I woke up early and went for a run in Philadelphia, where some friends had recommended an American elm in a park not far from where we were staying. It made me think about my favorite elms in Fort Tryon Park, which was a theme of the weekend: should we move to Philadelphia? What we would gain, and what would we lose?
This was not a new question for us, of course. Like many New Yorkers, we are constantly pondering moves to cities and non-cities near and far.
I would ideally like to live in a (US) city that doesn't require owning a car, which seems to eliminate everywhere except Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington, DC. But DC and Boston are too expensive to make a move viable (if part of the rationale is affordable living, which it is). For that reason, Philadelphia is at the top of the list. Being here, it felt viable.
The river was bathed in the morning light.
Across from every city, it seems, is the state of New Jersey.
After breakfast, we walked down some of Philadelphia's narrowest streets, an obvious draw.
But then I thought about how hard it would be to leave our garden.
And even though New York City has tons of problems -- the corruption of city government, the lack of visionary leadership, the traffic, the hassle of doing even the smallest things, the grating expense -- at least we're used to these problems. Like most New Yorkers, we've figured out how to negotiate our lives around them. The idea of moving to a new city felt exciting but daunting for this reason. Stephen and I collectively have almost five hundred years of 'institutional knowledge'; would we squander it by moving to a new city?
After lunch, we went to Meadowbrook Farm, a garden estate that was bequeathed to the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society and is now open to the public. Many of the plants and trees were mesmerizing, including this espaliered magnolia tree planted against the side of the house.
And this intensely pruned yew-ish beauty (sorry, I didn't get the exact name of the plant!)
I wondered if the owners of this estate ever considered moving, or if they were too tied to their garden to consider it.
I'm reading a book called Farm Boys: Lives of Gay Men from the Rural Midwest (open access!), which is a series of interviews of men who grew up on farms. Much of the book is quite harrowing in ways that won't be surprising -- as boys, they often suffered from isolation, judgment, scorn, loneliness, and abuse -- but it's interesting to note how many of these men, even as boys, were drawn to gardening, even though it was considered more of a 'woman's domain' and often drew the suspicion and ire of their relatives. One of the greatest things about being gay, I think, is the ability that so many of us have to sublimate hatred into something beautiful. It's sort of revolutionary, if you think about it as a response to violence, which is not to say that such a response is always available, but when it is, gays often seem to do miraculous things #pride :)
I also thought about another book I read a few years ago called Our Life in Gardens, a memoir by a gay couple who bought some property in the early seventies (I think) and over the course of four decades transformed it into another world. At the end of the book, the authors acknowledge that they are getting too old to care for the property, and while they express regret about leaving it behind, they also have come to appreciate the idea that a garden is more for the present than it is the future.
I like conceiving of a garden as an action or a response (or a metaphor).
I sometimes think about what will happen to our garden when we sell the house.
Will the new owners keep anything? Or will they chop everything down and pave it over, which is so often the history of New York. Or -- more likely -- will they keep a few things and replace a few others? Every garden needs to evolve.
And sometimes it's nice to think about leaving.
Even while knowing that the trees we planted will have to live in my mind.
Comments