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It started with a quiet itch to make something—with her hands, with the land, with her time. “When we moved in, there were no flowers,” says designer Kristin Ellen Hockman of Gippy, the historic house near Charleston she shares with her husband, Dustin, and their three-year-old daughter, Astrid. The formal walled garden that spilled in front of the antebellum pile—reputedly laid out by early-20th-century landscape architect Loutrel Briggs—was green, prim, and proper, but it didn’t hum or sway with the seasons. No scent, no color, no sound but the wind rustling through the leaves. “We wanted something more alive.”
Bamboo stakes mark rows of zinnias in the cutting garden behind the washhouse, now covered in creeping fig; the formal garden wall, visible in the background, was part of the original property. Dahlias are grown from tubers and left unlabeled by design—“You never know what you’re going to get,” says Hockman.
Max Kim-Bee
Ducks Mae, Queenie, and Lottie roam near the cutting garden.
Max Kim-Bee
The old washhouse now holds tools and pots.
Max Kim-BeeSo she opened up AutoCAD and started plotting out a new vision for the acreage behind the residence, near the old abandoned washhouse. Not just rows and borders, but a kind of invitation—structured, sure, but soft around the edges. By February of 2020, the Hockmans were out back with shovels, planting a French-style plot with rosemary hedges and a young olive tree. “I had this vision of symmetry, but nothing too stiff—it still had to feel like us,” she says.
Hockman and Astrid eye a boon of Spanish moss.
Courtesy of Kristin Ellen Hockman
Chickens Martha and Karl scratch for bugs between the dahlias.
Max Kim-Bee
Cats Hyacinth, Poppy, Iris and Daisy lounge in the boxwood’s shade.
Max Kim-BeeWhat began as a tidy potager quickly grew into something wilder. On the other side of the washhouse, they carved out space for a cutting garden—blousy, unstructured, and full of surprises. “We used bamboo stakes from the property and topped them with upside-down terra-cotta pots filled with straw,” she says. “It’s an old trick for trapping earwigs, but I mostly just thought it looked charming.” They planted zinnias and dahlias from seed and tuber, intentionally unlabeled so every bloom would be a surprise.
“It changes every day. That’s the magic.”
Kristin Ellen Hockman
The garden became an oasis for more than just plants. First came the chickens—a Valentine’s gift for Astrid. Then the ducks, after Hockman read they were great for slug control. “They’d free-range during the day and sleep in the boxwoods at night,” she says. “If something startled them, they’d run for the pond.” Then there’s the actual bounty: Hockman makes what she calls “garden pizza,” layering pesto she makes from fresh basil with kale, arugula, and nasturtium leaves she plucks from her big backyard. Neighbors stop by to pick flowers or grab an armful of greens. “We always say, take what you need. We have more than enough.”
Open fields give way to the formal walled garden.
Max Kim-Bee
Zinnias, grown from seed, brighten a kitchen bed.
Max Kim-Bee
White echinacea blooms along a back edge.
Max Kim-BeeThe patch of paradise is never perfect, but that’s the point. Things bloom and bolt. Pests come and go. But the garden keeps offering something back. “It changes every day,” she says. “That’s the magic.”
THIS ARTICLE ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN VOLUME 17 OF FREDERIC MAGAZINE. CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE!
