Dead Presidents And Culture Shock

I do not know why I am still baffled by the number of people living in this country. A drive through north eastern Tennessee on the other side of the mountains revealed a whole lot of people living over there. It was a very pastoral scene, exactly what that word implies, gently rolling hills and homes surrounded by acres of grass, maybe there would be a tree and a few Nandina jammed up against the foundation, but for the most part it was suburbia old and new sprawling across pasture lands with the pasture running right up to the house.

These homes did not looked to be filled with gardeners. Granted it was the dead of winter. Maybe the idea of "the bones of a landscape" has just not caught on here.









The closer you came to a town the more concentrated the houses growing in pastures became. A few more trees would be growing among the houses to give the scene a bit more appeal. Coming from a tropical jungle heavily influenced by a west coast mentality, the complete exposure to all the neighbors in such an open setting was unsettling.

There are just as many folks in North Carolina I would imagine, but a more mountainous terrain and thicker forest hides much from view. The chance for more privacy exists naturally. A real gardener in north east Tennessee who filled their grounds with shrubberies would possibly seem out of place, even anti-social.














On a hill just outside of the charming historic downtown of Greeneville I wandered alone at the resting place of the 17th president of the United States, Andrew Johnson.


















This pastoral feel is carried to the grave.





























Back at the border high atop the Blueridge the forest closes back in.


















The stones that make up these mountains are put to artful purpose.














Snow has turned to rain for now and the next wave rolls in from the west.














It warms the ground and the multitude of emerging bulbs in a forest garden. Snowdrops without snow become part of a larger symphony just beginning to stir.














This mountain forest suits me more than the pastoral scene across the border. I feel more at ease tucked in to the jungly forest.