“Sir, I understand you like that bridge and that you want it, but as your landscape designer, I need to tell you that it won’t really work in your garden. You don’t have any water.”
This silver-haired gentleman spoke with a deep, low-country drawl and the confidence of a man who’d built a powerful and political career. He inhaled and sort of sighed out these words like I'd made him speak the obvious, “Then son,” he paused, “get me some water.”
For a second, I thought I ought to fetch him a bottle. Then I remembered who this man was and the expected relationship, respect, and action that the word ‘son’ implied.
I had two more objections, which I did not dare raise. First, ponds, lakes, and rivers created for a garden design can look putt-putt-coursey fake. Second, the bridge that this elder statesman wanted was an exact copy of one of America’s most iconic garden bridges– the one at Magnolia Plantation.
My design challenge, translating a huge-scale iconic garden bridge so that it fits into a totally different terrain, got easier when I met the project manager. This guy had worked with the older man for years, so he knew the emotional expectations. And as an engineer, he understood the pragmatics of dams, soil, and water.
“You’re gonna get muddy and scratched up here,” he said as we strode into a black mucky bog. I was dressed for this; he was not. But he didn't seem concerned for his pressed, probably Italian dress shirt. He started bushwhacking and kept talking,
“But you’ve got to see it. They had a natural swimming pool here. I don’t know when, in the 20s or so,” he whacked at some blackberry vines. Oblivious to the brush, he was excited to share this secret ruin. Plume grass towered over our heads, and then we stepped into an opening to see a brick-lined hole. Springs and streams still trickled. It had once been a spring-fed swimming pool, and it still held a little water.
This was the spot. All I had to do was sketch and dream of a pond, of banks and cypress trees, of a bridge that would inspire young and old to cross it. That's the goal: a bridge that makes you think, “I want to walk across that,” even if you never intend to do so. All I had to do was dream it up and put it on paper. The guys who make things real, who make things work, who are in the mud, who check safety protocols, they do the real work. One night, when the bridge and pond were still in construction, we went to set lights. There was a surreal moment when, through the woods, music from a high school band floated in. Watch the video below.
Nine months later, we had some water and a bridge and a poetic rendition of the famed bridge. And more importantly, this cool, historic garden, which could easily have been turned over for development, had a new lease on life.
Sometimes, those old Southernisms bug me, and sometimes, copying something seems boring. But this time, I'm glad I understood all that came packed into that word 'son.' And I’m proud to have translated, not copied, that famed bridge. It’s inspired centuries of dreams, oohs, awes, and memories, and maybe our smaller version will do the same.
Join me at Magnolia Gardens on Sunday. I’ll bring photos, and we can compare the bridge in this project to the original! Buy Tickets for Sunday, March 10.
If you can’t make it Sunday, join me at Colonial Lake when Charleston Parks invites you to a book reading and signing. There’s a morning coffee session or an afternoon happy hour session. Buy Tickets for March 21.
Quite a collaboration, that project. Well done, Jenks!
Awesome story, awesome job! I can imagine who that man might be, through dozens just like him. The bridge is amazing!