After the Fire, After the Rain

Home again!  Home at last.  I spent three days on a Florida beach, and relished the opportunity to see nothing.  I spent one day in Atlanta, and feel like I still haven't seen enough.  It was a full day, and we had to choose our destinations wisely, but the one place I knew I wanted to see was Centennial Olympic Park.

Up until 2004, I didn't really care about the Olympic games.  I'd watch the opening ceremonies (though I'd usually fall asleep during the parade of nations), catch the odd event across the two weeks, and then completely forget about the award count or closing ceremony or who won that amazing race last Monday.  Yes, I do still have my autographed photo of '96 gymnast Dominique Dawes from that time she did the singing in the mall Galyans, but over all, I didn't quite get it.  I wasn't really a sports fan, so the Olympics were just this thing that appeared every couple of years, exciting for a moment and quickly forgotten.

I was in Paris in 2004.  July, barely a month before the Athens games would start.  We just happened to be in that city the day the Olympic torch was meant to be passing through on its way to Greece.  So we at lunch in a Planet Hollywood, staring out the window until someone said "The torch is coming!" and we ran out to the street.

I expected the line of cheer-happy onlookers.  I didn't expect the celebration.  And standing on that Parisian street, pushing my way through the sea of bodies to catch a glimpse of the flame as it passed, it suddenly all made sense.  What was about to happen in August wasn't just a game.  It was a coming together of nations and a celebration of people, something I hadn't ever really considered before.

And it was great.  I'm still not much of a sports fan, but as it turns out, I love watching people win gold medals.  And I welcome the opportunity to be patriotic in a very nondestructive way.  I can celebrate my country's wins, and that's okay.  And I can mourn their losses, and that's okay, too.

I watched time stop when Greece won the gold for synchronized diving, and Thomas Bimis and Nikolaos Siranidis waved their flag from the diving platform in front of a screaming crowd of international supporters.  I learned everything I ever needed to know about curling during Torino when Team Fenson played their way into a bronze medal.  I awed over the vast majesty of the Beijing stage, and booed the seemingly endless stream of controversy (and yes, I sat on pins and needles waiting for Michael Phelp's eighth gold).  And while watching close to 90% of the broadcasted Vancouver games (I swear, I said "aboot" for nearly a week after the closing ceremony), I learned that cross-country skiing can be pretty damn exciting.  I've got a closet full of stuffed mascots and a handful of pins painted with the rings, and though London is still two years away, I'm counting down the days.

Centennial Olympic Park is almost a memorial.  Some of that may be because there's an actual memorial on the grounds, to honor those caught in the bombing (our friend Steve points to an innocuous patch of grass and says, "It happened right there.").  There's something quietly reverent about that stretch of land between the Georgia Aquarium and the World Of Coke museum, as if they knew, like I know, that the Olympics are not just a sporting event.  It's one of those indescribable things.  

At the far end of the park, away from the noisy street and giant Coca-Cola bottles, there's a dancing fountain, where children in bathing suits run over the inset rings surrounded by the flags of nations.  When they scream, it sounds like cheering crowds.  Somehow, it couldn't feel more appropriate.

I Will Buy You a Garden Where Your Flowers Will Bloom

The flowers are in bloom in Wegerzyn Gardens, yet another part of the Five Rivers Metropark system.  As the parks go, it's not as vast as Cox Arboretum, or as deep as Carriage Hill, but there's a simple elegance to the flowers, and on this stuffy July day, it's refreshing to get out in the fresh air and hear the buzzing of the bees.

It so colorful.  Reds, blues, yellows, whites, and strange combinations of every color you can't name paint the walkways.  Little flying creatures buzz from one blossom to the next, bumblebees defying physics yet again, dragonflies zipping past your head so quickly you can't hardly see them, and the ever-present butterflies that were so exciting to see weeks ago and are now a lovely coincidence.  It's mostly quiet, save for the chirping insects and the odd, delighted squeals from the kids splashing around in the Children's Discovery Garden.

The garden feels like every book you ever loved as a child.  Over here, it's Alice in Wonderland.  With that lamp post, it's The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.  That barren field where the Ash Trees used to grow might just be Great Expectations, if only a bit more abstract. 

