EDITORletter

River Farm’s Reprieve

[This issue, I’ve turned the editorial column over to one of our interns. The views expressed in this article do not necessarily represent the views, opinions, or policies of Washington Gardener. - Your Editor.]

Star Chamber intrigue, a deadlocked board of directors in charge of a multi-milliondollar endowment, an alphabet soup of DCadjacent organizations, information leaks, tens of millions of dollars in real estate at stake in one of the hottest markets in the world ... of course, I’m talking about the American Horticultural Society’s River Farm issue. George Washington owned and administered (but did not personally work) five farms in Northern Virginia on the Potomac River in a region called Piscataway Neck, between Dogue Creek to the south and Little Hunting Creek to the north: River Farm, Mansion Farm, Dogue Creek Farm, Muddy Hole Farm, and Woodlawn Plantation. Two equally important accessory properties, Washington’s Distillery and Granary, are adjacent to these properties, very near what is now Fort Belvoir. These sites are literally priceless and of inestimable cultural and historic value. They are valuable not only for their significance in the very founding of the country, but their ecological value as riverfront green space is similarly nonpareil, not to mention the possibilities they offer for public education. River Farm is a crown jewel among crown jewels. But despite the additional distinction of probably being haunted by the spectre of President Washington’s favorite dog, Sweet Lips, River Farm’s fate somehow became precarious. Thus begins our story. And this story has something for everybody: the dignity of history, the pathos of a community struggling to retain its character, the heart-stopping excitement of nonprofit boards of directors meeting the timeless romance of county and government officials. But it’s also a feel-good hit, with allAmerican themes—persistence, heart, and community spirit—and an ending that leaves ’em cheering. Some of the villains are admittedly doing preposterously villainous things like trying to sell George Washington’s historic farm on the shores of the Potomac to a Trumpadministration crony developer (think top hat and twirling mustache). If I were to write characters like these, they would never be believed. But as any Washington Gardener reader will tell you, something about the humidity around here can cause things, for better or for worse, to grow larger than life. But first, a flashback to the early 1970s: American horticultural ultra-mega-superstar Enid Haupt is in her full philanthropic glory. Haupt purchased historic River Farm in Northern Virginia for the American Horticultural Society (AHS) to have and to hold as its groovy horticultural headquarters. While no official legal provisos were made, Enid Haupt (Annenberg heiress and publisher of Seventeen magazine from 1953–1970) was clear in her stipulations to AHS that if she were going to buy River Farm for them, she preferred the site to remain open to the public. And it was ... until the pandemic created unpleasantly chilly conditions in the AHS coffers. Rumbles of trouble began in late 2020 and built to a fever pitch in May, when the AHS locked the doors to River Farm even to their own volunteers. Enter Alan Rowsome, executive director of the Northern Virginia Conservation Trust (NVCT). Speaking on November 8, 2021, at the Washington Farm United Methodist Church, not from River Farm itself, Rowsome briefed Mount Vernon Garden Club members on the ups and downs, and outs and intrigues, of the River Farm Affair. In 2021, NVCT approached the AHS about buying River Farm, but those overtures were met with “we’re just not ready,” and other gentle put-offs. “Time wasn’t on our side,” said Rowsome, in a refrain alltoo-familiar to anyone who follows historical preservation and conservation initiatives. As recently as September 27, the AHS rejected a NOVA Parks offer to buy the property. “That was a bad day,” Rowsome recalled. “We thought we might have lost that day ... They had more money on the table than we had. We were gonna watch this place be lost.” But Save River Farm, concerned community organizers, NVCT, and NOVA Parks were stronger together. “Rather than give up at that point, we decided to increase our offer … It was also an exercise in creativity and kinda not taking no for an answer,” Rowsome continued. The tide of public opinion was turning. “In turning us down, I think they unleashed a firestorm they didn’t expect,” he recalled. “I think it was really kind of withering for AHS to see this, day after day, and week after week.” The issue was kept in the local press by tireless volunteers and local community members who really cared and gave their all. “The fact that AHS closed the gates to their own volunteers, and didn’t find a way to keep the property open to people, even sort of provisionally ...” Rowsome trailed off, but obviously that was a bad look for the AHS. Passions were running high, and intrigues were forming in the halls of the Society. “AHS was threatening their own staff and board with legal action should information continue to be leaked,” Rowsome claimed. Ultimately, the anticlimactic end to the months-long 5-to-5 board of directors deadlock debacle at the AHS ended with a few whimpers and a mass resignation, halving the board, to five members. “In a sort of interesting irony, there has been more interest in River Farm now than there ever has been,” Rowsome said. This experience of saving River Farm has acted as a sort of “beacon,” showing other communities that people can really do this— can save these places from the ugliest forces in our civilization. One thing Rowsome insists on is that communities “not take no for an answer.” Get governments or private owners to accept an offer, he said, and that acceptance will trigger the mechanisms of funding. Within a government infrastructure or nonprofit ecosystem, the funding will find you. “The irony is, that we really never had the money. If they had called our bluff and accepted our offer, we were in trouble,” said Rowsome. But “we knew that if they’d accept our offer, Fairfax County and all the others [would] help us find it, so I guess we’ll make it happen.” The community activists kept the pressure on, despite slippery statements and behavior from the AHS, indicating some level of bad-faith engagement. “They were making excuses for why they couldn’t actually talk to us about some sort of deal,” Rowsome said. “We offered them a split 60–40, 70–30 … [and they kept saying], we’re just not ready, that doesn’t seem right for us,’ and privately, behind the scenes, they kept it on the market.” After the AHS board self-annihilated, the remaining board members—Skipp Calvert, Tim Conlon, Laura Dowling, Holly Shimizu, and Marcia Zech—released a final statement about River Farm: “The property is not being sold.” “The stewards of River Farm,” as they call themselves, “will ensure the preservation of this priceless property in perpetuity.” What a relief! You know that feeling where you want to get up and cheer at the end of a movie? Rejoice, Washington gardeners: River Farm is saved, this time forever—and with the kind of finale that reminds us it’s okay to cry at happy endings, too. ~ Charlotte Benedetto