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By James Hearn
Behind the wrought-iron gates of mid-19th-century Nashville, a botanical revolution was taking root. While the city earned its moniker as the "Athens of the South" through its universities and architecture, it was the soil of its grand estates that truly showcased its refinement. These landscapes—once the exclusive domain of the elite—now serve as our city’s public green lungs. By examining their history, we see a clear evolution: from the 19th-century desire to "conquer" nature with exotic imports to our modern mission of sustaining it through ecological stewardship.
The Conservatory Era: Belmont Mansion (1850s)
The story of Nashville’s ornamental obsession begins at Belmont, the antebellum home of Adelicia Acklen. In the 1850s, the estate was home to one of the most elaborate conservatory systems in the United States.
Acklen’s "seasonal defiance" was a feat of engineering. Her massive glass houses nurtured camellias, jasmine, and even citrus—plants that had no business thriving in a Tennessee winter. While these gardens were a display of immense wealth, they also introduced the concept of the "pleasure garden" to Nashville, shifting the local view of land from purely functional to deeply aesthetic. Today, the remnants of these gardens remind us of our long-standing fascination with bringing the world’s flora to our own backyard.
The Farm as a Canvas: Sunnyside at Sevier Park (1840s–1880s)
While Belmont was a monument to luxury, Sunnyside represents the transition from the working farm to the "suburban" estate. Built in the 1840s for Mary Childress Benton, the Greek Revival home sat at the heart of what was then a 350-acre farm.
Unlike the purely ornamental Belmont, Sunnyside’s beauty was rooted in the "middle-class" grand estate tradition—a blend of productive orchards and intentional shade trees. As the estate transitioned through the 19th century, it modeled how Nashville’s rolling hills could be groomed into parkland. Today, through the work of Extension Master Gardeners, the site has come full circle: the land that once fed a single family now serves as a vibrant community space, prioritizing biodiversity and public access over private production.
The Victorian Landscape: Belle Meade (1850s–1900s)
By the late 19th century, Belle Meade—once a premier thoroughbred nursery—began to lean heavily into the Victorian "English Landscape" style. Under the Jackson family, the focus shifted toward sweeping lawns and the planting of majestic specimen trees like the American Yellowwood and various Oaks.
It was during this era that the "ubiquitous boxwood" became a staple of the Nashville identity. These hedges were more than just borders; they were symbols of permanence. Today, Belle Meade serves as a primary classroom for Master Gardeners. We don't just maintain the hedges; we study the health of the centuries-old canopy, ensuring that the Victorian vision of a "park-like" Nashville survives in an increasingly urbanized county.
The Pinnacle of Design: Cheekwood (1929–1960)
The "Grand Estate" era reached its artistic zenith with the construction of Cheekwood in the late 1920s. Architect Bryant Fleming envisioned an "integrated landscape" where the house and gardens were inseparable.
Fleming’s design utilized "outdoor rooms" and formal boxwood parterres, but he also integrated the natural limestone outcroppings of the Tennessee hills. When Cheekwood opened to the public in 1960, it marked the official transition of the grand estate from a private sanctuary to a public botanical resource. It remains the gold standard for how human design can harmonize with the existing topography of the Cumberland Valley.
The Botanical Exchange: A Modern Perspective
As Master Gardeners, we look at these historic landscapes with both appreciation and hindsight. The "Grand Estate" era was a period of incredible botanical discovery, but it was also the entry point for species we now recognize as ecologically problematic.
Plants like Chinese Privet and Japanese Honeysuckle were once prized status symbols, imported for their fragrance and evergreen privacy. The gardeners of the 1800s couldn't have known the invasive potential of these species. Today, our work at sites like Belle Meade and Sunnyside isn't just about preservation; it’s about restoration. We are slowly replacing the "mistakes of the past" with native alternatives that provide the same Victorian aesthetic while supporting our local pollinators and birds.
Conclusion: Your Invitation to Living History
Nashville’s history isn't just found in books or museum halls; it is alive in the roots of the Yellowwoods at Belle Meade and the stone vistas of Cheekwood. These estates have evolved from symbols of private wealth into classrooms for the public good.
We invite you to visit these sites not just for the architecture, but to see the Master Gardener Demonstration Gardens in action. By observing how we bridge the gap between 19th-century design and 21st-century sustainability, you can find inspiration for your own backyard—honoring Nashville’s grand past while planting for its green future.
by Blake Davis
Resisting the Cut
I stand here staring at one of my Serviceberry trees that I’ve let grow to looklike a thick, tangled bush. It’s February, the ideal window before spring growth kicks into action. Visibility is great because the branches are bare. My pruners are sharp and sanitized. The trees are still dormant, so cuts will cause less stress. It’s time to direct the tree’s stored energy toward better flowering and fruit.
