Wow, this is delightful: returning from a vacation to a full comment box. I'll have to go away more often. :o) Thanks, everyone.
We did return safely from our vacation to Iowa. We got back at about four-thirty this afternoon. Our yard looks like toast, despite faithful watering by my grandparents. My poor little potted rosebush has lost all its leaves and flowers, but the stems are still green, so perhaps it will live.
In the following post, I will attempt to do what Anna wisely did
not attempt: to describe a place without using pictures. I apologize ahead of time for the flowery language, similes, etc. It is my hope that, despite (or perhaps because of) all the details, you will be able to gain a little bit of the wonder I had at the amazing beauty and diversity of God's Creation.
For the past week, we've been gone to Crooked Creek Christian Camp, one of the RP Midwest Presbytery family camps. For the first stage of the journey, Sarah was with us. After camp, her family came and picked her up to take her with them to Chicago. As a result, I drove home with just my family. We took the long way back from Iowa through Missouri. On the way, we stopped in St. Louis and spent yesterday (August 4) sightseeing there. This is the lion's portion of my journal entry from that day.
August 4, 2006
This morning, after eating breakfast in the hotel, I helped my father pack the car. We drove from our hotel on the outskirts of St. Louis into the city itself to spend the day sightseeing at the St. Louis Botanical Gardens and the St. Louis Zoo. The suburban sprawl became gleaming office parks, which in turn became old turn-of-the-century row houses, old brick hospitals and churches, and narrow streets. We got a little lost on the way, but we finally managed to find the St. Louis Botanical Gardens, located in a large park. The cottonwoods on the edge of the park were showing heat stress, and some had been felled by a big storm.
The Botanical Gardens are a lovely place. We visited them before, several years ago, on a moist day when we were some of the only people. Today it was hot and sunny, and there were more people about. Outside the main building, we lined up to buy tickets. The main building is a large, white, two-story affair, elegant and sleek, with a high glass atrium in front. This year the Gardens is hosting (yes, that’s correct grammar :o) an exhibition by Dale Chihuly, a glass blower. Inside the atrium a long shining chandelier was hanging as part of this exhibition. Spirals and curls of blue and white glass flashed and sparkled in the hot morning sunshine, like a tower of water. After we bought our tickets, we walked through the atrium and into the gardens. On the way, we passed under another part of the exhibition: over the doors to the gardens, orange-and-red fluted “plates” had been installed on top of the glass ceiling.
We stepped outside onto the main terrace. Here, a high white fountain shot plumes of water into the air. A set of blue crystal blocks stood on a metal pole in the middle of the fountain, like chunks of ice. We turned to the left and walked down the side of a greenhouse, along three pools full of waterlilies. Purple, pink, and cream lilies floated on broad pads. Among them, in the shallow, dark water, glass balls floated. The balls had been given an iridescent finish and shone like dragonflies’ eyes. At the end of the series of pools was an herb garden, enclosed by high brick walls. A metal “tree” held a collection of bells in one corner, and as the wind blew, the bells filled the small garden with round syllables of sound. Philip and Stephen stopped to tease a sensitive plant, running their fingers up the thin stems to make the little leaves fold together. My parents and Laura brushed their hands through thick beds of thyme, bay, and mint. The smells of herbs hung warm and spicy in the quiet corners of the garden.
From the herb garden, we stepped out onto a wet lawn. Planted on the lawn, in a huge web of beds and paths, was the rose garden. The roses were enclosed in a white fence, and at either end, white gates covered by arched trellises. Another part of the exhibition decorate the gates: spines and curlicues of gold and orange glass shot out from the curving arches above the gates like rays of the sun. We wandered through the rose garden. Fat bees bumbled among the flowers, too busy with their work to notice us. Laura and I smelled rose after rose—sweet scents, tea, citrus. When the wind raked over the masses of petals, the high, wild smell was intoxicating.
