“Grilling, broiling, barbecuing – whatever you want to call it – is an art, not just a matter of building a pyre and throwing on a piece of meat as a sacrifice to the gods of the stomach.”    James Beard

 “If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.”   att. The Buddha

Ann and I traveled across the Delaware river today.  We came to a large home surrounded by artists painting in Plein Air (the signs said) and a day of Flowers being judged for the quality of their Show.  The most outstanding experience of the day, however, was our complete submersion into sights, sounds, tastes and SMELLS of the 18th Century.  We were in the midst of an age recreated.

Plein Air artists reminded me of my son William’s early attempts at painting.

Upon entering the house, the singular smell of a cooking fire in the kitchen hearth consumed all other senses.  It tracked into the corners of my eyes and tickled up to the height of my sinuses.  We were led into the cooking room.  Friends were busy chopping, tending fire, and generally preparing for the upcoming feast.  Ann and I felt at home–as we actually were.

John Bartram in the kitchen of the Whitall Mansion

A Quaker family built the house in 1748 as the plantation home for their 400 acres.  I recall them:  James and Ann Whitall.  They had a large family in that grand home on the river.

The Whitall Mansion at Red Bank.

Ann was a strong and opinionated member of the Woodbury Meeting.  She possessed a fearsome devotion to our Saviour.  Few in her family could stand unreproached in its glare.  During the Battle of Fort Mercer, she was so convinced of her authority that she continued spinning wool in her parlor.  It was a direct connection between an errant cannonball and the gable end of her house that interrupted her work only long enough for Ann to retire to the basement where she continued.

Ann Whitall and John Bartram.

I connect with the woman and her healing nature.  She gave sustenance and aid to the wounded on both sides.  She also gave religious lectures to the Hessians for making war on men at peace.  The hospital she opened in her dining room as surgery for the fallen was successful in saving more lives than the norm.  She used her knowledge of herbal remedies and demanded Quaker cleanliness for the dozens housed on the makeshift beds lying on the upper floors.

The Whitall Surgery

The day we visited this unique and resurrected household, the servants were recreated volunteers.  The household staff were ready with histories of the battle, home and 18th Century.  Life and small details were well rendered.

The Flower Show was organized and run by Ann Whitall Gardeners.  The titular owner had come full circle back to her physic garden.  The exhibits were colorful and engagingly staged throughout the house.  Noteworthy was the display of framed, pressed flowers–historic in context and continuity.  They were remains of the days when different people with different lives entered the door, looked out the windows and cooked at the hearth.

And we all gathered in the kitchen.  The smoke stung the eye but the warmth from the fire was lightened with humor and heart.  Pasties were made for dinner.  Cornish pasties.  As if there was a physical presence of the family’s heritage from West Country England.  The work-men taking a break from the mines, holding the ends of the crusts with dirty fingers.  Our day was not as trying.  Rain came hard and fast.  The crowd dispersed. 

Floral exhibits on the family room table.

We left after a time with a memory of a good day and the smell of cooking smoke on our cloths and in our nose.  It will hang with the clothes put back in the closet until the next time.  Another event to be shared with yet more new friends across two hundred plus years of Quaker continuity. 

The flowers displayed at Red Bank for John Bartram’s visit.

“I would like to challenge you this year to keep your passion for Greater Greenville Master Gardeners alive!   Our mission is to teach and educate within our community. Together we can accomplish great things.”       –Anita Humphries

“Since ten years old, I had a great inclination to plants.  I knew all that I observed by sight, though not by the proper names having no person or books to instruct me.”            —John Bartram

Leaving my home on the Schuylkill River is always the start of a horticultural adventure.

I am returning to the Carolinas on February 2, 2013.  I have been absent a very long time.   I will appear at “Hortitopia” sponsored by the Greater Greenville Master Gardeners Association of Greenville South Carolina.  My amanuensis, Kirk R. Brown will be presenting a secondary topic called, “Sustainability and the American Dream” during the afternoon of the same day.

John Bartram speaks of his travels across the Eastern seaboard of the North American Colonies.

Previously I found it convenient to visit the Carolinas because my half-brother, William, held title to a plantation named Ashwood on the Wilmington-Fayetteville Road.  He was the younger son of my father, William, and his second wife Elizabeth.

“Welcome home to Bartram’s Garden!” always greeted me as I walked up the path to the house.

The story is made more complicated by explaining that my father was murdered by Tuscarora Indians in a raid conducted on his farm near present-day Swansboro, North Carolina.  My step mother and her two children were taken prisoner during the raid and remained captives until their escape or release nearly a year later.

