There is a particular type of Southern woman—almost an archetype—who represents a charming dichotomy. She has been celebrated in the film Steel Magnolias: genteel and hospitable, soft spoken and modest; yet beneath this calm surface one senses an iron resolve, a determination and capability that her self-effacing manner belies.
And so it is with Gay Coleman and her garden.
The lady herself is as warm and welcoming as a June afternoon, greeting the visitor with a ready smile and leading the way (hand resting gently on your arm) straight through the foyer of her gracious home, directly onto the stone patio at the rear. Rocky beds overflow with perennials: foxglove, columbine, lantana, morning glory and black-eyed Susan. Pots burst with geraniums. A great expanse of lawn and majestic white oaks draw the eye to the ridges and peaks of the Blue Ridge.
“That’s part of what I love about this house,” Gay explains. “When we first looked at it, as we drove up, I could see the mountains through the front door.”
But that was before Gay worked her soft magic, presenting more immediate delights to engage the senses upon arrival. Back then, the main entrance was very different. A barren blanket of asphalt led up to the entrance of the historic 1921 Tudor-style residence—functional, but hardly inspiring.
The Colemans changed all that. A circular stone-paved drive was installed, far enough from the façade to allow for ample flowerbeds, which Gay has layered in classic English Country style. “We began with boxwoods and rhododendron for height,” she says, “and then added the perennials.” The display is lush with color and texture, mixing the formality of roses and iris with the casual ease of Virginia bluebells and mountain camillias.
The welcome extends to the avian community, who frolic in the tiered fountain that adorns the center medallion. “The birds love it,” says Gay, “and so do the tree frogs. You can hear them out there, singing away!”
The birdsong seems to invite one to meander out onto the lawns, down paths shaded by stately trees. One such path leads to a stone balustrade draped with wisteria and trumpet vine, down a few steps and into the glass pool house, which doubles as a greenhouse.
There’s an element of fantasy here—a sense of being transported to paradise. Beds filled with exotic and tropical plants surround the free form, in-ground pool: palms of many varieties, birds-of-paradise, amaryllis and even bananas. “Folks really enjoy those bananas,” Gay says with a smile. “They’re small and yellow and taste different than the ones from the supermarket—not so sweet.
“I start all my seedlings here, and this is where all my container plants live during the winter,” she continues. “It’s lovely to come out here on cold days and have geraniums blooming.” Racks of orchids occupy a shady corner, basking in the humidity. “We keep them out here until they’re ready to bloom and then move them into the house,” she explains.
During the warmer months, Gay decorates her rooms with armloads of blossoms from the cutting garden, tucked behind the pool house. “I hate to cut flowers out of the gardens, but I love to have fresh flowers in the house,” she says. “Most of the peonies came from my mother’s house—they’ve been divided over the years. Then come the dahlias. Everybody knows I have them, so they’ll call up and say “I’m having out-of-town company this weekend. Can I have some dahlias?” It’s fun to share them.”
And then there are Gay’s roses, punctuating every area of the residence. She favors heirloom varieties: trellised Don Juans climbing from the massive urns that flank the patio; Old Gay Hills spilling over the roof of the covered porch; New Dawn and Dortmund framing the window of the guest cottage. It is an abundant, exuberant display that seems both carefully tended and uncontrived.
It’s a delicate balance that is seen throughout the gardens, true to the guiding principals that inspired the landscape. “I’ve always loved the English Country style,” says Gay. “I’m not a very formal person.” To Gay, this is not a showpiece; it is a labor of love. Each day, she spends many contented hours, hands in the soil, carefully nurturing these growing things.
And when complimented on her impressive achievement, she is much more inclined to speak of how she enjoys watching her grandchildren play beneath the sheltering oak or her excitement at the opening of her night-blooming cereus than to mention that the Smithsonian Institution has included her gardens in their archives.
But that’s the true gift of a gracious Southern lady—the ability to make such beauty seem effortless.