A broad path led from the rose garden toward another trio of symmetrical pools. These pools were much larger than the ones along the greenhouse, broad, flat sheets of water. In each of the pools, metal statues stood on pedestals—statues from Greek mythology, winged Hermes and sad nymphs. The two side pools were long rectangles in which waterlilies floated, maroon and purple. But the center pool was round, and in it floated gigantic lily pads, similar to the Amazonian lily pads that are large enough to hold a child. These pads were thick and flat, with little ruffled lips around their edges. In all three pools, bobbing among the waterlilies, were glass figures shaped like onions: round, rising to a point with a curlicue on top. They were veined with color—peacock and butterfly blue, viridescent green, crimson and saffron. The hot sunshine glowed on their fat sides and flashed on their curly tops. Nearby, my mother found another pool with glass in it—this time, it was an old wooden boat, full of blue and purple glass figures which curved and dipped and sprayed over the sides of the boat, flashing like gigantic fish.
Our next stop was the Climatron. The Climatron is an enormous geodesic dome which houses a jungle greenhouse. The sides of the dome are glass, shaped like the segments of a honeycomb. From the hot, dry air outside, we entered the jungle climate. This was the main part of the Chihuly exhibition. Hidden among the plants, glass sculptures mimicked the plants’ forms, blending beautifully. The sheer number of species housed in the jungle greenhouse, plus the varied shapes and colors of the glass artwork, was rather overwhelming. We were immediately greeted by a blue, flowerlike form in a blue vase, nestled against the backdrop of a creek. Then I discovered round yellow shapes with crystal knobs running around their edges, nestled under the lush leaves of hostas like little fat yellow frogs. The jungle house was full of smells and sights. I smelled something like rancid potatoes (potato plants did grow in there), ginger, cinnamon, and mildew. The roar of waterfalls, the splash of streams, and the constant whirr of huge fans droned against my ears. The air was still, hot, and humid. My feet slipped on the slick concrete paths which wound up and down among the plants. Behind me, my mother kept stopping to look at the plants and tell whoever would listen about their curious habits. I kept exploring. Slender glass rods, blue as shadows, stood against a backdrop of yellow bamboo stems. Red rods shot up like young maple twigs under low-growing trees. Glass sculptures that looked rather like octopuses coiled out of odd nooks, their tentacles glowing yellow or teal. Glass fountained out of a palm tree, its leaves cropped so that the curls of glass could trickle down its green trunk—crimson, blue, and yellow, as though the tree were shooting out rays of sun. Three rounded balls floated on a still, shallow pool, surrounded by tiny, round leaves of pale green weed. Their sides were slick and spotted green and gold, like frogs’ skins. Suspended from the ceiling, clusters of glass balls hung over the royal and sentry palm trees. Their surfaces were iridescent with silver glaze, streaked and swirled with color—like bubbles of water, or huge pendulous fruits. Epiphyte roots trailed down from a trellis, tickling my face. Sunlight through the windows flashed on the broad, flat leaves of hostas and hooded lilies. Orchids spouted freckled faces from an old tree trunk. Tucked away under a clump of cycads, I found a series of glass sculptures like pale green trumpets with fluted mouths, springing upright from the damp ground. Stephen and I watched a little black jungle bird, perched underneath one of the cycads, as it preened and sang to itself. I took pictures of banana trees fanned against the glass ceiling like Egyptian hieroglyphs, and of a tree with flowers like fuzzy pink chenille sleeves. In one corner, Laura found rice, ginger, and avocados growing together. My father pointed out a yellow-and-white flower that was one of his particular favorites: called the “shrimp” flower, long white petals projected like shrimp’s legs from a cluster of upright yellow petals. Along the path, I found more glass “vases” with glass flowers in them, hidden under fringed leaves. A pair of red-and-white trumpet shaped glass sculptures poked up among thick bamboo stalks. Standing in a still, green pond, bronze-tinted sculptures shaped like herons, with long, curving bodies and protruding heads, bent toward the water. Their reflections floated like dead leaves on the surface of the stagnate pond. Beside a waterfall, a long green sculpture curled like the fiddle of a fern, and below the falls, glass sculptures shaped like Mexican hats spouted from a rocky hollow. Their broad “brims” were speckled bright green, like round petals of algae. My mother found a silk floss tree, to her delight, inch-long thorns sticking out of its trunk. An Australian tree fern stretched a delicate tracery of rounded leaves against the glass ceiling. Deep pink Japanese lantern flowers hung low over the path, their petals curving like calligraphic strokes, veined with yellow.
