The Weather That Made a Garden
The year was 2007. I had just planted some of the very first fruit trees and Japanese maples at Natchez Glen here in Middle Tennessee. Spring brought warmth—nearly 80 degrees in April—followed by a brutal cold plunge to below 20 degrees for three consecutive nights. Every fruit bud and flower was lost. My young Japanese maples were severely damaged, and even the native trees bore scars from that freeze.
Then in 2008, just as I began to recover, a series of violent tornadoes swept through the region. One of them dropped behind the hillside of Natchez Glen, taking out 60-foot native trees that had stood for decades.
By 2010, I had shifted into the nursery industry professionally and was beginning to design and shape gardens at Natchez Glen with greater ambition. A shipment of rare and beautiful plants had just gone in. Then came the flood—20 to 27 inches of rain over just 36 hours. The waters tore through the land, sweeping away the trees and perennials I had planted with such care.
These events shaped me as a gardener. They taught me that nature’s extremes are not theoretical—they are intimate and immediate. And over time, they taught me where strength can be found.
2025: A New Kind of Surprise
In the spring of 2025, a storm swept through. It wasn’t the worst rainfall I’ve seen. The creek behind Natchez Glen wasn’t even particularly high. But still, my home and gardens flooded—and not because the creek overran. This time, it was a clogged drainage easement. Sumac and debris had blocked its flow. The water diverted, and it had only one place to go: into the gardens and crawl space of my home.
It surprised me. But then I remembered: 15 years have passed. The valley has changed. New roads, paved surfaces, bridges, rooftops. What was once open land is now structured space. And with every added element of human development, the water changes course—faster, more forcefully, less forgiving.
The Memory of the Land and the People Who Knew It
Those ripples of geology that shape Middle Tennessee tell stories. And when I moved here in 2002, those stories were still being told—by people. I met beautiful farmers who had lived on this land for generations. They didn’t need radar maps or hydrology studies to know how water moved. They knew it by memory, by feel.
“If we don’t clear out this embankment, we’re going to have a problem.”
“If we don’t get that water off this field and over there, it’ll stay too long.”
“If this easement clogs, it’ll back up on us.”
They knew. They knew. And many of them are gone now. Their children and grandchildren, new families, new residents—this is the natural progression of time. I don’t bemoan that. But I do hope that with this new generation of landowners comes a renewed willingness to listen—to the land, to its stories, and to the lessons that still remain.
There Is Something We Can Do
Too often, we treat weather as something that happens to us. And while many events—like the 2010 flood—are simply acts of God, some outcomes are within our reach.
We can clear easements.
We can shape the land with water in mind.
We can garden intentionally.
If I have too much water, I know I can garden with it. I can plant Lobelia siphilitica. Iris ensata. Native sedges of all kinds. After the 2010 floods, I saw entire trees ripped out of the soil—but the sedges? They stayed. Their fibrous, net-like root systems held the earth together, rooted not just in soil, but in purpose.
Gardening as Stewardship
Where I’ve planted perennials and trees with water in mind, they’ve thrived. The meadow gardens at Natchez Glen are essentially raised beds, lifted 6–8 inches, with deep channels along their edges. They are beautiful spaces because they are functional ones.
In my professional world, the best projects are those where collaboration exists between designers, homeowners, engineers, and gardeners. Where a landscape architect asks, Where will this water go? And I can answer, Right here—into the garden.
Rain gardens. Drainage swales. Soil built from compost and deep-rooting plants. These are not just fixes. They are beautiful, living solutions.
Every One of Us Can Help
Wherever you live—whether in the Tennessee hills or on a windswept prairie—there is something you can do. You can garden with intention. You can learn from the people who came before you. You can help your neighbor by shaping your land not just for beauty, but for resilience.
The land has a memory. The people who knew it held wisdom. And we, all of us, can be part of that lineage—not by resisting change, but by meeting it with care, creativity, and connection.
Gardening, in this sense, is not a hobby. It is an act of stewardship. An act of love. A way to make the world, and our homes, a little safer, a little more beautiful, and a lot more alive.