Walking Through Prairie With Philip Juras

By Tom Poland

 

August 21, 6:15 p.m. Philip Juras and I are walking through remnant prairie. His mission is to paint a vestige of our lost Southland. Mine is to tell write about the post oak savanna we seek. Something like ninety percent or more of Southern grasslands have declined from their former distribution. We’re seeking a rare place.

As we talk, we walk through thigh-high brush to a savanna of remnant prairie. Savannas, grasslands with scattered trees, were the most common and widespread of all grassland types. They once occupied more than 120 million acres of the Southeastern United States. Less than one percent of historical savanna acreage remains. While a prairie is nearly treeless, a savanna features scattered trees.

Fire and buffalos’ appetite and hooves kept the great Southern prairie intact and healthy. When colonists arrived they used areas like savannas as woodlots and their cattle did what buffalo did; kept out invasive plants like maples and pines. Then as we took plow and axe to the land wholesale change began to take place. For various reasons the plows and axes missed a place here and there … a rare here and there.

“A botanist,” says Philip, “would take forever walking through here. So many plants to see.” So many remnant plants. I saw plants unfamiliar to me. The post oaks here are large, “300 years old,” said Philip, “predating any settlements.”

They loom over grasses providing sunlit spaces between canopies that allow grasses to flourish. Lightning strikes once burned the prairie, ridding the grasses of unwanted competitors. Today the Forest Service conducts prescribed burns. My field khakis sport stripes of soot like some strange species of tiger. Ash and soot, evidence that a prescribed burn passed through here.

We slogged through an area to where it’s open and clear. Philip and I go our separate ways exploring. Some thirty minutes later I see him in the distance setting up his easel. I walk about photographing trees and grasses in gold light. After a considerable while I make my way to Philip where he’s begun to paint. I hesitate to talk but I do. Then he tells me, “Something special is going on here.”

I know to be quiet

Later I joined Philip, eager to see how a master artist works but respectful of the act of creation. He watched the light. It moved fast and changed as the sun dropped and angles changed. Good light lasts only so long. He painted with speed. I noted how the light sparkled upon leaves and the tips of blades of grass. Very fortunate the plants that live here. Survivors.

In all directions stand large post oaks. Between their canopies falls the light the specialized plants here need. I watch the artist work. He backpedals several feet to appraise his work. He walks to the easel. Works.

We’re in the middle of nowhere. No cars. Nothing but light, trees, and remnant prairie. And two University of Georgia guys in a South Carolina forest. I’d rather be here than any park. No cement. No water fountains. No fast food. But then from the northeast comes a deep prolonged whisper that becomes a soft roar. An airliner. Other than that and soot, there are no other signs of civilization. No litter. No sounds of traffic. This savanna. It’s a place evocative of what was. You will never lay eyes on it except, perhaps, through Philip’s vision. His art. We’re far from any highways. It’s so quiet you half expect to hear bison thundering in.

Philip backs away five yards. He looks at his painting which is the prairie materializing right before my eyes. His brushwork is nimble. Swift yet delicate. Powerful. Held just so, his brush’s handle reflects a piercing glint of dying light.

All is again. The airliner has taken its roar west. Through the silent roar in my ears come cricket chatter, wind in treetops, and birdsong. I ease up to the easel. Philip’s painting is becoming as one with the prairie. Remove its frame and it blends into the oaks and grasses.

Philip glances at the western light as if any second now it will die. His brush makes soft thumps as it works the paint. He leans in and touch color to the prairie. Strokes aplenty as his eyes ever gauge light, color, dimension.

Where the great Southern prairie stretched out of sight, highways roll to cities and their strip malls, condominiums, malls and spaghetti-like tangles of overpasses. The grasses, wildflowers, and oaks here outweigh all that urban clutter by a million bison.

 

Georgia native Tom Poland writes a weekly column about the South, its people, traditions, lifestyle, and culture and speaks frequently to groups in the South. Governor Henry McMaster conferred the Order of the Palmetto upon Tom, South Carolina’s highest civilian honor, stating, “His work is exceptional to the state.” Poland’s work appears in books, magazines, journals, and newspapers throughout the South.

Visit Tom’s website at www.tompoland.net

Email him at [email protected]