Prior to my father’s precipitous and calamitous move to the south, I had been parceled out to my paternal grandmother and grandfather (another John Bartram) while my younger brother, James, lived with my mother’s family, the Marshalls.

Many quakers can claim a relationship to John Bartram. Meetings such as Hortitopia is an opportunity to expand the family tree.

I continue to carry with me the scars of my father’s tragic death.  Throughout all of my subsequent dealings with Native Americans, I continue to mistrust their offers of help.  I hesitate to believe their stories.  I avoid direct contact–always suspect that I would misunderstand their actions, or words, or directions.  I would sooner travel alone–especially if I am a familiar with the geography of the area.

Half-brother, William, returned to the Carolinas and became a successful landowner.  His plantation, Ashwood, was located along the Wilmington-Fayetteville Road in the Cape Fear area of North Carolina.  It was his position among the landed the gentry that gave me free access and rights of travel through all of my early years.  He was a delegate to the Governor’s council in New Bern.  It was through a bill of his own introduction that defined the town and township of Wilmington.  You have William to thank for giving his name to the community and environs.

Hortitopia is a congress of gardeners gathered together to discuss finer details of gardening.

I have been to both the Carolinas numerous times over the years. I was free to travel with William’s assistance in providing me letters of credit.  It was on one of the trips that started in Wilmington that took me south through the swamps and forest of Georgia where I discovered the copse of trees that history recognizes as the last found in the wild of Franklinia alatamaha.

John and William Bartram discovered the unique Franklinia during a collecting trip along the Alatamaha River in Georgia.

My son, William, accompanied me on many of his trips.  In later years, his travels in these colonies were noted more by the locals than by his own identification.  His mother and I rarely knew where he was.  He never wrote.  But today, there are numerous nature walks that bear the Bartram name because of trails he blazed.  We have a great family history in the south.

Yet another magnolia to investigate. This one is in the garden at Stenton, James Logan’s plantation house outside of Philadelphia in the modern community of Germantown.

I’m looking forward to my return.  It will be an exciting time!

“Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.”  –Michelangelo

Roots. Actual. Cast in Bronze.

“For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver.”  ––Martin Luther

Glass Technique from Tobin Studio. Flying debris or Eagles soaring?

I started on my journey to the congress of arboriculture in Indianapolis.  I didn’t travel far before my path crossed with a vast open site devoted to the cultivation and display of roots:  metaphysical, organic, actual, symbolic, historic and ultimately esthetic.  It caught my eye like a fish bone would capture a swallow.  I couldn’t get rid of it.

The Cemetery. Glass. Memento mori. Headstones. Visit the room of memories

So I stopped and began to capture the scene.  There was a name over the door:  TOBIN.  Cryptic.  Could it be read as a hope:  “To Be In…?”  I tried the door.  It opened and gave me access to a parallel universe of exploded forms differing from my 18^th Century experience.  The colors and shapes and textures and lines and volumes were familiar.  But the media and the technology and the idiom were totally foreign.

To be in. Simple. Sometimes. Or not.

It was as if God wanted us to see His creation as something empowering and we mere mortal phantoms were only secondary–or imaginary–to His primary goals and objectives.  The shapes took on iconic resonance with everything in His nature that draws me to it.  I am a slave to God’s nature.

Forest Floor in Bronze. The finest technique in keeping with the baptistery doors in Florence. Ancient and modern

I was rooted to the spot.  Tobin, if he was the owner, was not present.  But his life took shape on the table before me and was illustrated in his selection of art displayed about the room.

Dancing on the table. Name the rhythm. Test the steps.

His collection was displayed in maquette form.  Smaller than life.  Illustrious of what might be or what might yet be dreamed.  It was strewn in a magical order of rhythmic hierarchy across a natural wood expanse of conference table.  They were dancers.  Moving mystically, hysterically, literally.  And yet they were just roots to trees.  Intertwined, enmeshed, moving through their quadrilles, waltzes, tangos, embraces.  There was a sadness of passion presented in their intertwined limbs. 

Fred and Ginger. I can’t state it any more simply. Can’t you see “Road to Rio?”

The decor surrounding this collection of dancers was eclectic. 

Trees. Topiary. Horticultural Letters. Look very, very closely. This is hundred of hours of human labor.

It consisted of African tribal stools, contemporary leather sling chairs, patinated cupric towers, spheres, and eggs welded of cast letters.  Large images of his work decked the walls. 

Steve Tobin signing monographs. Artist. Artistically.

There was a rack full of cast bronze women’s shoes filled with the bounty of the garden.  They were empty of the life of the women but filled to overflowing with the bounty of Ceres.  God-like patinated reminders that solid form can become brittle bones or over-made rouged phantasms.

