Philadelphia Flower Show Trip March 9 - 11, 2018

Water Landscape with Cherry Trees

Water Landscape Mountain Stream

Snow

Dear Reid and Claire,

Friday, March 9, we woke to five inches of new snow. Spence plowed our driveways, and I checked flight 4794 from Erie to Philadelphia. “On time.” We tossed our bags into the Subaru’s trunk, and I drove on the left side of West Creek Road, the only lane plowed. Signs on I 79 signs flashed "Winter Weather Advisory–Take Care.” I did. Every few miles I squirted fluid on the front and back windows. I also avoided passing when snow splotched the left lane. At Erie airport, I powered into a snowbank covering the back half of a parking space. Our American Eagle jet boarded on time but idled on the tarmac. A man in a cherry picker shot pink fog out of a hose. Pink slime covered the airplane wing and splatted my window. Two men in winter jackets ran bare hands along the edge of the wing, shook yuck off, and signaled thumbs up to the pilot. He accelerated the plane along a snow patched runway so fast I wanted to yell Winter Weather Advisory–Slow Down. The plane, bumping and wiggling, rose through clouds to a bright blue sky. Spence and I were off to visit the Philadelphia Flower Show.

Love,

Janet

Flowering Spring Bulb Mural

Country Mouse

Dear Joyce,

My reactions to visiting Philadelphia surprised me. Spence and I walked down 13th Street Friday. Sun-blocking skyscrapers towered higher than maples. Bicycles zipped along the sidewalk’s edge, cars zoomed across one way streets, and pedestrians zigzagged around us. I felt like a woods turtle in the middle of a weasel race. At Holiday Inn Express, the receptionist offered us a room on the seventeenth floor. I gasped. “Seventeenth?” The woman studied her computer screen. “Would you rather be on the ninth?” In room 909, I plopped into an easy chair. Whoop. Whoop. Whoop. “There’s an emergency in the building,” a voice announced. “Go to the fire stairs exit and wait while we investigate.” Whoop. Whoop. Whoop. I grabbed my coat and purse. Spence followed but said, “It’s only a drill. Didn’t you see the flier in the elevator?” I relaxed―until 2:00 a.m. Saturday. Cars honked. People sang. Men shouted. I bolted out of bed. “Is that a parade? Are people protesting?” Spence rolled over. “The bars just closed.” I climbed back into bed. Sheesh. I’d become a country mouse.

Love,

Janet

Jefferson Station Mural

Water Landscape -- Gutter and Tub

Water in Gardens

Water Landscapes Tropical Waterfall

Dear Julie,

Wonders of Water, the 2018 Philadelphia Flower Show, featured landscapes with flowing water. A cascading waterfall in a tropical forest greeted visitors at the entrance. Splashing mixed with a babble of languages numbering almost as many as the varieties of plants in the exhibit. People jockeyed for photo shots and craned their necks to view flower arrangements atop bamboo scaffolding. Other exhibits featured ponds―with water lilies, beside a wedding arch, in a Japanese garden, and for decoy ducks. An alert father grabbed his running toddler before the youngster splashed in. The water didn’t tempt me, but the row of chairs lining the back wall did. Like birds on a telephone wire, Spence and I perched on cushioned chairs with other senior citizens while fountains in a city park exhibit trickled. “We’ll meet you at the next set of chairs,” the woman next to us said when she left with her friend. My favorite landscape was the subtropical lagoon. With orchids and Spanish moss hanging from tree branches, the lagoon reminded me of visiting Mom and Dad in South Carolina. I expected to hear croaking frogs.

Love,

Janet

Water Landscape -- Spanish Moss and Orchids

Photos

Dear Sister Julie,

Fragrance of humus, orchids, and narcissus permeated the air at the Philadelphia Flower Show. Water trickled, a recording of tropical birds looped, and thousands of people murmured. Dazzling colors and dramatic shapes drew people’s focus through cell phone and camera lenses. Selfie sticks waved overhead. Again and again, I juggled my Nikon and camera bag to switch the wide angle lens for landscapes to the small zoom lens for individual flowers. Spence rescued me. “Give me the bag. Put the lens in your pocket.” That worked better. Most people waited while others took pictures. A few pushed in front and stepped into exhibits despite “Keep Off” signs. At the Zen garden, I discussed angles with the woman beside me. We took photos and changed places for more. Then I looked behind me to find Spence. He said, “You two were the same height and had the same hair color. I had to be careful which woman I followed.” By noon I had two hundred sixty-some photos and a dead battery. I grabbed my cell phone. Its focus wasn’t as sharp as the Nikon’s, but I didn’t have to switch lenses anymore.

