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Gene Stratton-Porter is addressing a room full of visitors at her new retreat located on the island of Catalina. It is a hot July afternoon in 1924. Mrs. Stratton-Porter wears jodphurs, a man's shirt open at the collar and knee-high leather boots. Earlier in the day, she fell on some rocks and injured her hand, which is now wrapped in a crude bandage. In the play, the 61 year old naturalist/novelist/photographer has been remembering her youth at Hopewell, the family farm, and how her parents' beautiful estate was destroyed by those who had no appreciation of its beauty. The greatest guilt she felt in life was her own failure to save the farm. In this excerpt, she begins with a discussion of another treasure that was lost, and of her own exploration of the great Limberlost swamp in Indiana. Mrs. Stratton-Porter: After Mr. Porter and I built our home at Geneva in 1895, I spent years exploring this incredible expanse- sludging my way through the thick morass, photographing and describing the most unique and beautiful birds, moths and butterflies-- writing nature books and novels recording my experiences and impressions-- and doing all that I could possibly have done to save it from pillage at the hands of men. Those twenty-five thousand acres of marshland were filled with the enigma of life in so many fantastic- even bizarre manifestations. I'm afraid that Mr. Porter gave me a difficult time when it came to my fascination with that frightful place. And I suppose I should be thankful for his concern. Facing the perils of the Limberlost was a bit risky, and entirely senseless to my husband. It was filled with shadow and darkness, with no paths or roads to follow. A good sense of direction was propitious, to say the least. There were swarms of blood-hungry insects and countless rattlesnakes- I came within one sloppy step of death more times than I care to imagine. Why, I wore a pistol on my hip. And I never thought twice about using it. Oh, I took my lumps, all right. But the dividends far outweighed the danger. And I loved every single moment. The stunning beauty of God's creation-- the intrigue and adventure of discovering it .... that was truly an incredible period of my life. You know, looking back I realize more and more what the passages have meant. The farm instilled responsibility- a love of nature and beauty, along with a sense of my own capabilities. My years at Geneva and the Limberlost gave me the inspiration to exercise those capabilities and establish my career. Geneva! I thoroughly enjoyed that magnificent red cedar log home. I devoted a great deal of attention to the grounds and cultivated them in careful consideration of various birds and insects. I relished many hours in the library, the music room and the conservatory. And I do believe that I even fancied an hour or two in the kitchen. Now, I may not be the best cook in the world. However, I am a devoted master of the Great Attempt. What else can I tell you but that sometimes it worked, and some other times ... well, I can recall baking a loaf of bread that turned out just a bit too ... heavy. In fact, I drove nails into it and hired two neighborhood boys to haul it off. No, I'm afraid that my kitchen wasn't exactly a studio of artistic endeavor ..... at least not for cooking. I developed a number of photographs using the sink and various dusty pans, but I never found much inspiration in the preparation of a meal. Some people do, and I admire them for it. There is an art to good cooking. But it's not for me. Never-the-less, I'm always amazed- and I really do appreciate all the ways there are for people to express a creative urge. (She laughs.) Having been married to a prominent pharmacist and banker for so many years, I've come to know a good many people who have mastered the fine art of mingling and hobnobbing in high society. Lord knows why, but they love it. Just between you and me, I cannot tolerate such nonsense. The way they circulate and fraternize--- and they gossip like mad. They say "la-de-da" and "toodle-oo" and I say hogwash. It's an art, all right. But they can have it. My studio- my cathedral- is the world outside. The forests, fields and swamps. The oceans and mountains. While living in Geneva, my studio of fine art was the Limberlost. And when it came to the great swamp, there was nothing that I craved more than to photograph its numerous forms of life. Now, I don't mind telling you that I'm a perfectionist when it comes to using a camera. Photography is no small passion of mine, and I give it every single bit of detailed attention that I give my writing. And when I know what I want to capture on film, there is no time wasted. During my years at the Limberlost, I would pull on my jodphurs and boots, strap on my pistol, gather up my photographic equipment, and- after bribing some poor soul to accompany me- and I say that with guarded enthusiasm, for one of them was my husband- I'd slowly trudge my way into the swamp. After reaching my destination, I would study various angles available to the camera's eye. The contours of shadow- the contrast of light and dark- the composition and depth created by objects between the subject and my point-of-view. The weather and time of day were extremely important. And- many times after hours of painstaking work and incredible patience, I would manage to seize a single moment in nature that would be forever frozen in time. A moment of great feeling, beauty and life. These are precious moments molded by the hand of God. But the cruel domination of industry made short work of them. (She sits.) Those were difficult years. It's not the most comfortable feeling, having to stand by and watch the decimation of something so precious- something so irreplaceable. Oh, I did everything that I could ..... but those unique enthusiasms of mankind are an impressive foe. In spite of my efforts to save it, the swamp was becoming smaller with every passing day, and the wildlife was disappearing with it. My desperation was becoming unbearable, and I began to long for a change. Well. For some time, I had been vacationing every year in Rome City, Indiana- at Sylvan Lake. I had always felt close to the place. In 1881, at eighteen years of age, I attended my first of many annual chautauquas at Island Park. Why, in 1884, I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Porter during that splendid event. And the country was always so beautiful. Even in 1912, much of the woods and fields were relatively untouched. By then, some of my best work had already been accomplished there. And that summer, an incredible inspiration suddenly struck me like a bolt of lightning. I would build a home on Sylvan Lake ..... no, not just a home. A retreat for myself. And a refuge for the natural world. Every single besieged living thing would be welcome. Every priceless particle of creation would be cherished and preserved. This estate is the realization of my greatest passion-- built piece by piece from the vision of that dream. Its name is Wildflower Woods. If it were not for the cold winter weather and the fact that I can no longer tolerate Indiana all the year 'round, I'd be there now. Of course, since moving to California in 1919, I enjoy extended visits now and then. I can only go for so long without my Wildflower Woods. Such lovely trees - beech, tulip and oak, to name just a few. Flowering shrubs, bittersweet vine and waves of lush green myrtle. Squirrels and rabbits, racoon and possum. Insects by the buzzing million. And birds! Day in and day out, for years I spent so many wonderful hours with the birds. And all of us together enjoyed the comfort and freedom of living in the only true safe-haven I have known since Hopewell. But unfortunately, no haven is immune to invasion. There is a price to be paid for fame. And in spite of all I had done to assure privacy, there were other more bizarre animals that came about. They were an uninvited species- mostly of the human kind, but sometimes far too curious and rude to immediately recognize. Usually, the plan of attack was hap-hazardly applied ..... yet persistent. Most of the time they would make the obvious approach- across the lake, paddling tiny boats- disguised as hardy fishermen- conversing loudly in clear ignorance of how the human voice carries over water. One afternoon my secretary and I were sitting on the porch, when we suddenly overheard such a delightful statement from a small rowboat some fifty yards from the shore: "Look, that's her house-- with two ladies on the porch. Tell me, do you think Mrs. Porter is the fat one or the skinny one?" End excerpt. "A Song In The Wilderness" - Copyright 1995 by Lawrence Gard - All Rights Reserved. |