But these are my favorite trees (I even called my property ‘Juneberry’, the colloquial name of the delicious fruits the Serviceberry produces). I have the privilege of tending this land and planting all of these by hand with a shovel and my back, spending hours measuring and placing them to get the optimal spacing, sun, and privacy for my yard. And trees are great at growing, so cutting them feels counterintuitive, like I’m diminishing their growth.
But unchecked growth spreads a tree’s energy thin, leaving it vulnerable when storms come.
And storms always come.
Cowboy Dan and The Cherry Tree
When I first bought Juneberry (before I’d even planted any Serviceberries to name it after), there was an old cherry tree at the driveway entrance that looked like a perfect example of the haunted mansion trope- gnarled branches sticking in every direction with its pointed tips curling in like decrepit fingers.
As I met my new neighbors, they would talk about how gorgeous the blooms used to be in the spring.
But our first spring, it barely flowered at all.
Between its age, the hollow trunk, and its contorted shape, I assumed it was dying. But as I can’t stand cutting things that could still grow, I called the Tennessee Agricultural Extension office to ask if there was anyone who could check it out.
They said I needed to talk to “Cowboy Dan.”
Cowboy Dan, the Extension Agent and Community Garden coordinator, rolled up in a large truck, cowboy boots on and a twinkle in his eye.
He walked around the yard with me and told me the tree wasn’t dying, it just needed pruning.
Maybe because he sensed I’m a softie when it comes to cutting live plants, or experience from his years of educating children about agriculture with his guitar, he was able to simplify his advice to four accessible criteria for pruning:
When Cowboy Dan mentioned the “hazardous” rule I thought to myself “Why would I cut the tree if I can just duck? I’ll protect my own head. Let the tree grow!”
…That summer while on my lawnmower I introduced my head to one of those branches I had graciously chosen not to cut- with enough force to knock some humility into me.
After shaking off the stars and finding my hat, I went ahead and cut those lower branches.
But the tree did flower again:
Choosing the Cut
When I finally stop hesitating and make the cut, there are two kinds I’m choosing between:
A Heading Cut shortens a branch back to a bud (not the actual trunk). Using clean shears, cut at a 45° angle about ¼ inch above an outward-facing bud. This will signal the tree to push new growth in the chosen direction the bud points.
These are the cuts that shape young fruit trees, strengthen roses and encourage fuller branching in shrubs.
Thinning Cuts remove a branch entirely back to the trunk or main limb, preserving the tree’s natural form while opening space for light and air, without triggering a frantic burst of regrowth.
Cut just outside a branch collar, NOT flush against the trunk.
These are the cuts that open fruit trees for more airflow (reducing disease and fungal growth), remove crossing branches, and eliminate dead or diseased wood.
Angles matter. Too flat and water lingers. Too steep, and the wound has a harder time sealing.
A general rule is not to remove more than 25-30% of live growth in a season. Even in pruning you can over-correct.
(Roses can apparently handle 50-70%, I know people who do more but I’m too chicken to go more than about 50% on my roses)
When to Cut
Now is the time.
Woody plants store carbohydrates (starches and sugars) in their roots, trunk and older branches (this is why we DON’T prune in late summer or fall, because trees need those carbohydrates for winter survival).
That energy is stored, not spent, so when you prune in late winter, it fuels stronger, faster spring growth in the remaining buds.
This is why roses have a bigger bloom after a hard pruning. Apples and peaches have stronger fruiting, and shrubs get vigorous new canes.
Pruning now minimizes disease and rot. Plants compartmentalize damage, so when we make a proper cut, the plant creates chemical and physical barriers, the decay is walled off, and now tissue can form around the cut.
This time of year, pathogens and insects are inactive, and the upcoming rapid spring growth will seal wounds quickly.
Despite my trepidation about hurting it, to the tree or plant, these cuts are a controlled injury. The plant responds by activating dormant buds and reinforcing structural growth.
Proper pruning improves long-term strength and resilience.
Trees that are thinned and structured well bend differently under unexpected weight.
The Serviceberries: Making The Cut
It was easier to prune the cherry tree because I thought it was already dead. When something feels beyond saving, the stakes are low, and I feel free to cut boldly.
Standing here in front of my Serviceberries, pruning something I love is much more difficult. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s because no matter how much I understand the ‘why’, it still FEELS like I’m diminishing something that I want to see thrive and grow naturally.
But then Nashville had the largest ice storm since 1994, and now we have a 7 x 50-foot pile of limbs and trees that the storm pruned for me.
Ice is not cruel, but it doesn’t choose carefully. It exposes structure. It snapped what carried the most weight and toppled the trees that grew too dense to bend under the inch of ice surrounding each branch.
So I stand here in front of my Serviceberry trees and realize: if I don’t choose the cuts, the weather eventually will.
Pruning isn’t diminishment. It’s stewarding the energy to the limbs I want strengthened.
It’s choosing the cuts instead of outsourcing them to storms.
I’ve already seen what happens when I wait.
I’ve trained for this. I’ve taken classes. I’ve researched the science.
