the story

These plants are from somewhere.

Every one of these plants evolved somewhere specific. That is worth understanding. How a Florida childhood, a trek into the western rim of the Amazon, and an attic fire became a greenhouse full of Anthurium in Columbus, GA.

Justin in the greenhouse, Columbus GA
Columbus, GA · 14×24ft greenhouse

Every one of these plants evolved somewhere specific. That is worth understanding.

I grew up in Florida and took the climate for granted. Often a nuisance, sometimes dangerous - hot, humid, frequently stormy. Many weekends were spent camping in palm hammocks and pine forests among the plants that learned and evolved to those conditions, though. It wasn't until I left that I understood what I'd been walking past.

A trip to Ecuador, and a trek into the western rim of the Amazon, brought back a realization I only brushed against as a kid - these plants are from somewhere. They evolved in specific ecosystems and among specific geologies over millions of years. My favorite plants didn't emerge from a pot on a windowsill or a greenhouse table - they started in cloud forests, on mountain slopes and Andean river valleys and places most people will never see. I returned from Ecuador with something I hadn't expected - the Amazon I'd been fascinated by as a kid was still there, and so was the part of me that had always wanted to be in it.

And then my brother died, November 2019, and the world stopped. And then, again, the world really, really stopped. COVID reminded a lot of us that time is short and things we appreciate should be explored and respected and understood - not for our own sake, but to bear witness.

I started a small plant business from home to, frankly, offset what I was spending on plants, teaching myself how to grow them. In that process I developed - and continue to develop - the meaning behind it. More than additional income to support my family, a way to share the joy of growing these plants. To offer connections to places many of us recognize as vital but aren't able to be among, at least regularly. Something that links your living room or studio apartment to an ecosystem that informs your life, even if it is on the other side of the planet.

For the first few years, I spent time learning how to grow whatever seemed interesting - aroids or otherwise. I shared the ones I grew successfully through local plant-oriented Facebook groups - shoutout to Columbus/Ft Benning Houseplants - as well as Market Days Saturdays in downtown Columbus. Those first two or three years were about figuring out what I was doing, and what I wanted to do.

Justin at Market Days, Columbus GA

Market Days, downtown Columbus, GA. Spring 2022.

I keep pricing fair to keep plants accessible. Most are $20-50. I want anyone who genuinely wants to grow an Anthurium - for the process, the connection, for the joy - to be able to do that. Stewardship isn't a price point thing. It's a relationship.

I'm a volunteer board member with the International Aroid Society - a nonprofit focused on aroid research, education, and conservation. The wild places these plants come from are worth protecting. That's not separate from growing them. It should be the same thing, but requires intention.
Cloud forest waterfall, Ecuador Wild aroids in Ecuador Ecuadorian cloud forest

The trip that started all of this.

Cloud forest waterfalls. Wild aroids the size of a person. The plants I grow in Columbus, GA are from the same lineage as things that live in places like this - ecosystems that took millions of years to build.

That context shouldn't be detached from the plants in your grow tent or cabinet - it should inform their care.

Our attic caught fire.
We built something better.

In March 2024 I had grow tents in the attic of our home - and all over the house, if I'm honest. We had a small fire. We smelled smoke, grabbed our pets, and got out. The attic had to be gutted and renovated. Everything in it - from christmas ornaments to mother plants - was lost.

I didn't know where to go from there. Seed batches readying for processing were wiped out. The small bit of infrastructure I had built as my little business evolved had been destroyed. My wife suggested I convert the carport. I initially didn't think it would work or that I could do it. I was wrong. She's a genius.

What started as a crisis turned into something better than what I had - a dedicated 14x24ft space built specifically for the plants, with proper electrical, climate control, and room to actually work. The plants have grown considerably since - in number and in size. The attic has since been restored to a livable space.

Empty carport shell, day one
Day one - empty shell
Framing
Framing
Electrical
Electrical rough-in
Polycarbonate panels
Polycarbonate panels going up
Exterior nearly finished
Exterior finished
First plants moving in
First plants in
Greenhouse finished
Greenhouse finished

The plants tell the rest of it.