In every true garden, whether broad as a plantation field or bound within the fencing of a humble town plot, there exists the potential for legacy. Not merely the legacy of blooms or bushels, but of story, of stewardship, of keeping—old ways, old names, and rare green bloodlines. These gardens are living archives. And in our community plots, among the cabbages and the zinnias, lies a quiet opportunity to become not just a gardener, but a collector and caretaker of the rare. Having grown up in Atlanta, GA, my upbringing featured daily walks by rows of serviceberries and myrtles and I'd often dream of a day when I might grow my own garden. Reality shifted as I matured, realizing the privilege of a private garden and the contrasting abundance, color and community vibrancy of a shared garden space. Community gardens are not simply a place to reserve a plot of dirt but a sanctuary to share seed, knowledge, and empowerment to provide for ones' table.
In the town of Aiken, South Carolina—a place I now know for its reverence of trees and the hush of old shade—there is a man whose work whispers across the landscape and has shaped my view of the south: Bob McCartney. You won’t find him thumping his chest on digital forums or handing out pamphlets of his exploits (though you may witness him protest at the city management office or laude at the excessive use of roundup on a quite neighborhood corner...)
Instead, you’ll find his story told in the tall silhouettes of trees you’ve never seen before—rare species from distant forests, planted with intent and care, tucked into parks, street corners, and overlooked corridors. He has turned the entire town into a quiet arboretum. Each rare trunk he sets in the ground becomes a chapter in a story too few have known to tell. For many years, Bob kept a brimming bucket of water in his car on the occasion that a specimen appeared too parched for his liking.
What McCartney has done at the civic scale, each of us can begin in miniature. You, dear gardener, can cultivate such a tale with nothing more than a trowel and an eye for the uncommon.
Let us take, for instance, a rare southern blueberry called ‘Well’s Delight.’ At Woodlanders, it is among the most sought-after of our edible offerings—a cultivar not found in big box nurseries, nor lauded on national garden shows, but a plant that sings its sweetness with quiet dignity packaged in tiny berry-shaped morsels. Imagine it fruiting there among the more ordinary raspberries and cucumbers in your community plot, and imagine the questions it will raise. “What is that?” “Can I try a berry?” You will not only be the answerer, but the transmitter of a verdant tale nearly forgotten. You will have carried forward a special selection from North Carolina State University, honoring the noteworthy ecologist Dr. B. W. Wells and an ode to native blueberries of the coastal Carolinas.
Or take up one of the cold-hardy citrus trees we offer—true novelties for a temperate climate, and brave little stewards of zest. The Ichang "Lemon" provided a bounty of fruit this past November, a treat that I shared with neighbors and featured in dishes like lemon sorbet and Avgolemono. A trifoliate hybrid or an old southern satsuma, tucked in beside the beans, may carry the kind of surprise that children remember their whole lives. “An orange? Growing here?” And so, the seed of wonder is sown.
Planting rarity in a community garden is an act of generosity, not exclusivity. It is not about hoarding the oddities of the plant world for the pleasure of knowing more than others. No, it is about sharing what others may never otherwise know. It is about reweaving the green fabric of our land with the threads we are in danger of losing—those uncommon cultivars, those once-beloved species that time has tried to tuck away. The heirloom gifts of our time - a seed you may find nowhere else.
To be a rare-hearted gardener is not to show off, but to show up—for history, for biodiversity, and for the sheer delight of adding to the chorus a note that might otherwise have gone unsung.
So next time you prepare your little plot in the community garden, I ask you: What could you plant that might teach someone something new? What might you sow that your neighbors’ grandchildren might remember, pick from, and carry forward?
In every rare plant lies the kernel of a story worth keeping. And in every thoughtful gardener, a steward capable of keeping it.
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In the spirit of the land,
Fiona von Grey
