My Gardens
As far back as I can remember, my mother grew flowers. She filled our home—first a tiny shack—with spider plants, cactus, chenille vines, and baskets overflowing at every window. Daddy called it a jungle. We moved when I was nine, and the new house sat like a red-railed mansion on a hill, two stories tall with porches stacked like flower stands.
Momma dug flower beds everywhere—bushes, pots, and blooms as far as the eye could see. When she passed, there were over 500 flower pots, most with something thriving. I brought some home with me, and I cherish them like heirlooms. My yard is small by comparison, but it grows just as full in spirit.
I didn’t start gardening until later in life. Between babies and trailer park restrictions, I had no room or interest. But after my first marigolds grew into bush-sized glory beside the sidewalk, I was hooked. Over time, with encouragement from Momma, I moved pots, planted perennials, and built a space where things could grow again. She gave me plants over the years, and started several of my bushes. She could stick a stick in the ground, and it'd take root! While I'm not THAT green-thumbed, I like to think I'm a decent, but chaotic, gardener.
I didn't do much with vegetables until I met and married the second time; and even then, I let him do most of the food plants. Only when I got my greenhouses, did I begin to grow food plants from seed. For two years, I started tomato plants too early; they were outgrowing my space before it was warm enough to harden them off and put them out! It has been a bit of trial and error, but I am getting closer every time.
These photos are from every stage of that journey—from my first garden days to the present. They’re blooms grown with love, captured with pride, and preserved with memory.
This was our property in 2008—the year I started working at Dollar General and began the long process of turning this patch of ground into a home. I loved azaleas back then (still do!), but those in the photo were packed too tightly against the house. Most were taken out later, though I kept a few and replanted them further out, where they’ve had room to breathe. That’s Amanda standing under the tree—she looks so little now—and I can still picture myself loading the good dishes and computer parts in the trunk, worried my husband might misplace them in the move. This was the beginning of something new: land to shape, blooms to grow, and memories to make.
Blossoms Only Gallery
Hint: if you don't have a touch screen, press down on your mouse wheel to scroll the photos sideways!
August, 2021
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June, 2020
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June, 2019
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July, 2018
June, 2014
June, 2013
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July, 2007
July,2007
My Greenhouse Journey
These photos track the growth of my greenhouses—and everything inside them—from early setup to a thriving sanctuary of petals and seedlings. Over the course of a couple of years, this space became part of my rhythm. The excitement builds in January and February every year, and now I have a place to plant seeds, listen to music on my phone and imagine my Momma's hand on my shoulder, encouraging me. Some days started with soil under my nails, tears in my eyes, others ended with photos like these tucked into my memory. Here's the story from frost to full bloom.
The greenhouse was a dream I finally got to bring to life. We found it on sale at Harbor Freight and knew it was the right fit. My husband helped me level the ground, anchor 4 X 4s, lay the gravel floor, frame the greenhouse and tied it down to keep the winds from blowing it away. He built the shelves from scratch. It quickly became my favorite place to breathe, plant, and hide away from the household chores.
I couldn’t have built this little garden empire alone. My husband, my brother, and my bonus son each played a part—whether it was wiring up the electric panel, leveling gravel, or assembling frames in the Tennessee sun. Their help turned a dream into something real, rooted in teamwork and love. Even my tiny plastic-covered greenhouse (the kind you find online with zippered doors and wobbly shelves) has found its purpose—now home to pots, supplies, and a stash of popsicle sticks for labeling the chaos.
During the heat of summer, the greenhouses sit quiet and sweltering, like sleeping giants. But come fall, they’re ready—standing proud and prepped for action. I’m hoping Greenhouse #2 will help me overwinter a few favorites this year. With its own breaker and a GFCI plug, setting up the heater will be a breeze. These spaces have become more than just structures—they’re part of my rhythm, my seasons, and my story.
Videos of my Garden --- Healing from Grief
Walk-through Garden Videos
These two walk-throughs were filmed two years apart and tell a quiet story of resilience—mine and the garden’s. The first was recorded not long after losing Momma, and after a season of grief that kept me away from my flower beds. Life and loss left things overgrown, messy, and quiet. Yet somehow, many plants hung on, blooming despite the neglect, and I found comfort in tending what survived, and it brought me comfort to add the things I had brought home from Momma's. The second video, filmed last summer, reflects just how far the garden—and I—had come. A year's worth of dirt-under-the-nails progress, colorful chaos, and joy returned. I call myself a chaos gardener with pride: flower beds where I can wrangle them, pots where I can’t, and a glorious jumble of clashing colors and whimsical decorations that make every inch my own kind of beautiful.
Porches Gallery
Porch Project: From Tiny Back Step to Butterflies and Cardinals
This was no ordinary porch remodel—it was a relocation saga, powered by four-wheeler grit, family teamwork, and a vision big enough to need two new porches. We stripped the tiny back stoop down and hitched it up for a journey to the front of the house, creating a welcoming space filled with butterflies memorializing Momma. Then came the build: a bigger back porch framed from scratch, painted in grays and cardinal reds in memory of Daddy. Each custom rail, each painted plank, and every teacup planter found its place in a porch story stitched together with care.
Concrete Creations and Decorative Accents
Crafted Corners of the Yard
These pieces of the yard is a living scrapbook—stitched together with wagon wheels, butterflies, tire planters, and love poured straight into the concrete. Some pieces began as quiet experiments; others were bold designs brought to life with my husband’s help or passed down from my daddy’s skilled hands. But every one of them carries more than utility—they hold memories, family stories, and the spark that turns a garden into a legacy. The things I’ve made and moved here aren’t just decorations; they’re heartworks. And when I walk past them, I’m not alone—I feel the ones who shaped me still walking alongside.
I really cherish the things that Daddy made, even more so if he made them for Momma, and I managed to bring them here. It's like I brought a piece of both of them with me!
The love poured into those creations didn’t end when they were built—it came with me. Every time I water the baskets or sit nearby, it’s like they’re both still here, shaping this garden alongside me.
Summer 2025 – Fresh From the Garden
Since moving here in 2008, I’ve turned a bare yard—once marked only by azalea bushes clinging to the house—into a living, breathing garden of color and intention. While my days now juggle college assignments and caring for a toddler full-time, I still make space for the plants that bring me peace. Gardening is my reset, my favorite hobby, and a quiet affirmation that growth doesn’t require perfection. When something doesn’t bloom as planned, I simply replant and keep going. These photos capture this summer’s progress—an evolving story of trial, triumph, and beauty rooted in persistence.
Legacies and Traditions
This garden is rooted in more than soil—it's part of a legacy cultivated by the hands of those who came before me. From my parents to their parents, the love for tending the land and growing beauty has been passed down like a treasured heirloom. Now, I carry those traditions forward with pride, sharing them with my children and grandchildren—not just through the blooms and harvests, but through the quiet lessons planted in patience, resilience, and joy. As each season turns, I hope they’ll find the same peace in the petals and strength in the roots that this garden has given me.