“‘Lob’s Wood,’ . . . Perintown (Milford), Ohio. Woodland daffodils,” ca. 1920, a hand-colored lantern slide by Frances Benjamin Johnston, via Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.
The 97-acre property pictured above was purchased in 1898 by Carl H. Krippendorf, a Cincinnati businessman who had spent childhood summers in the surrounding area. He wanted to save the woodland from being turned into a tobacco field.
Krippendorf soon built a house there for his new wife, Mary Greene, and began planting daffodils and other bulbs. They originally called the land Karlsruhe, meaning “Karl’s place of peace” in German. After World War I, the name was changed to Lob’s Wood.
In 1919, during “Daffodil Days at the Krippendorf Farm at Perintown,” $2,700* was raised for war-devastated France. In one afternoon, they sold 15,000 cut daffodils.
Carl became a friend and correspondent of the garden writer Elizabeth Lawrence. She wrote about his garden in The Little Bulbs and Lob’s Wood.
The Krippendorfs lived on the property (eventually 175 acres) for 64 years. Today the house and woods are part of the Cincinnati Nature Center.
What explains poetry is that life is hard
But better than the alternatives,
The no and the nothing. Look at this light
And color, a splash of brilliant yellow
Punctuating an emerald text. . .
— Alicia Ostriker, from “Daffodils“
*about $34,000 today.
“Sitting on the Porch,” a postcard from ca. 1900, location and photographer unknown, via Miami University Libraries Commons on flickr.
(Click on the photo for a better look.)
The Bowden Postcard Collection of Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, holds over 480,000 postcards from nearly everywhere in the early 20th century world.
This image is not very seasonal, I must admit. Here in Stuttgart, we woke up this morning to a light covering of snow.
Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill. . .
And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt
At what we saw. . . .
— Wallace Stevens, from “A Postcard from the Volcano“