History Of Green Nurseries
Having been around seemingly forever, we tend to think everyone knows about our business and its
background. Fairhope, Alabama is no longer the sleepy little town of the 1960s, so please allow us to present a short history.
Green Nurseries began in 1932 when Bob Green, Sr. moved from Chicago to Fairhope, leaving behind the bleak winters for the Camellias, Azaleas, and other incredible flowering Southern shrubs that were almost unknown in the north. During the Depression, owning a nursery, meant, raising chickens and cows and cutting firewood on the side -- anything to put food on the table.
Curiously, Fairhopians in those early years, had very conservative tastes in plants and most sales were made from the back of a Model A Ford truck on the courthouse square at the county seat of Bay Minette. World War II disrupted the business when a simple "yes" to the question, "Can you read blueprints?" on a draft questionnaire led to four years of building ships and teaching blueprint reading during the day, leaving only late afternoons for growing camellias.
Green Nurseries grew after the war by shipping plants and the "new" centipede grass throughout the South. Thousands of our plants are now heirlooms in many gardens around the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay.
In 1995 we began our wholesale division which now supplies camellias,winter-interest shrubs and trees, and a selection of rare and scarce plants to garden centers and landscapers throughout the Southeast.
Now the oldest extant family business in Fairhope, Green Nurseries vows to continue to live up to the trust you have placed in us for over eighty years.
Bobby And The Beast: A Love Of Relics
It wasn’t the plants that were so intriguing to me as a child; in fact, their demanding habits were often placed between me and the baseball game down the block. It was the old things. The abandoned tools of the 1940s that had been used to raise the camellias. . . the old grafting jars, large and small in many different colors. . . the label-making machine capable only of producing a handful of tags an hour. . . the “tree cart” that was often used as a stagecoach or chariot as my nurseryman father indulged my sisters and me. But the most mysterious of all was the “Rototiller” -- 1947 model, a monstrous seven-foot-long, 2-cycle, 16-horsepower machine that could turn the hardest clay soil to fluff.
My love of old things eventually and naturally extended into the garden itself. And what could be more interesting to study but the camellia? Here were actual living architectural artifacts! Crawling beneath old shrubs, once tended by gardeners now long-gone, could give you an insight into the gardener’s own spirit, with his labels frugally made from discarded Budweiser cans. The gardener/tool and die maker would stamp the heavy aluminum tags with care, and they remain as legible today as they were 40 years ago. Some labels, made by well-meaning amateur spellers, were so vague as to be almost in code.
Better than any other Southern shrub, the camellia can link gardeners with generations of the past. “My grandmother planted that camellia”, or “My uncle rooted that Japonica” are still commonly heard phrases.
Gardeners would like to think of their work as achieving some form of immortality, but of course a garden is a very fragile creature. Certain plants, however, seem immortal but for the hand of Man. I have rarely seen an old camellia die from any disease except “progress”. Personally, I am indelibly linked to my father by his camellias, some planted as early as 1932. As children, we would bring armloads of camellias into the house, and my father would rattle off the names: ‘Coletti’, ‘Marjorie Magnificent’, ‘Donckelarri’. My father died in 1982, and it seems he took many of his loves with him: opera, bad jokes, Nero Wolfe mysteries. But every winter I can still walk through the garden with him as he points out ‘Lindsey Neill’ and ‘Rose Dawn’.
And that other link: the Rototiller -- that hopelessly obsolete machine from the past? Every year or two I wrestle it from its cave, and clean the carburetor. A little new gas and three or four pulls and it sputters to life again, belching enough blue smoke to make Al Gore’s eyes water as far away as Washington. It careens around in circles, pulling my spare frame behind it. After five minutes of this ritual, I somewhat sadly wrestle the beast back into its cave, vowing that one day I’ll clean and renovate the machine that so faithfully helped put food on the table through nine presidents.
Sentimentality is a common link among all gardeners, both a comfort and a curse. I owe a great debt to my father for teaching me about camellias -- and of course, for not throwing out the Rototiller.
— Robert M. Green Jr