We left the Climatron, the roar of water and rush of fans behind us, and entered the gift shop. Here, glass bowls were on display, glowing against a plain wall. Their lips were fluted like giant clam shells, and tipped upward to catch the light.
We went through the gift shop into the temperate house, another greenhouse, this one shaped like a glass triangle, with a long, sloping roof. We walked under a trellis whose wooden beams supported more flat, fluted glass plates. The sun dappled our faces with splashes of red, yellow, and pink. The temperate house was dry and hot, just like our climate at home in Oklahoma. I recognized many of the plants: impatiens, huckleberries, calla lilies, geraniums, asters, lantanas, begonias, cyclamen, clematis. We entered a Mediterranean courtyard with a Moorish fountain in the middle. White star roses bloomed in the corners of the courtyard. Blue-and-white tiles were set into the adobe walls. We walked past masses of oleander and silvery germander. An olive tree stretched welcoming limbs over the path, its stiff, grayish leaves flashing dully in the hot sunshine. Stephen and I poked the spongy bark of a cork tree. There were more glass sculptures in here, too: another yellow “octopus” stretching curly leaves outward like a dessicated desert plant, “tumbleweeds” suspended from the ceiling (they lit up at night with neon blue and pink), a lovely teal-and-blue bowl nestled among dry desert grasses, its lip tinted crimson. Dark green “trumpets” sprang from the ground near a stand of long-limbed fir and spruce trees.
After the temperate house, we walked to a small café, housed in the home gardening center, where we ate lunch. My father bought sandwiches for lunch. Afterwards, my mother and I walked around outside. The area around the café and gardening center was set up with examples of various types of landscaping. My mother found a cute fountain in which statues of cavorting otters were poised. We also found a little hidden garden tucked away behind a high hedge.
Having finished lunch, we started off again. My parents both put on their sunglasses and the floppy sun hats they’d bought at Wal-Mart. We briefly explored the Chinese garden. Near the pagoda, gardenias perfumed the air with a heavy, sweet smell. Mosaics of cranes and sunrises were set in the concrete walk, which ran around a pool full of worm-and-wind-eaten rocks. From the Chinese garden, we walked along the edge of the landscaping plots. A wild slope was full of sumac and midwestern wildflowers, and the familiar meadow smell of sweet clover and drying grass blew on the wind. On the other side of the path, low beds held coral bells and bishop’s hats.
Our goal was the Japanese garden, which we found easily. The Japanese garden stretches along the banks of a small lake: serene, perfect, the spires of carefully-manicured trees reflected in dark green water. We crossed a stream on broad, flat rocks and walked around the shore of the lake. A bridge curved like a half-moon spanned the water from the shore to an island. Hanging under the bridge was another Chihuly piece: a red “chandelier”, curving petals spewing outward like dragon’s fire. A long, shelving beach covered with large, grey-blue pebbles ran down to the water. As we walked along the shore of the lake, we entered patches of deep shadow under cypress and pine trees. We found little pagodas and stone statues nestled among the trees, their grey silhouetted artistically against the bronze-red bark of writhen pine trees. Small fountains made of slender bamboo sections trickled invitingly in shadowy nooks, where stone lamps swung from supporting branches.. Philip, Laura, and Stephen explored a wooden zig-zag bridge which ran out along the shore of the lake. In some places, white gravel had been raked into swirling geometric patterns beside the concrete path. As the wind rose, copper maple leaves like tiny stars bobbed against the bright blue sky. Sweet, spicy smells blew to us from the cypress and pine trees, with a roar like distant oceans. Around a curve in the path, my mother, Laura, and Stephen investigated a tea house hidden under the deep shadows of low-growing pine trees. Thick moss grew on the ground, damp and cool. My father and I walked on a ways, and we discovered a broad bed of lotuses growing in the shallow water of the lake. Most of the flowers had dissolved into broad, flat seed pods, but some of the flowers were still in bloom—elegant, pale pink and white, their long petals ruffled by the wind.