 

(You might not have loved Great Expectations as a child.  I wouldn't say that I loved Great Expectations as a child.  I can't even say that I love Great Expectations now, but it seemed, somehow, so appropriate.  Sorry.)

Next to the gardens is the boardwalk that takes you through the swamp.  It's cooler under the trees, but the branches hang on to the air, and the humidity clings to your skin like spiderwebs.  As do the actual spiderwebs.  Silk strands strung between the beams glisten under a captured ray of sunshine.  I do my best to avoid them, but I still feel the ghostly dance across the back of my hand, tugging on the hairs of my arm.  It's an eerie feeling, on of the reasons I hate spiderwebs.  (The other reason being SPIDERS.) 

Dirt paths lead away from the boardwalk, deep into the woods.  It's tempting, but the mosquitos are out in full force today - I've already got a bright red welt swelling on my pinky finger.  Perhaps another time, when I'm better prepared.

Like all good things, the children's Discovery Garden is infinitely cooler than anything else Wegerzyn has to offer.  Someday, when I'm rich and famous, I'm going to build a park where adults can get wet and dirty and stick their fingers into strange places and find little secret hidey-holes that they can crawl into and spy on people.  And a dinosaur.  Discovery is not just a child's medium.  I still like to play.

Having Just a Vision's No Solution; Everything Depends on Execution

In the artist's own words:

"If an artist can pain a picture of a landscape - art mimicking

 nature, then why not a sculptor creating a landscape

 of a work of art - nature mimicking art?"

-James T. Mason

And really, is there a better piece to render in landscape than Seurat's famous A Sunday Afternoon on the Isle of La Grand Jatee?  After all, the evergreen bush is a profoundly pointalist medium.  Stand up close, and it's just fragments of green and lines.  Stand far enough away, it can be anything you want.

This living art exhibit rests at the heart of Columbus' Old Deaf School Park, once the site of the Ohio School for the Deaf, established in 1829.  The school eventually changes locations, but the buildings remained.  Before the city was able to officially claim the location as a historic district in 1981, a fire swept through the park, destroying most of the school buildings and scarring the ground.  A year later, it finally achieved it's historic recognition, even though the reason for the award was now lost to time.  

But why the topiary?  Ask Mr. Mason's wife.  In the late 1980s, Elaine Mason asked her sculptor husband if he would create a topiary garden for their back yard.  But Mason's vision was too big to be contained by their back yard alone.  Now it's one of Columbus' most iconic locations.    

Planted in just 1989, the landscape is a touch under grown.  Wire umbrellas and top hats peek out from the tops of the tallest structures, the evergreen branches having not quiet reached those heights.  I should come back in a few years - I wonder how this park will look when all of it's people are fully grown.

I've never thought about topiary maintenance before. How often does someone have to come out here and trim back the bushes?  Do they have a little boat for the water?  Or do they pull on the galoshes and try to keep the duck poo out of their socks? 

The park is open from dawn to dusk every day.  When I come back (if I come back), I ought to come in the evening, if just to see the sun set on La Grand Jatee.

Cox Arboretum Metropark

Cox Arboretum is a part of Dayton's Five Rivers Metroparks system, the same system that contains previous destination Carriage Hill.  The park promises the gardens to be in full bloom these days - my house is surrounded by green trees these days, so I'm looking forward to a little bit of color. 

I pull into the parking lot, keeping a watchful eye out for Zip, the border collie who lives and works in the park.  There are signs around the grounds asking you the please not pet him, which breaks this dog-lovers heart just a little bit, but too much attention can confuse and distract the dog, and Zip's got a job to do - he's meant to chase away destructive geese, and it's hard to chase birds when he's busy being adored by strangers.  There's plenty here to distract a person, though.  Dragonflies float between the reeds while the many, many lily pads bob on the gently rippling water.  

So many turtles.  Turtles sun bathing on rocks, turtles resting on logs, and if they can't find a dry spot, they rest on top of the shallow-growing aquatic plants, poking their heads out of the water to catch the sun's rays.  A turtle scurries across the path in front of me, and plop!  Drops into the water.  I don't see where he goes.

The rock garden is full of colorful flowers and bumblebees and signs politely asking that you NOT step on the fragile plants.  The post up ahead says "This Way to the Butterfly House!" but I'm too early.  The house won't open for another week or so.  Through the screened walls I can still see the butterflies flutter by from bush to bush.

