It’s peak season for sneaking around Savannah’s yards, which means every surface of my house is covered in glass dishes displaying petals of riotous color and variety. Who needs roses when camellias are basically nature’s Valentine?
I’ve got flowers in my hair and pinned to my shirt, and friends and strangers alike receive a bloom with every interaction. (The mailman thinks I’m nuts, but I made the checkout lady at Red & White smile.)
Oh yes, I’ve been poaching aplenty these past weeks, and I make no apologies. But what’s curious about being a notorious camellia thief is that I actually now get invited to purloin on private property — sometimes in some of Savannah’s most storied gardens.
For years I’d heard about the magnificent copse on Isle of Hope planted over a century ago by Judge Arthur Solomon, a longtime public servant and one of the founding fathers of the American Camellia Society. “The Judge” as he was known (he never presided over any court, it was the honorific bestowed upon county commissioners back then) was so deeply obsessed with his favorite flower that in the late 1930s — not long before Hitler charged in — he traveled to the famed nurseries in Nantes, France and brought 200 peat moss-packed saplings back on the Queen Mary.
The 50-odd survivors of that journey were added to his glorious forest on the marsh, first purchased as a sprawling 40 acres in 1911 but eventually truncated to a moss-draped expanse of 11 acres. Each winter the Judge would invite the public to marvel at the hundreds of exotic specimens — amounting to more than 1300 trees and shrubs — and generously hand out cuttings in what seems to have been a lifelong mission to cover all of Savannah with the world’s most wonderful perennial.
Folks from Gordonston to Georgetown claim camellias from the judge, including copious propagator Gene Phillips, who closed his legendary nursery in 2021 but is still blooming away near Statesboro. I heard the judge’s name invoked just this past weekend at an adorable one-year-old’s birthday party, where proud grandma and longtime IOH resident Lucy Hitch imparted that she’d grafted many of the 200 trees in her yard with starters from Judge Solomon’s grove.
Former Dutch Islanders Anita and Mike Poole purchased the property from the Solomon descendants in 2016, refurbishing the historic river house (they blessedly left the luscious shou sugi ban walls unpainted) and taking on the formidable role of floral stewards. I met Anita last summer at Hot Sushi’s Surf Camp — I was flailing, she was watching her grandkids — and we hadn’t spoken since until I received a text: Our camellias are blooming and I keep hoping I’m going to catch you out in our gardens… Who am I to disappoint?
I was not prepared for the sheer overwhelm of so much splendor. As my old lady Mercedes crunched down oyster shells past the original brick entranceway embellished with bronze camellia sculptures by metallurgic master Matt Toole, I gasped.
Every few feet down the winding path a tree flared with color, from scarlet and fuschia and candy cane stripes to more modest hues of blush and crisp linen white.
Each one boasted blossoms unfurling at various points of perfect geometry, the effect dazzling, and honestly, dizzying. And this was just the driveway.
I never did catch my breath in the two hours Anita graciously led me around the grounds, followed by her amiable trio of Wheaten terriers. A dozen of the largest live oaks I’ve ever seen presided like ancient sentries as she pointed out a double-hearted Mark Alan hybrid here, a blue-fringed Mathotiana there. A stunning japonica near the fence line registered as a variegated Jessica (my favorite, obviously) is one of the property’s oldest, though many further away from the house remain unnamed.
“We’re slowly but surely identifying each one,” she said, examining a metal tag affixed to a trunk before snipping off a fat red Professor Sargent with a pair of shears. She eyed the straw purse I’d brought along.
“You’re gonna need a bigger basket.”
As she layered me up with goodies, Anita told me that for as many camellia varieties as Judge Solomon pollinated and shared, he only officially named one, the delicately-striped Miss Lyla. Yet his name will always be associated with the genus, in Savannah and throughout the world.
While keeping up with the camellias (as well as a flock of peacocks that like to roost in the oaks) requires daily maintenance and occasional hired help, the Pooles are committed to tending to the Judge’s legacy.
“We didn’t really appreciate at first what we’d gotten into,” admits Anita. “Now we’re pretty obsessed.”
I’d barely recovered from my flower-induced stupor when I got a hot tip a few days later about another venerable camellia thicket, tucked away in the tiny municipality of Vernonberg (current population: 139.) Hidden near the banks of its namesake tributary is the sweeping collection of the late Frank Chisholm, who I’m told personally supplied many a boutonniere for Savannah’s society gatherings and debutante balls.
After obtaining permission from the current owner (even the stealthiest thief knows better than to go creeping around the woods where it's legal to hunt on private land), I was set loose in this wildscape of wonder with my clippers.
Wandering through the kaleidoscopic tunnels, I experienced the same vertiginous rush that I had in Judge Solomon’s garden: A sense of being subsumed by color, drawn into a dimension where plants and flowers make the rules, no sound but the buzz of bees bouncing from one pillowed petal to another. It was heavenly, and I imagine it indeed feels a lot like whatever comes after this life.
It was certainly a welcome respite from the “real” world, though who’s to say what’s real anymore?
I did manage to harvest a veritable cornucopia of camellias, frolicking eye-to-eye with birds’ nests as leaves raked my hair. Each bloom released a cloud of pollen as I snipped, a harbinger of the Great Allergy Storm soon to come.
Many of Mr. Chisholm’s trees had name markers, but consulting my notes later, I was disappointed to find that I hadn’t written down any of them. I realized that for all my love of camellias, I’m pretty bad at identifying them. Further education with the American Camellia Society is long overdue — an introductory membership is only $10; perhaps one for your sweetie?
Even after the camellias (and my clippers) have gone back to bed for another year, Savannah will have plenty of pulchritude to ogle: Azaleamania is just around the corner, though they’re generally safe from my thievery since our famous shrubbery tends to drop its blooms too easily.
Some of Savannah’s most distinguished hidden gardens will open their gates to eager eyes on April 19-20 for the annual NOGS tour — that’s North of Gaston Street, dahlin’ — though I’d never be so uncouth as to pilfer anything from one of these treasured showcases.
Sponsored by the The Garden Club of Savannah — which will turn 100 in 2027 — the NOGS tour is a tradition not to be missed. There are still a handful of tickets left, and proceeds go to generous grants for all sorts of local horticulturally-related non-profits, from landscaping for the Veteran’s Tiny House Project to the Savannah Tree Foundation’s recent planting of 400 live oaks around the city. Even more than flowers, support for community non-profits is my love language!
Speaking of my funny Valentine, after 25 years, he knows there’s no need to buy me flowers — and that I’m much better seduced with chocolate anyway.
All the love to all y’all ~ JLL
Love this story so much! You truly have a wonderful knack for writing. I love reading your work. 💕 So descriptive, it makes me feel like I am there with you!
The Camellia that you brought me for your hair appointment lasted for days. I can't wait to take a trip to Statesboro and see what I can get my hands on for my new garden.