Having strolled all the way around the lake, we entered the English forest. Here, the hardy, meditative beauty of the Japanese garden was replaced by the fragile blooms of tiny forest flowers nestled under huge trees. Oak, ash, and beech trees towered thickly against the sky, their gigantic trunks like the pillars of fairytale castles. Delicate flowers clustered between their roots, flowers with fanciful names, with round, heart-shaped leaves and pale petals: dragon root, toad lily, goat’s beard, fairy wings, hellebore, Solomon’s seal, fairy bells, virgin’s bower, bear’s breeches, magic lily, forget-me-not, lily-of-the-valley. Hosta bells dangled on long, arching stalks. Equisetum (horse’s tails) marched like long, stiff, green spears in a low, marshy spot. Dogwoods grew in low bushes under the taller trees. Ferns threw feathery shadows on the path. I found a shelter tucked away among the trees. As I sat down, the smell of cedar wood flowed from the peeled boards. Strips of juniper bark fluttered on the wind from the rough roof. Curving branches had been pieced together to form elaborate, Elvish tracery around the walls of the shelter, so that the walls were made of strong, wooden veining. We sat and rested in the shelter for awhile before leaving the English forest.
Laura wanted to visit the Victorian gardens before we left, so that was our last stop. The Victorian gardens surround the old buildings in the Botanical Gardens—an old mansion, an observatory, and some buildings which are now used for research. We crossed another smooth lawn, and were greeted by a shout of color from a bed beside the old mansion. It was as though a host of Hawaiian birds had descended on the grass. A riot of colorful flowers had been arranged in the geometric network of beds. Fluorescent orange, crimson, purple, bright blue, and magenta flowered in thick borders. A couple of cycads stood like green fountains over the colorful chaos. In the middle of the garden was a white statue of Juno, standing firm and commanding over the beds. From this garden we walked to the maze, which Laura and Stephen were eager to try, though Stephen was feeling a bit ill from being out in the sun and having stayed up too late the night before. Philip and I climbed up into the observatory, an open, wooden building with a curving spiral stair leading to a balcony. From the balcony, we could look down onto the maze, a labyrinth of trimmed boxwood hedges. Beyond the maze, a line of stately cypress trees dripped deep shade on the grass. Beside the mansion, a smoke tree bloomed with pink, feathery flowers.
We walked back to the main building through daylily and iris gardens. Both types of flowers were long past blooming, most of their leaves snipped short to the ground.
Back at the main building, we rested a bit, then got into the car. I sipped water from my water bottle, but it was nearly boiling hot. We drove to the St. Louis Zoo. Parking was nine dollars, but the zoo itself is free—and one of the most wonderful zoos I’ve ever been in.
The main building gives one the impression of being a Grand Central Station: people going and coming without any orderly lines, rooms branching off into a labyrinth of ecological and educational displays, and enormous plastic models of gaping sea creatures dangling from the high ceiling—sharks, squid, and whales. We spent the rest of the afternoon taking a leisurely tour of half the zoo.
