Golden Acre, Goodnight

by Karol Cooper

I once lived in a place called Golden Acre. During WWII, the U.S. government encouraged citizens to grow food in home gardens called "Victory Gardens." Patriotism ran high, and a good Victory Garden was something to boast about. So much so that prizes were awarded for the finest gardens. In 1944, Mr. Brown's garden won the prize for best in Tennessee.

In 1945, Mr. Brown's garden won first place over every garden in the United States. That was quite an honor at the time, and Mr. Brown's award was prominent in the newspapers.

Jim Brown and his wife moved to Nashville in 1938, and by the war years their garden was lush and verdant. One section of the land, called The Elysian Gardens, was choked with flowers. Vegetable sections sported such treats as “Victory” spelled out in green-bean plants. Golden Acre was so fruitful that it supplied food for the Browns and their daughter Sue, extended family members, neighbors up and down the street, and a local restaurant, The Belle Meade Buffet. As recognition of his famous generosity, the buffet awarded Mr. Brown a lifetime of free dinners. Each evening of the subsequent 40 years would find Mr. Brown dressed to the nines in suit, topcoat and fedora, strolling his way to the restaurant.

Years passed and Mr. Brown’s jaunty walk slowed. His wife died, and he suffered her loss. As Mr. Brown slowed, Golden Acre reverted to its natural state and became a refuge for wildlife. More than 30 species of birds and wildlife lived on Golden Acre’s magical land. What made this so remarkable was that Golden Acre was located one block off West End Avenue, a part of “downtown” Nashville that is incredibly congested and area clogged with cars and busy citizens, the noise of traffic and the medivac helicopters flying overhead as they landed at St. Thomas Hospital, two blocks away. In the midst of that madness stood Golden Acre, a hidden paradise.

Golden Acre responded to the city’s growth by becoming a veritable fortress of woods; a warren of meandering paths, hidden grottos with ancient stone benches and altars; the noise of the city disguised by the coos of happy birds, the gentle clucking of hens in the hen yard; the chittering, tweeping, trilling songs of birds; and the gentle song of wind in the trees.

Golden Acre has passed into the land of memories, replaced recently by a parking lot. This is my last love song to Golden Acre.

Golden Acre, Goodnight

by Karol Cooper

Golden Acre was a study in nature run rampant. The cottage path was lined with thick, dark woods—a snarl of towering trees, ancient wisteria trunks, blooming grapevine, trumpet vine, honeysuckle and Virginia bluebells. At the edge of the yard stood a rickety picket fence sensuously draped with a wisteria vine as large as a man’s bicep. The wisteria at Golden Acre grew so profusely that in springtime, the entire tops of the trees were covered in purple blooms.

Always, always thankful to have lived at Golden Acre.