a fascination which requires him to view it only from a safe distance. But there is plenty to see and do if you can't struggle all the way up the hill. On our last visit, we investigated the peony garden, recently restored to its former glory. They did a bang-up job of repairing the stone steps that a drunken reveler tried to take his car down after a big party. I don't think the Jag fared as well.

Thomas and a friend investigate the damage. Note the hellebore boarder. That would be awfully nice along my shady flower bed out front.

One of the nice things about visiting the less-well-traveled parts of the gardens with a child who doesn't need constant monitoring to ensure he won't fling himself off a wall, or stuff hellebores into his mouth, is the ability to notice the tiny things. I must have passed these planting house doors 800 times, but I never stopped to notice the numbers on them. Aren't the layers of peeling verdigris paint stunning? Watch, next time I visit, the doors will have been scraped clean, and made spic and span. Ah, I doubt it; Winterthur has a deep respect for the patina of age.


I could wander like this all day, thinking of meanders around Longwood, and planning trips to Chanticleer, the Barnes Foundation Arboretum, Awbury Arboretum, the gardens at the Brandywine River Museum, the Henry Botanic Garden, Jenkins Arboretum, Mount Cuba, Wyck and on and on.