Our first stop was the penguin house. We had a wait to get in, but it was well worth it. I took pictures of Laura and Stephen sitting outside the penguin house, beside a pool where four or five small black-and-white speckled penguins were gaily paddling through the water. While we waited in line, Stephen and I giggled at the penguins’ antics as they toddled clumsily over the broad, flat stones along the side of their pool, then plopped into the water. Inside the penguin house, the air was freezing cold. A narrow path ran between two large tanks of water. Both tanks were lined with rock against the wall—and both tanks were swarming with penguins. A colony of king penguins had gathered on one side of the path, on a rocky “beach”. These penguins look sleek and trim: their black wings and head fade to stately grey, then the typical white tuxedo on their breasts, with elegant yellow trim. Most of the king penguins were engaged in sleeping or preening themselves. Occasionally, one of them would stick out its wings, stretch up its neck, and give a long, croaking cry, which made all the other penguins look around.
Then there were the gentoo penguins. These were a little smaller than the king penguins. They were black and white, with black-and-white freckles over their heads and upper chest. The gentoo penguins had collected in another group aside from the king penguins. Some of the gentoo penguins bobbed in the water. They seemed to take great delight in paddling on their sides, diving under, and then suddenly emerging to splash all their “guests” in the face. One of them wobbled on its side, flapping its fins and kicking its webbed feet. Stephen, Laura, and I squealed when one particular penguin gleefully splashed us several times. Another penguin bobbed like a fat wine bottle in the water, ducking its head up and down, watching us as curiously as we were watching it.
The funniest penguins to watch were the rockhoppers. They were the littlest, fattest penguins. They bobbed and tumbled through the water, like balls of blubber. They were smooth black-and-white like the king penguins, not freckled like the gentoo penguins. But over their eyes they had yellow “eyebrows” that made them appear to frown grumpily, and just above where there ears were, yellow tufts of feathers protruded, making them look as though they’d just woken up. They looked ridiculously grumpy, and were absurdly fat. Four or five of them spent the whole time racing through the water, diving through tunnels under the path, appearing on the other side, then swimming through the circle again. They zipped fast through the water, occasionally splashing us. Whenever one of them wanted to climb out of the water, they had to use their beaks as well as their feet. They were so short and fat that they couldn’t climb very well. Once they were on the rocks, they hopped like wind-up toys, wings stuck out clumsily on either side. We all spent a long time in the penguin house, laughing at the penguins’ antics, following them as they swam through the water.
After the penguins, we visited the bears: black, brown, spectacled, and polar. The polar bear was lounging in her deep pool and chewing boredly on a red ball. We peered into the big apes’ outdoor cages, but didn’t see any of them. It was three-thirty, and the sea lions were being fed. Us kids pressed up around the sea lion pen. A ring of people had gathered around the pen, thronged against the fence to watch the four sea lions take their meal. Two zoo keepers stood on the shore of the pen. A broad, deep pool occupied most of the pen, but the sea lions had clambered out onto a couple of rock outcroppings in the middle of the pool. They bobbed and ducked their heads to catch the fish the keepers threw to them. They grunted and chuckled to one another, flapping their fins. After they had been feed, I watched them for a long time. They zoomed gracefully through the water, occasionally raising their heads to take a snuffling breath. Their whiskers beaded with water. Their sleek bodies whirled through the water, gleaming under the surface.
Next we visited the otters. These were also a big hit. There were two parents and two pups, the pups about three months old. They played in the water, tumbling and wrestling together. Their strong tails lashed the water into a lather. As we watched the otters, a young couple came up to the fence. The man had on a grey shirt, and the otters ran up to the fence to peer through it at him. The otters ran with a long, loping gait, their hunched backs lengthening over the grass. We went over to watch. The otters’ broad, flat faces eyed us eagerly through the chain links. They chirped and grunted to one another. The mother and two pups wrestled while the father stared at us hungrily until a pair of keepers (the same women who’d just fed the sea lions) appeared. The keepers tossed fish to the otters, calling them by name. The father, a large, muscular male otter, was named Grover, and the mother, slightly smaller and sleeker, was named Lilo. The two pups were too young still to have names, not being sober enough to sit still for a medical examination. When the keeper tossed fish to Grover, the big otter dragged the fish over the grass and sat down on his back in the water, cradling the fish between his four paws and gnawing hungrily on its head with sharp teeth. A stain of blood trickled into the water. Lilo shared her fish with the two rascally pups. I was surprised by how big the otters were: I’d never seen one so close out of the water. My mother asked the keepers questions about otters. The head keeper said that river otters have returned to normal population in the wild, but that sea otters are having a harder time rebounding. Sea otters are almost twice as large as these river otters, and I was amazed: that would make sea otters at least as large as a beagle or other small hunting dog.