Love,

Janet

Photos -- Taking and Posing

Zen Garden

Art

Art -- Tulle in Tubes

Art -- Pressed Plants

Dear Sophia,

The Philadelphia Flower Show could tour art museums. Hundreds of clear tubes hung above and between the exhibits demonstrating water recycling in the Delaware and Schuylkill watersheds. Tulle, in muted rainbow shades, dangled through each tube. I gawked at the lo-o-o-n-n-n-g tubes and hoped they were plastic not glass. Down the aisle, pictures of water plants looked so realistic I squinted to convince myself they were water colors not photos. The medium for other art? Plants. Greens formed an elephant next to a carpet of flowering mums. In the Design Gallery, visitors oohed at bouquets arranged to resemble paintings of the ocean. More impressive were pressed plant pictures made by artists of all ages―kindergarten students through professionals. They made water scenes including fish, mermaids, and a girl with her dog by a stream. I baby-stepped right and left to get a photo of the pressed plant girl without the overhead light reflections. People streamed around me and many exclaimed, “The girl only got second prize? That’s not fair!” I agreed. The picture is awesome.

Love,

Janet

Fantasy Landscapes

Dear Nancy,

Spence and I flew to Philadelphia and joined ten thousand other people at the Flower Show. By the tropical waterfall, I focused my zoom lens on orchids and birds of paradise. He watched people. “You ought to get this young couple taking a selfie with their baby.” I grabbed my wide angle lens. The wife raised her selfie stick. The husband held the baby between them. She snapped the photo of them with a green tropical background before I attached the lens. Spence chuckled, and we moseyed on. I inhaled fragrance of humus, and he pointed to blooming joe-pye weed and rhododendron. “They don’t bloom in the same season.” I wedged my way to the mountain stream exhibit. Spence followed. Jostling and bumping elbows, he said, “I’ve never been this intimate with so many strangers.” At the wedding exhibit, complete with pond, hanging terrariums, and floating candles, Spence stared at ferns beside carnations and hydrangeas. “They’ve got shade plants growing beside sun plants.” Magic. Master gardeners crafted fantasy landscapes which pleased a crowd weary of winter.

Love,

Janet

Bird of Paradise

Tropical Flowers -- Orchids

Butterflies One

Birdwing on Girl's Sweatshirt

Tree Nymph on Netting

Dear Aunt Audrey,

I wouldn’t leave the Philadelphia Flower Show without visiting Butterflies Live! So after 8½ hours gawking at plants, Spence and I trudged to the exhibit. A line curled between ropes and continued down the concourse. We hiked to the end. A man behind us said, “The eggs laid right now will be hatched for us to see.” We inched forward, pushed through two sets of plastic chains, and received cotton swabs soaked in sugar water. With the instructions, “Tickle the butterflies feet and be careful where you step,” we passed through more chains and entered a butterfly dystopia. Artificial grass and netting outlined a 40 X 80 X 8 foot space occupied butterflies, clusters of potted plants, and two hundred or so people. People wore butterflies on their clothes, arms, and faces. Some butterflies fluttered through the crowd. Most hung on nets. After hours of being prodded with swabs, their feet were sated and exhausted. Though sad for the butterflies in their sterile cage, I mirrored the crowd’s sparkling eyes and broad smiles. The tickle of butterfly feet on my hand was worth the forty-minute wait.

Love,

Janet

Butterflies Two

Dear Lori and Eliza,

At the Philadelphia Flower Show, Spence and I crowded into the live butterfly exhibit with young couples and families with children. Tall people had an advantage. They reached anywhere with their sugar-water soaked swabs and coaxed butterflies off the tent’s netting. I tempted butterflies off the sides or drooping overhead sections. A toddler waved a swab in front of her waist. Holding a monarch on my swab, I crouched. “Would you like this butterfly?” She nodded and held out her fist. “Do you want it on your hand?” She nodded again. I touched her fist with the swab. The monarch walked onto the back of her hand. She shrieked and flung her arm backward. The monarch zoomed away. “The butterfly tickled me,” I said. “Did it hurt you?” The toddled sobbed. Her older sister held her shoulders. Her mom turned to me. “She’s okay. She’s frightened of butterflies.” Hoping the toddler would outgrow her fear, I offered butterflies to elementary school children―a zebra longwing, a tiger swallowtail, and a clipper. They thanked me with smiles that radiated through their cheeks and eyes.

Love,

Janet

Clipper on Spence's Swab

Tiger Swallowtail on My Hand

Opa

Food and Flowers -- Roses and Radishes

Orchid in a Tea Cup

Dear Jeanette,

On line, three Philadelphia restaurants looked promising for my no dairy, no soy diet. Friday Spence and I tried Bru Craft & Wurst, a German pub. Blaring music, loud TVs, and shouting drunks made our heads ache. Trout listed on the Internet wasn’t offered. We walked to Opa, a Greek restaurant with soft, soul music and quiet conversation. The manager suggested three entrées for me. Spence and I settled in a candle lit booth and savored every bite―charred broccoli, gyro lamb, and Yards draft for him. Marinated olives and grilled dorade for me. At the next table, a waiter flicked a lighter. Whoosh! A flame leapt a foot off a cheese dish. I whispered, “I’m glad they ordered that.” The woman said, “You’re welcome.” Saturday night, after 10½ hours at the flower show, we trudged to six restaurants. Wait until 9:30 or no food for me. So, exhausted, we walked back to Opa and sat at the bar. The manager saw us and grinned. “What have you been doing since I saw you last?” We laughed. While I ate lamb and Spence enjoyed cheese and souvlaki, we watched the bar tender whirl about mixing drinks―a true artist.

Love,

Janet