What I’ve been lacking isn’t knowledge, it’s trust – trust that faithful pruning creates better, stronger growth.
It’s February. It’s time.
I’m choosing to cut.
By Margaret Littman
When I assess all the damage that Winter Storm Fern wrought, I feel pretty lucky. My damage was relatively mild: a leaky roof, an 8-night hotel bill, a freezer of herbs and summer vegetables…and my houseplants. It seems minor compared to what my friends and neighbors have been through, but I admit I am sad that my Chinese Money Plant, my fiddle leaf figs, the cuttings I have been cultivating from my brown turkey fig tree, and my monstera look worse for wear.
And I know I am not alone. Many Master Gardeners have been wondering if it is possible to revive indoor plants that froze when indoor temperatures dipped. I asked Amy Dunlap, our Extension Agent and fearless leader, for her advice.
Check It Out: She says that after a freeze event, damage to houseplants is not always immediately visible. Leaves may turn black, brown, or translucent and appear water-soaked, and some plants may drop leaves within a few days of cold exposure. But, in other cases, plants may initially look fine and begin to decline over the next few weeks as damaged tissue breaks down, so it is important that we keep an eye on our plants as we continue to thaw out.
You can lightly scratch the surface of the stems to determine viability. Green tissue indicates the plant is still alive. If it’s black or brown, the plant is likely dead. If the plant can easily be removed from the pot without damage, you may want to do that as the roots can indicate the overall health. If roots are soft, mushy, or have a foul odor, recovery is unlikely.
Wait It Out: In general, she says, we need to be patient. We should avoid pruning plants immediately after a freeze, as that damaged growth can help protect living tissue beneath it. Hold off on fertilizer, too, until the plant shows signs of new growth. Otherwise, you are adding stress to an already stressed-out plant. You probably already did this, but moving your plants to a stable indoor location away from drafts and exterior walls can help their recovery.
Dunlap cautions that some plants may not recover from freeze damage. Tropical houseplants, in particular, are sensitive to temperatures below approximately 40°F. In some cases, however, healthy stem pieces can be salvaged and propagated as cuttings, even if the main plant does not survive.
Help Out: Which leads me to my next plan of action. MGofDCs are always willing to help one another. So, I am helping to organize an MGofDC indoor plant cutting swap. If you have plants that made it through Fern—perhaps you never lost power, you moved them under a blanket fort for protection—think about what cuttings you could give away.
July 11, 2024
Reprinted from Feel Grounded
In the hustle and bustle of daily life, it's easy to overlook the simple yet profound act of self-care. Just as our beloved houseplants need regular watering to thrive, we too require consistent nourishment to flourish. The process of caring for plants offers a beautiful metaphor for tending to our own well-being. By drawing parallels between the needs of our plants and our personal self-care routines, we can uncover valuable insights into how to live a more balanced and fulfilling life.
Consistency is Key
Plants need a regular watering schedule to maintain their health. Too much water can lead to root rot, while too little can cause them to wither. Similarly, we thrive on consistency. Establishing a daily routine that includes time for relaxation, exercise, and proper nutrition can help us maintain our physical and mental health. Just as we wouldn't neglect our plants for days on end, we shouldn't neglect our own needs. Consistency in self-care practices is essential for long-term well-being.
Listen to Your Needs
Every plant has unique watering requirements based on its species, environment, and growth stage. A cactus might need water once a month, while a fern may need it every few days. Likewise, our personal needs can vary greatly from person to person and even change over time. It's important to listen to our bodies and minds, recognizing when we need rest, social interaction, or solitude. By being attuned to our needs, we can provide ourselves with the right kind of nourishment at the right time.
Quality Matters
The quality of water we give our plants can significantly impact their health. Using distilled or rainwater can prevent the buildup of harmful minerals that tap water might introduce. Similarly, the quality of what we consume—whether it’s food, media, or social interactions—affects our overall well-being. Choosing nutritious foods, engaging in positive activities, and surrounding ourselves with supportive people are ways to ensure we're "watering" ourselves with high-quality nourishment.
Creating a Supportive Environment
Plants thrive in environments that support their growth, which includes the right soil, light, and humidity levels. For us, a supportive environment means creating spaces that promote relaxation and joy. This might involve decluttering our living spaces, incorporating elements of nature, or designating areas for specific activities like reading, yoga, or meditation. Just as we carefully place our plants in optimal conditions, we should curate our surroundings to enhance our own growth and happiness.
Patience and Growth
Growth takes time, both for plants and ourselves. We may not see immediate results from our self-care efforts, just as a newly watered plant doesn’t instantly sprout new leaves. Patience is essential. By nurturing ourselves consistently, we gradually build resilience and strength. Over time, we’ll notice the positive effects of our efforts, much like the slow but steady growth of a well-cared-for plant.