Shoes. Bronze. Hard to wear. Solid. Not functional. Natural.

Small glazed pottery vessels spoke of natural volcanic eruptions.  Earthen-ware plates demonstrated a high technical skill rivaling any produced by ancient civilizations around the world.  And there was a layer of activity, production shop dust, stasis, and disuse about the space.  The real work and ethic happened behind the door.

Steve Tobin introduced himself with his art before I ever had the pleasure to meet him.  He came into the atelier later.  After I had time to sit down, remove my gloves, and absorb some of the eternity that had filled the previous fifteen minutes.

It all became a rush to discuss the root of the matter.  Were we talking about trees or art or nature or glass.  Was it a discussion of hard material or matter-of-fact dreams.  The roots were something tangible as he drove and I drooled.  He had me get out of the vehicle and view them from under, around and through. 

Large Roots

He asked me to name another artist who captured in the same fashion the worlds he had created.  I was incapable or coming up with a contemporary name:  Gaudi’s sinuous curves and gothic arches, Durer’s detail and fantastical worlds, Escher prints, Italian, African, Old World, Prehistoric atavism.

Explosive.

Quakers should be taught the “…Use and Service of Trees”       —From “A Mite Into the Treasury” by Thomas Lawson 1680

In any garden, John Bartram uses first his eyes and then his intelligence to identify the unique plant material and the botanical connections

“Since ten years old, I had a great inclination to plants.  I knew all that I observed by sight, though not by the proper names having no person or books to instruct me.”     —John Bartram

I passed the American Philosophical Society’s headquarters behind the State House on many a walk through the city of Philadelphia. The trees have prospered as well as the institution.

Indiana.  Indianapolis.  The name harkens back to an ancient Greek city-state:  “The City of the Indians.”  I’m told that it’s inhabited by a race of Hoosiers:  A species unknown to me in my youth, but entirely recognized as yet another of the subspecies of inhabitants we now know as Americans.  I used to fear and distrust the indians of my region.  But I’m told that the western settlements have been safe and quite civilized for these many years since.  There is even a well-respected zoo in this metropolis.  Perhaps it’s where they keep the more wild members of the community.

I’m traveling into the dark interior of this vast and daunting continent to conference with a band of arborists.  As you might know, an arborist is a person who specializes in the study and care of trees.  That would be me.  I introduced many dozens of them into the trade I conducted with my European counterparts:  Acer rubrum, Quercus rubrum, Magnolia grandiflora, M. stellata, M. virginiana, and so many more that I hesitate to have it appear that my pride overtakes my study of science.

Yet another Magnolia to investigate. This one is in the garden at Stenton, James Logan’s plantation house outside of Philadelphia in the modern community of Germantown.

Many people contributed to my success in the world.  Correspondence with Carl Linnaeus, The Dukes of Richmond and Norfolk, Mr. Philip Miller, Peter Collinson, Dr. James Fothergill, Peter Kalm and Robert James Petre (Baron Petre) of Thorndon Hall Essex gave me the professional encouragement that my lack of formal education denied me.  Personal friendships on this side of the Atlantic with Benjamin Franklin and James Logan allowed me to connect with a much wider circle of scientists, writers, and gentlemen than a farmer with 700 acres on the banks of the Schuylkill River could ever hope to reach.

I always plan a detour when I hear that there’s a monumental tree in the neighborhood. This is in the garden at Awbury Arboretum.

I am an Arborist.  I consider myself a botanist.  King George III officially recognized my accomplishments by naming me “Royal Botanist to the North American Colonies.”   By extension, I believe that I can lay claim to the title of King’s Arborist.  I gave him many of my favorite discoveries.

Large trees of great age are very expressive but silent sentinels in any landscaped space.

The meeting in Indianapolis will be conducted as a congress of professionals.  My amanuensis, Kirk R. Brown will also be delivering lectures on “Sustainability and the American Dream” with a great deal of help from Mr. Jefferson’s fundamental writings on the subject of Democracy.  His other presentation involves additional legalities confronting the horticultural community with “Storm Over Water:  Municipalities Regulate Land Use.”

I invite you to participate if you are resident in the area.  I also encourage those of you who read this to communicate any of your own observations on the topics under discussion.

“Scilicet ut vellem curvo dinoscere rectum atque inter silvas Academi quarere…”  (So that, you know, I was eager to distinguish the straight from the crooked, and to hunt for truth in the groves of Academe.. )   Horace

I am a quester.  That is:  a seeker.  The word comes from the Latin verb, Quarere.  The meaning is “to seek, to ask.”

