The Swellesley Report

Since 2005: More than you really want to know about Wellesley, Mass.

Autumn in Mrs. Swellesley’s Wellesley garden

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After eighteen months of neglect, the results proved predictable. My garden had gone to rack and ruin. Blame it on an intense bout of Sandwich Generation stuff. I do. It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times when the most important people in my life had to completely uproot their situations and settle into something brand new. Some went skipping, happy to leave behind the responsibilities of a big house. Some went kicking and screaming, loathe to give up independence and familiarity. Still others eagerly moved into a new college dorm or an apartment, with hardly a backward glance.

Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
The perennial bed, early morning. It’s a thick line between an unstudied cottage garden look and rack and ruin. My garden has crossed over to the rack and ruin side. That tall thing in the middle is a tree of some sort that managed to bolt up to a height of 8 feet while I was looking the other way.

Whether the transitions were easy or difficult, welcomed or fraught, commonalities popped up. There were many applications to fill out. There was much proof of this and that to provide. There were the outward trappings of entire lives to box up and move. A pile of things to keep. A pile of things to donate. A pile of things to toss. I can do it in my sleep.

A pile of feelings to sort through. A pile of memories to store. A pile of experiences to compartmentalize. Those parts of the process are what kept me awake.

You all know what I’m talking about. So many of you have helped loved ones through transitions, and something gave somewhere. For you, it may not have been the garden. Maybe it was cooking nutritious meals, or keeping up with friends. Maybe what fell by the wayside for you was nurturing your spirit with a favorite hobby, or that weekly yoga class. Whatever you lost in the shuffle, I’m sorry you went through that. I hope the loss is temporary.

I want my garden back. I’ve gone to it, literally, on my hands and knees, begging for forgiveness. My garden says it’s going to take a lot of time and effort on my part. My garden says it has trust issues. My garden says it can’t guarantee anything, but that it will try to work with me, provided my efforts are in good faith and that I show it some consistency. My garden has always been kind of a tough taskmaster that way, but what can I do? I agreed to all terms.

The good parts of a garden are always in a stage of temporary. The roses bloom, for now. The peonies stand proud and upright, until a spring hailstorm comes through and shreds each delicate petal. The tomatoes are red and perfect, the basil unblemished and licorice-scented. Then your guests devour every beautiful slice of Beefsteak and every herb leaf in your famous Caprese salad. It’s all good. Gardeners generally aren’t looking for forever. It’s all about the ethereal, the attempt to appreciate a certain dreaminess in a fleeting moment. The dawn dewdrops on the Lady’s Mantle. The hosta leaves before the deer get to them. When the poppies and the irises and the Nelly Moser clematis all bloom at the same time and you know for right now you nailed the art of combination planting.

The bad parts of a garden are always in a stage of permanence. While I was preoccupied, the Japanese Knotweed made a dash from the edge of the woods to the interior of the garden. Meanwhile, the wild oregano took full advantage of the neglect situation. I’ll forevermore be yanking mats of it out from underneath shrubs. I once considered Norway maples eradicated in my yard, but more than a few were able to evade the lawn mower’s blades. Their secret: the invasive saplings sidled right up to established trees, which they used as their protectors. No mower could get that close, and the weed whacker isn’t used around trees in my yard, so as to prevent the “death by 1,000 cuts” fate that befalls so many trees in aggressively tidied spaces.

Here’s what I’ve been up to in my garden lately. It’s good to be back. My mantra these days is “process over outcome.” I used to think that was just a nice way of saying it’s ok if your project looks like hell. At least you tried. Now I use “process over outcome” as a way to focus on what it is I’m trying to do out there. I’m trying to dig in the dirt again. Something good may come of it. We’ll see.

Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
When starting over again in the garden, it always helps to give the soil some attention. One thing I kept up with was composting. This double-chambered spinning composter takes care of all of our raw fruits and vegetables peelings and waste. I throw leaves in there every now and then, but it’s not a huge composter.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
The plus side of the composter slides to the right, allowing me to add my raw kitchen scraps (fruits and veggies only. No meats, bones, etc.). The clock side of the composter reminds me not to throw anything in that side. The contents on that side are busy breaking down into black gold.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
Here’s an interior shot of the plus side of the composter. Lemons halves, banana peels, old apples and onions, asparagus stalks, teabags, and more will all gradually break down. I add to this side a few times per week.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
This is the clock side of the composter. What even are we looking at here? Maybe best not to parse it. Let’s just allow the process to occur.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
My recent crop of black gold, harvested from the composter. I get about a 5-gallon bucket of compost, four times per year. It may not seem like much, but to me it’s a big deal. Pounds and pounds of organic waste go not to the trash compactor, or even into the food waste bins at the Wellesley RDF. Instead, it stays right here at home and is returned to the earth without having to travel additional miles.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
Close up of the finished composted product. I never bother to sift it or screen it or anything fancy like that. When I’m planting something, I just mix a couple trowels-ful into the planting hole. When my compost is gone, it’s gone until the next batch is ready.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
Close-up of phlox. I’ve taken a bunch of the phlox out of the above rack-and-ruin perennial garden and transplanted it to an area by the house where it will get more sun. The truth is, the rack-and-ruin garden has gotten permanently away from me, and I’m shutting it down for good. It’s fine, no tears. The nearby trees have grown taller by the year, as trees do, and the plants have to bend ever further toward the sun. It’s not a good look. So I’m moving everybody. Some will go out skipping happily, some will go kicking and screaming. The metaphors abound.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
Bare root phlox from the rack-and-ruin garden.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
More bare root phlox, with Lady’s Mantle tangled into it. No need to separate old friends. I took them both over to a sunnier area where they can stay together into their dotage. That’s the very nature of cottage garden cool. Everybody hangs out together, one big happy family. None of this phlox over in this corner, Lady’s Mantle over in that corner, and never the twain shall meet. In a cottage garden, it’s always a party.
Deborah's Wellesley garden, Fall2019
As I worked in the rack-and-ruin garden, I came across yet another metaphor. An empty nest. Damn, everything is just so poignant these days.

MORE:

Wellesley Police Department pollinator garden

Beyond Wellesley: the Hidden Gardens of Beacon Hill tour

Wellesley garden clubs represent at Boston’s Museum of Fine Art’s Art in Bloom exhibit

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