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lotesseWhen the first breath of spring touched the Limberlost, and the snow receded before it; when the catkins began to bloom; when there came a hint of green to the trees, bushes, and swale; when the rushes lifted their heads, and the pulse of the newly resurrected season beat strongly in the heart of nature, something new stirred in the breast of the boy.
Nature always levies her tribute.
So I did an amazing thing this weekend. I ran up to Lansing for my sister's senior flute performance recital, and on my way I went to the Limberlost swamp.
I went to Gene Stratton Porter's house in Geneva first - it's a preserved historical site, and you can tell that a lot of things have changed, but still - omfg. She designed and built it, and back then it was right at the edge of the swamp. (The Limberlost was drained in 1913, at which point she left to go to California and become a film pioneer.
the painting is actually one of hers:
GSP as a young teen:
in her "battle clothes":
her first camera:
There was an amazing conservatory in the front of the house - you can see all the glass in the photo. All glass from floor to ceiling, able to be closed off from the rest of the house by sliding glass doors. The highest windows open outward, and I guess she used to go out there in the evening and open them so all the night creatures could come in and sit out there with them, with the rest of the house shut off.
my face reflected in the glass of one of GSP's moth collections:
But the real even was when I left Geneva and drove out to what's left of the swamp. It's a disjointed ghost of what GSP describes, but you can tell that there was something amazing there once. The sheer sound of the birds there was staggering, this massive wash of calls and songs that was more dense and concentrated than anything I'd ever heard before - and I'm a country girl myself. The swallows were out, daring and acrobatic, and the tall grass made wonderful whispering sounds. In numerous places the ground was too boggy to pass through, and every now and again someone had put a plank down over a boggy spot to keep the trails open. The soil is black as night, clinging and sculptural, all over deer tracks.
flora and fauna:
me playing in the woods:
And yes, it was as easy as anything to imagine big black feathers falling down from the wings of the vultures up overhead, and Angels coming down the paths.
Nature always levies her tribute.
So I did an amazing thing this weekend. I ran up to Lansing for my sister's senior flute performance recital, and on my way I went to the Limberlost swamp.
I went to Gene Stratton Porter's house in Geneva first - it's a preserved historical site, and you can tell that a lot of things have changed, but still - omfg. She designed and built it, and back then it was right at the edge of the swamp. (The Limberlost was drained in 1913, at which point she left to go to California and become a film pioneer.
the painting is actually one of hers:
GSP as a young teen:
in her "battle clothes":
her first camera:
There was an amazing conservatory in the front of the house - you can see all the glass in the photo. All glass from floor to ceiling, able to be closed off from the rest of the house by sliding glass doors. The highest windows open outward, and I guess she used to go out there in the evening and open them so all the night creatures could come in and sit out there with them, with the rest of the house shut off.
my face reflected in the glass of one of GSP's moth collections:
But the real even was when I left Geneva and drove out to what's left of the swamp. It's a disjointed ghost of what GSP describes, but you can tell that there was something amazing there once. The sheer sound of the birds there was staggering, this massive wash of calls and songs that was more dense and concentrated than anything I'd ever heard before - and I'm a country girl myself. The swallows were out, daring and acrobatic, and the tall grass made wonderful whispering sounds. In numerous places the ground was too boggy to pass through, and every now and again someone had put a plank down over a boggy spot to keep the trails open. The soil is black as night, clinging and sculptural, all over deer tracks.
flora and fauna:
me playing in the woods:
And yes, it was as easy as anything to imagine big black feathers falling down from the wings of the vultures up overhead, and Angels coming down the paths.