I got out of town two weekends ago and headed home. I had a race to run, a concert to see (Maggie Rodgers!), and an afternoon in the sun to kill. I spent part of it in one of my favorite places, the Morris Arboretum.
The Morris Arboretum crowns Chestnut Hill, its wrought iron fences ensconcing the
many manicured gardens, trails, and meadows from the surrounding urban enclave. I can’t
imagine what purpose the gate serves beyond keeping teens from sneaking in after dark to smoke
pot in the treetop hammocks; the property butts up to a private, all-girls college, a country club,
and several elite day-academies. My mother often waved a plastic membership card to one of the
many part-time volunteers who stood sentry at the entrance. The membership was a yearly gift
from a great-aunt who married God (the Catholic one) and had no children of her own to take to
the Arboretum on sweet spring afternoons.
My brothers and I always figured we went to the Arboretum as a reward for good
behavior, but we probably went when we were most prone to rambunctiousness. My mother,
sensing the types of behavior which lead to a tantrum or visit to the ER, knew an afternoon in the
Arboretum meadows would be good for her boys, and better yet, peace of mind for her. Thinking
of the days we spent crawling through rose gardens, over geometric statues, and through patches
of conifers, I imagine my mother exhaling. The arboretum and all its carefully managed natural
beauty offered her a retreat from her regular demands as a mother, partner, and employee.
The maple trees in in my backyard therefore paled in comparison to the
ancient elms and beehives at the Arboretum even though they had a fleet of arborists and apiasts
to keep them alive and vibrant. I spent my youth swooning under the Arboretum’s gnarled Elms
and curiously inspecting the hives, and the habit carried through to young adult afternoons too.
After a hard week in high school (whatever that means now, but back then I felt I had a lot on my
plate and the world on my shoulders), I’d go alone or take a picnic blanket and some friends to
enjoy the company of the greenery.
In the Arboretum I remember neither hunger nor thirst nor desire of any outside force; we
were subjects to nothing but the setting of the sun. We fed ourselves as we chewed trails, mixing
paved path with trodden grass and creek stones. We sipped conservatory tea, humid air steeped
by tropical plants kept under glass panes, and gulped cool air hanging in the lows of a grecian
grotto. If our stomach’s grew peckish we always seemed to find a granola bar or clementine
squirrelled away by a past self. When the shadows grew long enough to squeeze us out of space
to sunbathe or the will came over us, we would leave in an afterglow.
Follow Us!