Celebrating Small Victories
Every new leaf or bloom on a plant is a cause for celebration. These small victories are signs of health and progress. In our own lives, it's important to recognize and celebrate our achievements, no matter how minor they may seem. Whether it's finishing a book, completing a workout, or simply taking a moment to relax, acknowledging these victories reinforces our commitment to self-care and motivates us to continue nurturing ourselves.
In conclusion, the act of watering our plants serves as a powerful metaphor for self-care. By establishing consistency, listening to our needs, prioritizing quality, creating supportive environments, exercising patience, and celebrating small victories, we can ensure that both our plants and ourselves thrive. As we care for our leafy companions, let us be reminded of the importance of also tending to our own well-being, nurturing the growth that leads to a healthier, happier life.
Currently listening to: Before Spring Ends by WangOK
What work is happening when nothing appears to be growing?
Observations: Visible and Invisible Work
I started this article in Western Africa where we set up in an Airbnb with my in-laws to recover from a week of managing five young children through multiple family wedding events in Dakar.
Reclining in 82 degree weather, surrounded by the noise of colorful birds, mosques giving calls to prayer, and the breeze blowing in mango trees around me, is a needed pause before traveling homeward.
Every day we’ve stayed here, a man comes to water the garden. I watch him water, weed and caretake while I sip my coffee and try not to wake the baby across me like a weighted blanket.
While January in West Africa has growth that is constant and benefits from tending, tomorrow I fly back to my Tennessee garden, where it’s cold and quiet and seems lifeless on the surface (well, I did get a security camera notification of a skunk walking my driveway, so life persists in dormancy).
The work here is obvious, while back home, the most important work looks like… nothing at all.
Permission for Dormancy
I’ve always had an overactive need to appear productive, to improve, and to produce. Almost never from a healthy place.
Growing up with chronic health issues, I spent more than your average time in hospitals, and as strange as it sounds, I always had a small sense of relief during those seasons. They were the only times I fully permitted myself to silence the inner voice of “Shouldn’t I be doing…”
With growth and counseling, I now see I was the only one enforcing those expectations. But the relief at the time was real. And those times of complete rest were some of the most reflective and pivotal moments for redirection, clarity of thought, and the shaping of ideas for what came next.
January has become that same place of permission in the garden (without needing prescribed recovery).
I’m not expecting growth or production, and I don’t fault my garden (or myself) for resting.
Cold Stratification
Cold stratification gave language to what January is teaching me.
This is my second year practicing winter-sowing in milk jugs. It’s one of my favorite seeding methods because it’s ugly, it repurposes distilled water jugs (reducing my sense of waste), and the required dormancy needs nothing from me.
This is the most effective way I’ve found to start native seeds, as many have a physiological dormancy that can only be unlocked by prolonged cold, moist conditions. Setting them outside in milk jugs allows them to do this in a controlled environment– like little recycled dairy greenhouses where it LOOKS like nothing is happening on the outside.
So I get to just set them outside as early as November and forget about them until spring.
Even though we’re both resting this month, they are undergoing the process of cold stratification, a resting freeze-thaw cycle that triggers germination only when the time is right.
Five Years Out
I can’t help but apply these ideas to time.
Every December, my wife and I sit down together to orient ourselves to the following year. This usually starts with the question: What do we want our lives to be in five years?
Not achievements or stretch goals… but how we want to feel. What do we want our days to hold? What kind of atmosphere do we want to live inside?
From there, we work backwards, shaping the next 12 months of goals around that long-view.
I’ve heard that a garden looks new and young for two years, feels established after three, and and by year five, you can’t really tell how old it is. I’m in year three of my garden now.
When I moved here I was entering year three at my old house. So I’m enjoying seeing the grow towards a year five at last.
When I imagine that year, I envision it buzzing with life. Bees. Birds. Wildlife. Walking paths where I can pace and think through hard problems. Places to sit enclosed by green. An abundance of flowers, berries, and food to give away.
A garden where, nine months out of the year, anyone who visits can leave with something grown here.
By year five I would like my life, and my garden, to feel more like those native seedlings sitting in jugs outside: less frantic, more settled, peacefully present in their slow, dormant stratification.
Blind Spots and Blank Spaces
This way of thinking is changing how I approach decisions, too.
To better address stress in my work life, I hired a coach. I assumed they would start with tools like efficiency hacks and productivity systems to help me manage my one-five years goals.
Instead, he started by asking questions:
Why is this thing important?
What would fail if you stopped doing that?
Who would fault you for saying ‘no’ to that after hours meeting?
It challenged me. And like all lessons, I carry it back to the garden– not thinking about goals, but direction and permission.
Like the walkway leading to our house that I’ve never loved. I tried to incorporate elements to work around the existing chickweed and random shrubs that came with the property, but the constant weeds and lackluster appearance display my lack of inspiration. I never truly made it mine.
Now I’m asking: Does this even need to be a bed?
What would happen if I just tore everything out and left it empty? Who am I trying to impress?