John Bartram co-founded the American Philosophical Society with his friend and mentor, Benjamin Franklin

In my searches I have discovered many new genus and species of plants.  I have also discovered amongst the roots of nature a trail that leads straight to God.  Quarere Deum.  Search for God.

John Bartram in the Library at Stenton

Did I know that I was searching for God along the trails, among the natives, abreast with fellow seekers?  Life always becomes more clear by the nearer you come to the end of the story.

John Bartram traveled far and wide to discover new genus and species. Here is admires the prized antique roses at another Quaker garden: Wyck.

Perhaps through self-revelation, the Latin word for Oak is quercus.  Derived from the same Latin root.  It is the stately tree in ancient forests to which the mages, priests, elders and sages traveled to question their natural gods.  It was the tree through which all answers came.

John Bartram under a record-holding tree. Regardless of genus or species, he invariably traveled out of his way to see the premiere example of the plants he went on to collect.

I question everything and notice much.  My quest is to discover the reasons for God’s handiwork.  As a quester, I strive to extend the reach of man’s knowledge to benefit all and praise a benevolent deity.

John Bartram traveled in company of the famous and the scholarly. His garden was only a short trip from the political center of Independence Hall

I am a quester.  Then.  Now.  Forever.  I will be appearing with others of my stock when the Moland House Questers gather on January 9.  I look to meet and greet as many as I may.  My spirit will forever stay young in the search for wisdom and knowledge and fellow travelers!

“I wake up every morning at nine and grab for the morning paper.  Then I look at the obituary page.  If my name is not on it, I get up.  –Benjamin Franklin

“I should have no objection to go over the same life from its beginning to the end:  requesting only the advantage authors have, of correcting in the second edition the faults of the first.  –Benjamin Franklin

John speaks about his passionate desire to introduce children to the magic and mysteries of nature.

As Ben noted, it is so much easier to be viewed as proficient or wise the second, third, even fourth or tenth time that I have to revisit a topic or a geographic location.   At this time of my life, I can even be viewed as prescient on most of what I’ve been preaching for many of these 300 years.

John Bartram is reviewed by his audience after his presentation for the Children and Gardening Symposium. He was hosted at the University of Maryland by the American Horticultural Society.

I love to travel.  Even more, I love to be engaged with conversations struck up with perfect strangers.  I love entering a roomful of expectant and attendant listeners and leave having entertained and been entertained by their curiosity.

John Bartram returned to Annapolis MD this past summer. His lecture to the newly formed Annapolis Horticultural Society allowed him to visit the home of a former colleague and client, William Paca at his house and gardens.

It is a wonder to me why I haven’t conceived of this conceit before now.  My current life is manifested by curiosity enabled by passion wrapped in color and drowned by sheer force of nerve.  Little else could survive the heat of the flame to which this chrysalis is held.

John Bartram recognizes the winner of the Horticultural Illustration exhibit at the Scattergood Foundation’s celebration of 200 years. He is shown with Maitreyi Roy, newly named Executive Director of Bartram’s Garden.

“Without continual growth and progress, such words as improvement, achievement and success have no meaning.”  Benjamin Franklin.

I have survived through several months of extensive travel and experiential education.  My trips abroad have been many and varied.  I will be writing of them as quickly now as I can give air-wings to words and post them to this site.  I have missed many opportunities for communication because of overlapping and very conflicting duties and responsibilities.

I am writing today to post my good news of meeting with a group of fellow horticulturists engaged in the education and certification of more practitioners to the trade:  the Lehigh and Carbon Technical Institute.  I serve as an advisor to their academic program.  It is a pleasure and an honor for me.  I do not necessarily know of the effects my service of volunteerism has on the students impacted.

The photographs below illustrate the level of technical support this group enjoys.  The sophistication of materials and equipment far exceed my grasp of how to, what to, and where to.  They are a privileged group of children.  I hope their level of gratitude extends to the same depth of my own public support.   I cherish this opportunity to “Pay it forward!”

The tools almost always look neat and clean.  In my experience, it takes the authority of a strong teacher and mentor to make this happen at the end of a long and tiring day.  Professor Mario Galanti is the authority figure in these classes and my knowledge of him defines him as the perfect mentor for these students.

The Banner on the wall says it all:  The doors are open to your personal journey of discovery.  Enter and find a future.  Make an attempt and secure your brightest dream.

I will join my group of co-administrators for a marvelous feast on this coming Wednesday evening.  The culinary arts are well-represented among the category of educable students.  The meal is hearty.  The company good.  And the opportunity to challenge, opine, teach and be taught is unparalleled in my worlds of travel.  Thank you LCTI!