Sequins, Shovels, and Southern Soil: Lessons from a Gardening Life

Sam, Cole and I had worked a few twelve-hour days and now faced a 3-hour drive home. We've done this sort of work together for eight years, traveling, sharing rooms, meals, goals, as well as very personal conversations and confidences. Today though, butterflies (and the caterpillars they hatch from) churned my stomach. Usually at the end of the job, we're ready for a direct, no-dawdling road trip. I take the driver's seat, Sam picks the music. He wouldn't play my current favorite pop, The Pink Pony Club, 'cause he's into serious rock. He hits play, nods off and Cole gets lost in his phone.

Discovering the Timeless Beauty of a Celebrated Southern Garden

We had a stop today. A botanical garden that I built 15 years ago was open for drop-in visits. Most botanical gardens are open all the time, but this one is also home to one of South Carolina's richest women, my former client and friend, Darla Moore. It's a real non-profit, and setting up that admin structure was my last project there, but for her privacy, visitation is tightly controlled. It's also way out, off the beaten track. I've only seen it once since I left. "Do y'all want to stop?" I asked the guys, "Y'all know it'll be weird for me." Cole didn't even lean up from the back seat to offer this bit of comforting wisdom, "Who better to do something weird with than us?"

Revisiting the Roots of Horticultural Inspiration

I drove, sipped coffee, and ate an egg salad sandwich. The little country roads served up memories of deep conversation nights with long-gone Bill in Indiantown. That huge humped railroad track in Cades brought memories of young, wide-eyed as a toddler, Casey – who was my right-hand gardener for a while. Passing the dirt track now named 'Pablo's Way', the trailer park where the Mexican guys who were my only companions for a year, made my mouth water for their Momma's molé.

Insights for Crafting Immersive Entries and Driveways

We turned onto the Botanical Garden's Main Entry, a dirt road I had envisioned years ago, marked by the old grain silo I'd bought and transformed into a garden sign. This entry was meant to be understated in all ways. As we drove past agricultural fields, I hoped the entry would still transport visitors from the modern world into the rich history of this region, once the state's vegetable and tobacco heartland. I felt my eyebrows furrow– might it have been jazzed up too much? The China firs I had planted now arched overhead, their dark needles creating a Jurassic Park canopy that announced this as a place of botanical wonders. A sharp right over the main canal, a reminder of the garden's roots in the Great Pee Dee swamp floodplain. I had designed this entry to be simple yet transformative, an immersion in the land and its heritage. But as we rounded a bend, an unexpected sight jolted me: massive, colorful, concrete cylinders lay by the road. A laugh burst from Cole, "For all the world, those look like giant dog chew toys!" This whimsical art installation was a brilliant addition, a playful wink promising that this was no ordinary garden. At that moment, I knew my original vision had not just been maintained, but elevated in ways I had never imagined.