A blank canvas feels better to me than something half-hearted and frustrating that I’ve fit into someone else’s foundation.
Not every space of my garden (and life) needs to be optimized, beautified or explained.
A Breath Before Spring
January offers the blank space to walk my garden while my winter-sown seeds quietly stratify, and the absence of leaves reveals the corners I often don’t see so I can look at the spaces and note what brings joy, and recognize what feels forced. To ask why I’m even trying to produce something that might simply need to rest.
Before the chaos of spring arrives, January invites me to pause, take stock, and ask better questions.
Not What can I do?
But What do I want this to become?
The same way seeds don’t need constant interference, some parts of my life don’t need constant improvement projects.
I can freeze and thaw, trusting that rest is not wasted time– it sets the condition to make growth possible.
A January Reflection for Gardeners
If you’d like to join me in the examination, take some time this month to sit with these questions:
Sidebar: How to winter-sow in jugs
For anyone who wants to try this themselves, here’s a simple tutorial:
(I find it best to cut it so that the ‘hinge’ stays under the handle, otherwise when you lift the jug by the handle it puts the pressure on the seam instead of the ‘hinge’)
(I make my own seed starting mix with 2-3 parts peat moss and 1 part perlite, mixed well and wet)
9. That’s it! Check back when spring is coming (check your seed requirements, some require 30 days cold stratification, some require 60 or more. Most of my native seeds are from Prairie Moon and they have very helpful germination code information for each seed)
by Melanie Brewer
My eyes lit-up like a kid receiving a bike from Santa when I unwrapped my bird feeder camera. It’s a perfect addition to our backyard garden haven for my family and for our feathered friends. I didn’t think the set-up would be as easy as charging it, filling it, and strapping it to a tree, so I did a Google search and surprisingly the first photo showing up was a feeder strapped to a tree. Further search unearthed information on successful location and mounting of the feeder. You may find this to be helpful with your birdfeeder and birdhouse projects as well.
If the birds are to be protected from predators and the feeders from squirrels, it seems mounting a feeder or house to a tree isn’t savvy. Better alternatives are metal poles or wooden posts firmly anchored in ground and equipped with a baffle. The feeder is mounted to the pole at approximately 5 feet with a baffle secured just below it. Baffles, shaped like cones or tubes, deter squirrels, raccoons, and even snakes from sneaking up the pole. The recommended size tube baffle is a minimum of 6” diameter and 16” long.
The optimal placement of a bird feeder provides both accessibility and safety for birds. It’s wise to locate the feeder close - yet not too close - to trees, shrubs, and structures. Birds prefer to have an unobstructed view to survey the area for danger. They also need a safe shelter to flee to if a predator arrives. Therefore a good balance is considered to be 10-15 feet of distance between feeder and trees. Above the feeder, 8-10 feet of clearance is recommended. I wonder if this may turn into an acrobatic squirrel show.
My husband and I decided on an adjustable 1” metal pole and mounting bracket for bird feeders/houses and a 6” torpedo baffle that came with a coupler. The pole had a sharp end and wide blade that screwed into the ground and firmly secured the pole. We placed the coupler to hold the baffle on the pole at 5’ and slid the baffle on. The mounting plate with the pole did not align with the mounting plate on the feeder (which seems to commonly occur) so a piece of wood was used to secure the feeder mount to the pole mount.
Black-oil sunflower seeds are a high-energy favorite of song birds so I always have those out for birds. For the new feeder I opted for sunflower hearts and chips to avoid the messy shells. I have crushed unsalted peanuts and suet in other feeders. I avoid mixed seed blends since most birds avoid the seeds they dislike and leave them scattered on the ground.
The placement of a birdfeeder or birdhouse can really make a difference in providing accessibility and safety for the birds. Be sure you enjoy the view, too! We completed the setup of our new birdfeeder/cam three days ago. A Carolina Wren and a Ruby Crowned Kinglet have already checked out the new feeder. Now we wait and watch. Afterall, we are gardeners.
by Lauren Wade Walsh
Over in East Nashville, just north of the Lockeland Springs neighborhood, is the former site of the Howe Garden - which was an eight acre botanical utopia, privately owned and maintained but open to the public from the 1920s to the 1960s. The garden is no longer there and the land has since been divided and now has many houses, a couple schools, and an apartment complex on it. However, the original home of the owners still stands and is used as an AirBnB at 1421 Greenwood Avenue. There is a historic marker out front, shaded by old oak trees, that reads –
“This house, built from Sewanee stone, was the home of Cora Howe, who created a bucolic, English-style garden here in the early 1920s. Known as “Wildings,” her garden contained over 300 plant types, many of them native species, and a rare thatched-roof house. Mrs. Howe was wholly dedicated to the unique garden estate, and opened it to the community for nearly 40 years. After her death in 1968, the gardens were transplanted to Cheekwood.”
