Philadelphia Weekly

Well, me dearies, the shadows are lengthening, the evenings are growing crisp and the skies are becoming more brood-worthy with each day. I've even detected the first spicy whiffs of decay in my flower beds--all of which tells me this is the final installment of my summer stint here at PW.

But before I go, I'd like to call attention to the botanical pleasures that await us in the colder months to come.

In late September and early October there's one last rare wildflower to relish: the late-blooming Pine Barrens Gentian. In late autumn, when tick season has finally subsided (a bit), we will start venturing into the deeper reaches of the cedar bogs of the Pine Barrens.

After that we have the orchid nursery sales of early December. My favorite sales take place at the old family-run nurseries like Waldor Orchids in Linwood, N.J., which, thanks to years of stowaway plants and animals coming in from tropical nurseries, have unintentionally spawned miniature ecosystems within their decades-old greenhouses: tree frog colonies, odd ferns in the corners, tropical orchids naturalizing in the rafters, the works. It's heaven under glass, worth a visit in itself.

Soon after this my cool shade-loving Paphiopedilum slipper orchids start to bloom in my Wardian case, just in time for the holidays.

But my favorite plant-related pastime in the very dead of winter is visiting the Morris Arboretum's Dorrance H. Hamilton Fernery. Built in 1899, it's the only remaining freestanding Victorian fernery in North America. Over the years the gemlike, tortoiseshell-shaped glass roof slowly fell into serious disrepair, and was replaced in the 1950s with a conventional A-shaped roof. But in 1994 the fernery was finally restored to its original lapidary glory.

Go on the bitterest day you can stand. With its thick stone foundation set deep into the ground, its gracious form is nuzzled into the bare sloping hillside like a green gem in a belly dancer's navel. With the burnt orange winter sun raking across the hill, you'll be compelled to peer into the glass canopy, whose condensation-obscured view tantalizingly hints at the lush vegetation within. A frond here and there will be visible but the rest of the plants will cast only their color, no discernible form.

The vestibule's stone steps lead you down to a pair of white wooden doors, whose windows are, like the canopy, veiled by condensation. At the doors, one is struck by the heady scent of warm, moist earth and vegetation, as well as the sound of trickling water.

Upon entering you'll be dumbstruck by the serene abundance, and marvel that you have such a place to yourself. Everywhere is the color green, in every possible shade and hue, assuming every possible form. You'll be standing in the middle of what I call an "aesthetic ecology": art that acts like nature, nature that acts like art. It's both deeply artificial and sublimely natural. It's one of the most humane structures people have ever made.

The fernery probably isn't much more than 100 feet long, but this little self-contained world feels vast, high and deep, brimming with waterfalls, bridges and mossy caves. Club mosses, tree ferns, maidenhair ferns and Asian ferns that have a blue-green metallic sheen cover every stony surface. You'll feel nestled but not confined. You may stay for hours.