The park promises hiking, and behind the butterfly house is the entrance into the trail.  I'm immediately swallowed by daisies and black-eyed susans, trees and birdsong.  The rest of the park melts away - the busy Dayton streets are still close enough that the hum of running engines hangs as heavy in the air as the full leafy trees.  A car tire bursts, and the woods shudder.

On my way back to the entrance, I pass the best smelling seat in the house.

Back at the parking lot, there's a Zip sighting.  He's lazily making his way past a sudden rush of incoming well-dressed patrons, finding the shade cast by the roof of the educational center to be far more interesting.  I don't blame him - there are plenty of trees in this arboretum, but the sun is relentless today.  I can't touch, but I do take a picture, and appreciate the lack of geese.

Are You a Fan of Delicious Flavor?

How many ways can you photograph a pineapple?  Let's find out.

The roots of Oahu's pineapple plantation grow deep into November, 1899, When James Drummond Dole moved to Hawai'i with his eye set on becoming the Pineapple King, and by the end of his life, his fruit and his company made him arguably the most powerful man on the islands.  The Dole Plantation stands to honor his legacy, though it wasn't always the sprawling tourist attraction it is now.  It started life in 1950 as a humble fruit stand smack dab in the middle of the original pineapple field.  In 1989, the stand was transformed to resemble a plantation style homestead, a fabricated relic of the once great Pineapple Empire.

How would you think a pineapple grows?  I, perhaps naively, thought that maybe they grew on a vine, or that you dug them up out of the ground like a carrot, or maybe I didn't think about how they grew at all (though I've heard enough stories about pineapple trees to know that they definitely do not grow on trees).

I don't know what I thought I was going to see when I stepped into the presentational garden at the plantation, but I certainly wasn't expecting what I saw.  Pineapples grow on stalks.  Big fat fruits growing close to the ground, peeking out from a nest of long leaves.  Little baby pineapples perched precariously on their stalks, bobbing softly in the breeze.  Bright pink buds kissing the sweetened air, saying "Someday I, too, will be delicious."  It's quite a site.

There's a walkable garden stretching along the length of the (in)famous Pineapple Maze, featuring nearly every type of pineapple grown in the world, if not grown on the plantation.  The working fields reach much, much further.  The tour train chugs its way through the grounds.  We've never ridden it.  Maybe next time.

When you go, you absolutely must have the Dole Whip.  I'll admit I was dubious about the prospect of pineapple ice cream, but as it happens, it's the tastiest pineapple thing I've ever eaten.  Icy and refreshing, it's just what you need to cool down after walking through the pineapple maze, and it's not so creamy as to make you feel tired and heavy.  

Pineapple.  Good stuff.

Carriage Hill Metropark and Farm

Moo.

Carriage Hill used to be working farm in the late 1800s.  I suppose it still is, but I couldn't tell you what they're actually producing.  A visitors center explains the history of the farm itself, and the grounds have expanded to include a lake for fishing (plus helpful signs pointing out where the fish bite best) and spots for camping.  The farm itself offers horseback riding for the horseback inclined, and promises the opportunity to watch the farmers and costumed volunteers carryout their daily chores.

The old farm stands as it must have in 1880, though not all of the buildings are original.  A volunteer in period costume crosses the yard in front of me with a basket full of period laundry.

There were a few RVs at the campgrounds, and plenty of fishermen around the lake, but the farm itself had a decided lack of visitors.  Maybe it's too early in the season, or maybe it's too hot.  More likely this is a place that just doesn't get a lot of daily foot traffic.  The costumed volunteer from before passes right by me without a second look.  I bet she doesn't get a lot of questions about her job.

I suspect that, if I were the kind of person who camps regularly, or likes to spend an afternoon fishing, Carriage Hill would be my favorite place.  The air is clear and the grounds are quiet, and the park is far enough away from any major roads that the only thing you'll here is the wind through the trees and over the water.  I don't have the discipline to relax like that, and I have too much respect (read: fear) for nature to spend copious amounts of time in it.  

(I like nature.  I just like it at a distance.)

All in all, it's an easy going park that's not about to ask too much of you.  If you're looking for a laidback way to spend the afternoon, or you need a weekend "away from it all," you could do a lot worse than Carriage Hill.

Learn more about Carriage Hill at their website.