With the assistance of three full-time gardeners, Wildings’s acreage included dogwoods, azaleas, and wildflowers under a tall canopy of oak, beech, maple, and hickory trees. In the early 1900s, Cora and her husband, Harry Howe, moved from New England to Nashville and purchased an eight-acre parcel of land in East Nashville, selected for its century-old oak trees and rich, rock-free soil. Mrs. Howe started planting in 1922 and opened the garden to the public in 1929. Wildings drew thousands of visitors each year, until the 1960s, when both Mr. & Mrs. Howe passed away within a year of one another. They did not have any children, and so they willed the property to two women – Mr. Howe’s secretary and Mrs. Howe’s nurse/companion. However, the two women didn’t have the funds to maintain the garden. Mrs. Howe had been a founding member of The Garden Club of Nashville, and when it was clear the estate could not be maintained, the club devised a plan to transplant part of Wildings to Cheekwood. In December 1968, over a three week period, a team from The Garden Club of Nashville moved plants, soil, a stone wall, garden ornaments and the entire tool shed from East Nashville to Cheekwood.
Since bringing the spirit (and many plants) from Wildings in 1968, The Garden Club of Nashville has dedicated significant time and funding to maintaining and upgrading the Howe Garden, including reconstructing the thatched style roof that was original to the tool shed as well adding more native species of trees and shrubs over the years. For the 50th anniversary of the Howe garden, celebrated in 2019, the Garden Club hosted a special anniversary celebration with tours and activities and served Mrs. Howe’s signature snack, lemonade and ginger snaps.
Sources included:
https://cheekwood.org/howe-garden/
https://www.hmdb.org/m.asp?m=204724
https://www.nfocusmagazine.com/something-wild-this-way-comes/article_ddb6f31b-2fb4-5aee-9615-a9a9102ee90f.html
By Lauren Wade Walsh
As many of us know, there is no flower bouquet quite like the one you make from seasonal flowers out of your own garden or yard. Whether you use it as a centerpiece on your own dining table or give a vase full of your homegrown flowers to someone special, the flowers always seem more dear and beautiful than ones you find at the grocery store or florist. I adore making huge bouquets of peonies the first week of May for teacher appreciation week at my children’s school. However, I am now a dedicated fan and customer of some of the local, urban micro flower farms that are popping up in neighborhoods and farmer’s markets. Their bouquets are something special; you can feel the passion and knowledge the owners of these farms bring to their flowers…and now to my dining table and friends.
McIntosh Field & Flower sells at local farmer’s markets, including East Nashville, Richland Park, & Murfreesboro. Tara and Erin, two sisters from Atlanta, both who work other jobs, own and run this flower farm on the northside of Murfreesboro. The sisters have fascinating and contrasting backgrounds, but in 2019, they decided to buy a few acres and turn their retirement dream into reality much, much sooner. They began selling flowers direct to consumer in 2022 and quickly expanded to farmer’s markets. With a background in Agriculture Science, Tara was well aware the land was low on nutrients when they purchased it, and she worked extensively with the TN Dept of Agriculture on soil testing and diligently listened to recommendations on how to improve soil quality. Currently, they farm three acres with three high tunnels and have goats and pigs on two acres. When I spoke to Tara and asked about any tips she might have, she was very clear that - even with a background in Agricultural Science and lots of research on what others were doing - being patient and truly understanding the microclimate, soil, and other conditions of your specific property is the best way to learn and be successful.
McIntosh offers flowers nearly year round, particularly at the Richland Farmer’s Market which runs eleven months a year. Last year, the sisters forced tulips - all in the TV room of Tara’s home - but with a high tunnel this year, they should have even more. Of course, they will also have many gorgeous varieties in spring, summer and fall. You can find them on social media @mcintoshflowerfarm (IG & FB), www.mcintoshfieldandflowerfarm.com, and at the Richland Park, East Nashville, and Murfreesboro Farmer’s Markets.
Riverside Gardens Flower Farm is a smaller scale operation in East Nashville. Liz, the owner, started as a hobby farm, just growing flowers for her family and friends. She is a full-time teacher with a young son, but her husband suggested she might start a business selling her flowers after the covid years accelerated her hobby and skill. Though she uses the term ‘farm’, her growing space is about 2,000sq ft and has both raised beds as well a cottage garden with perennials and herbs. Her goal is to eventually grow 60-70% perennials, and she loves planning and growing with the color palettes of her bouquets in mind. She also intends to find land where she can expand and grow flowers full-time. Liz offers individual bouquets, seasonal flower subscriptions, and currently has gorgeous dried flower holiday wreaths available. You can find her on social media @theriversidegardens or at riverside-gardens.com.
By Barry Kolar
With centuries-old oak, maple and hickory trees being cut down by the dozen to make room for giant new houses, residents of the West Meade neighborhood have been scrambling to find a way to protect the tree canopy that defines the West Nashville neighborhood of about 2,000 residents.