While we watched the otters, I heard a strange, brassy sound coming from a nearby pen. I ran over and was surprised and delighted to discover a pair of trumpeter swans. The two majestic birds were trumpeting noisily in their pool under a cypress tree. I’d never heard a trumpeter swan before.
Next, my mother wanted to visit the Herpetarium. The Herpetarium was one of several old, turn-of-the-century buildings at the zoo. Inside, the Herpetarium has an atrium with a glass ceiling. Columns support the glass ceiling, and round, Victorian-style glass lamps hang from the columns. The area under the glass ceiling is divided into two watery pens: one for three caimans (which were so still that they looked dead) and another for a host of Asian turtles. Glass cages around the edge of the Herpetarium house other reptiles. Stylized snakes, turtles, and chameleons decorated balustrades, metal railings, and columns. Their spines and scales were edged with gilt. Cobra heads fountained out of the capitals of columns among stone foliage. Laura and I glanced briefly around the Herpetarium, then sat down near the glass atrium, dozing exhaustedly until my mother roused us.
Laura wanted to visit the apes, so we strolled to the Primate House next door. The Primate House is another turn-of-the-century building, with fanciful gilt curlicues, columns, and wrought-iron railings. The Primate House smelled more strongly than the Herpetarium of animals and mildew. The small monkeys were more interesting than the snakes. I watched a couple of lemurs eating their lunch. A pair of beautiful grey monkeys (dusky-leafed monkeys) perched high up in their cage and groomed each other, occasionally turning huge, lamplike eyes on us.
After the monkeys, I begged that we make one last stop and visit the big cats. The lions were off display, but we did see a few other cats: a sleepy puma, and a pair of drowsing snow leopards. A majestic amur leopard sat on a rock, watching everyone who passed by. The tiger was sad, though: the muscular, orange-and-black creature paced restlessly back and forth on a short, worn path.
Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped by the giraffes. On the way, we passed a variety of hoofed creatures—gazelles, antelopes, tapir, zebras. The zoo has four young giraffes, most of them fairly active. Their hides were deep brown with creamy veining, like water over dark rocks. They watched us interestedly from long necks. A pair of ostriches and a couple of antelope shared their cage. The female ostrich stared aggressively at us above the cage wall, her grey head with its ridiculously long eyelashes sticking up like a periscope.
After the giraffes, we took a straight route back. On the way, I saw the spectacled owl and a gorgeous eagle. We passed the prairie dog cage. A pair of prairie dogs nuzzled together, chirping gently to one another. Other prairie dogs dug busily or stood on guard. I laughed at the sign which informed us solemnly that prairie dogs are endangered—I thought of the bustling colony of prairie dogs in a park in Lawton where my father and I ate lunch on Sabbath afternoons when we went on a trip together.
As we entered the main building, loud, harsh cries rang from the sea lions’ pen.
After the zoo, we drove to our hotel for the evening. The one-hour drive actually took two hours because the highway resembled a parking lot. I occupied myself by watching everyone in the other cars, and by collecting license plates from other states. With the help of Philip, Laura, and Stephen, I collected plates from Arizona, Missouri, Wisconsin, Illinois, Kansas, Oklahoma, Virginia, Alabama, California, Utah, Texas, Pennsylvania, Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, Mississippi, Michigan, New York, Ontario, and Alaska.