Few options have been available through metro zoning and construction statutes, and efforts to develop a tree ordinance that would protect this natural resource have stalled. So this summer, leaders in the West Meade Neighborhood Association came up with a new strategy, launching the Save Our Trees Initiative, a strategy that relies on education and cooperation with builders.
"We wanna work with the developers,” neighborhood association president Paul Garland told the News Channel 5. “We don't want to stop them from working. We couldn't do that anyway if we tried."
With that in mind, Garland and association board member Hans-Willi Honegger crafted a memorandum of understanding that they are presenting to builders and developers in the neighborhood. The MOU lays out the details of mutual agreement, giving cooperating builders a “Seal of Approval” to their work in West Meade. Those signing will have their company highlighted on the westmeade.org/ website, in the association newsletter and at community meetings. The website will also list builders who are tree un-friendly or do no respond to the initiative.
“We thought this was the only way we could interact with the developers,” Honegger said. “Maybe these agreements will help us save some really valuable trees.”
Among the considerations asked for in the MOU are:
(1) Prior to construction, to inventory and assess the health of all trees currently existing on the property, in order to preserve, to the maximum extent possible, those that are mature and healthy. (A Certified Arborist, and/or Licensed Landscape Architect can assist with the inventory.)
(2) To, in good faith, share this inventory and a building plan with the WMNA board members in advance of destruction or removal of trees and plant life.
(3) To grant permission for experts of the WMNA or invited experts to enter the property in order to remove native plants prior to development.
(4) To establish safety areas around the drip line (at least 10 feet to either side of the tree by fencing) of remaining trees to protect their trunks and roots from being damaged by construction equipment and to avoid compacting the soil above their root system.
(5) To replant with mature native trees and bushes (caliper of at least one inch for trees), in order to replace heritage and other large native trees which had to be removed for a new dwelling on the site and to ensure the newly planted trees are watered for the first 2 years to aid their growth and replace those trees which did not survive the first year after planting
(6) To use only native trees and bushes for new landscaping.
(7) To require that contractors and builders under the employ of, or contracted by, owner/developer are aware of posted road speed limits and parking requirements and are cognizant of the fact that most of West Meade / Hillwood does not have sidewalks, and that residents with children and dogs often walk on the side of the street.
So far the effort has had mixed success. Some builders have signed on, but it has been difficult for the association to make contact with the builders before trees have been taken down. “We don’t have great leverage,” Honegger said. “We just have to depend on their good will. It’s a slow process, but I think it is a start.”
In addition to the MOU, the association is working to educate builders and realtors on the value of a healthy tree canopy for keeping the neighborhood attractive to buyers; building an identity for the neighborhood based on its natural resources; and helping residents learn best practices for growing and maintaining the tree canopy. So far this effort, led by Blair Tramel, has resulted in the distribution of signs that say “West Meade (Hearts) Our Trees. Help Protect Our Canopy and Our Wildlife.” Also in planning are resource packets for residents, new arrivals and real estate agents that would include information from the Smart Yards program, Root Nashville, UT Extension and others.
By Blake Davis
Last year on the solstice, I sat around the fire with a small group of close friends who had just experienced the darkest year of our lives.
I handed out slips of paper and pens, and we wrote down the things we needed to release: grief, failures, heavy moments… and threw them to the flames.
Some were read aloud, some were burned in silence.
Fire somehow cleanses and transitions me. Burning what no longer holds me helps me move forward.
Winter always hits hard for me. Last year, I strove to prepare the garden and soil for the first freeze, but I hadn’t prepared my mind or spirit. I went to bed with a green, life-filled garden and a few late-blooming hydrangeas. When I looked out the window in the morning, it was brown, still, and lifeless. And yet I still layered up, put my headlamp on and forced myself to go out into the cold and continue striving to make progress. When spring came I still didn’t feel ready, and I was exhausted.
In Down To Earth, Monty Don describes the garden in December as “stripped of all dignity.”He writes about the melancholy of the season, but also reminds us that this is the time to sharpen our secateurs to prepare for spring. My grandfather called it "lay by time." A time of resting, of family gatherings, sharpening tools, repairing machinery, and planning for the next growing season.
Mulch: Covered and Deprived of Light
I have three young kids, so when the clocks change, our household experiences some… emotions… as young bodies shift meal, sleep and activity schedules.
My thirteen-month-old has a precise and consistent inner clock that wakes him ready for an adventure at 5:30am every morning.
Unfortunately, on November 2nd his body clock remained consistent without understanding the clocks all fell back an hour.In the summer, I loved our sunrise walks. Now he pounds his little palms on the door, wanting to go out into the cold dark. I’m not as impervious to cold; my cheeks aren’t as cutely insulated.
I have literally tons of wood chip mulch in my yard.
Last year I built a relationship with a local tree service that dumped some mulch for me (this saves them dumping fees, so it’s a win-win).
This year I told them they could drop more if they were in my area.
There was a bit of a language barrier, and when my wife called me at work as they were dumping their 6th five-foot-tall pile of mulch, I had to rush out to thank them for their enthusiasm, but explain that until I could finish saving for an old tractor with a bucket, it’ll take me years to spread more with my pitchfork and small gorilla cart. So asked them no to delivery more until I call.
On a completely unrelated note, if you know anyone who needs mulch, please, dear God, send them to me.
Mulch is fascinating. It can cover, protect, warm, AND nourish. A good layer keeps cold air from stealing warmth and moisture from the roots, protecting water when the topsoil freezes, and blocking weeds from competing for energy.
And what I love most is that even when I can’t get to the 5 full remaining piles, it still does its work.
Beneath the surface, fungi and bacteria break down the wood fibers, creating heat as they decompose. That’s why steam rises from the mulch mountains in my back yard. Over time, those microbes turn the wood into dark, crumbly humus rich in minerals and organic matter which feeds the soil it’s been protecting all along.
Explaining this to my 3-year-old as she helped me spread some mulch before our first freeze, she said “It's like a warm winter sweater for the roots.”
Even deprived of light, even if I can’t pread all the mulch before my youngest goes to college, it keeps working. Its natural state is to break down and nourish whatever is beneath it.
That’s what I remind myself when the sun sets at 4:30pm (or the baby wakes up at 4:30am) and I feel trapped as the sunlight hours shrink to be in line with the hours I have to spend working to pay the bills.
Progress and nourishment is still happening in the dark, beneath the surface, tending the plants when the sun and I cannot.
Sharpening and Tending
Like the everests of mulch, quietly decomposing, it’s good for me to take a rest to honor this changing of seasons rather than resist it. Winter is our permission to pause, reflect and reset.
I’m practicing seeing the solstice season as a time to sit in the darkness intentionally. To name what failed, to release what burned, and then to sharpen my tools and plans for what’s coming next. To oil the wooden handles with linseed oil. To file the nicks out of shears and give them new edges. To make sure I have clear plans before the seed catalogues start arriving in my mailbox so this year I don’t black out and buy more than I can possibly tend or stratify in time. To schedule time in my calendar to have coffee with other gardeners who may also be feeling surrounded by the dark and cold so we can dream about spring together.
The little acts feel like a prayer to me. Mulching and praying over the plants with my daughter. Preparing for spring without rushing me towards it. Not a distraction from the dark and dormant seasons, but a conscious leaning into the rest and biological act of helping insurmountable mountains decompose into mineral rich nourishment from which warmth and new life will bloom with the coming of the sun.
The Light Returns
Last week I took my kids camping for the first time. We set up a tent in the back yard, cooked hotdogs and s’mores around the fire, and I told old boy scout stories.
After my wife took the baby inside, the older two and I huddled in the tent and slept horribly.
As we trudged back to the house, winding around the giant mulch piles, my five-year-old said, “Daddly, I LOVE fires. And camping. I don’t mind the cold.”
This is what the solstice is. Last year I burned those written expressions of struggle so that I could try to move on to the net thing. Now I’m trying to lean in, not to distract from and cope with the dark just to get me to spring. But to seek ways to make light and warmth within it.
The ashes from notes of last year’s solstice fire have already mixed with the soil alongside the mulch that warms the ground and feeds the roots. Everything that has burned, broken down, or covered is still working. Not distracting itself to get to spring faster. But doing its work within (not despite) the cold.
I can let the mulch and ash do their job while I rest and sharpen and trust the work being done in the dark without feeling like I need to strive in discomfort.
And in its time, without rushing, spring will always come again. This year, I might even feel ready for it.
A Few Things I’m Going to Try to Help Me (and my garden) Weather the Season
Mulch the trees and trust their work.
Get outside daily to stare at the sky, no matter the weather.
Clear out some clutter to make room to rest, sharpening and tinkering.
Attend the in-person Master Gardener gatherings.
Schedule coffee with another gardener who’s also missing the extended daylight.
Rest intentionally.
Give my houseplants some much-needed prioritization.
Make s’mores with my kids.
The Master Gardeners of Davidson County
P. O. Box 41055 Nashville, TN 37204-1055
info@mgofdc.org
UT/TSU Extension, Davidson County
Amy Dunlap, ANR Extension Agent
1281 Murfreesboro Pike Nashville, TN 37217
615.862.5133
adunla12@utk.edu
©2026 Master Gardeners of Davidson County All Rights Reserved. NOTICE: Trade and brand names are used only for information. Tennessee Extension does not guarantee nor warrant the standard of any product mentioned; neither does it imply approval of any product to the exclusion of others which also may be suitable. Programs in agriculture and natural resources, 4-H youth development, family and consumer sciences, and resource development. University of Tennessee Institute of Agriculture, U.S. Department of Agriculture and county governments cooperating. Tennessee Extension provides equal opportunities in programs and employment.
