Massachusetts Horticultural Society digs deep to pass out prestigious awards

November 11, 2021 by Deborah Brown Leave a Comment

The Massachusetts Horticultural Society at a swanky event at The Gardens at Elm Bank bestowed its annual honorary medals to about a dozen plant-world luminaries, including two with long-time Wellesley connections. Former Mass Hort president Kathy Macdonald was awarded a gold medal for her role in setting current president James Hearsum up for success. Macdonald during her 2011-2018 tenure not only stabilized the organization’s finances, she oversaw a capital campaign that resulted in an overhaul of the Olmsted Brothers’ designed Italianate Garden, which included restoring the fountain, among other important projects.

Mass Hort, Wellesley — Former Mass Hort president, and 2021 gold medal honoree Kathy Macdonald, and her husband Kevin Macdonald, arrive at the event.

Macdonald has lived in Wellesley for decades and is perhaps most infamous for one year planting bulbs into the frozen late-December ground in her own garden. Come spring, they bloomed. So you see, the gold medal was well deserved given Macdonald’s lifetime accomplishments of setting new standards for future growth, no matter the medium.

Heidi Kost-Gross, who only recently left the town for greener pastures after 50+ years in Wellesley, was also celebrated for her contributions to excellence in horticulture for the public good. The gold medal honoree and former Mass Hort Board of Trustees and Overseers member was also deeply dedicated to the Mass Hort library. As a Chair to the Library Committee, Gross put to work her Radcliffe certificate in landscape design and landscape history to benefit the organization.

But to work with Gross to plant 10,000 daffodil bulbs along the 4-mile stretch of the Boston Marathon course that runs through Wellesley is to truly understand her organizational skills, as well as her deep level of compassion. Lining the race course with daffs was a project of hope after the tragic Marathon bombing of April 15, 2013. That fall, Gross rallied the troops, rolled up her sleeves, and got down in the dirt with volunteer groups from all over Wellesley to plant for the future. Come spring 2014, runners sprinted past a moving display of yellow flowers that flowed from Hopkinton to Boston. Not that we’re biased, but Wellesley’s display was the most beautiful.

Congratulations to Kathy Macdonald, Heidi Kost-Gross, and all those honored by the Board of Trustees of the Massachusetts Horticultural Society.

An hour in my Wellesley garden—praying mantis at work

October 8, 2021 by Deborah Brown 3 Comments

While weeding the garage border, I came across my friend the praying mantis perched on a pristine hibiscus leaf. In late summer we hung out together, back when he was young and irresponsible. That phase didn’t last long. All too soon the prehistoric-looking insect realized my Wellesley garden is a lot of work. The mantis-in-residence these days keeps our relationship strictly business, given the effort it takes in keeping the hibiscus Japanese-beetle free, and the hum of mosquitoes down to a murmur. No longer does he hop on my shoulder and garden right along with me. Parallel garden play is as much engagement as his adult self will tolerate. I prune a little here, weed a little there. He prays his camouflage skills will allow him to get on with his duties unnoticed. During garden inspection, I pretend I don’t see the mantis at work among the goldenrod. It’s really none of my business how he spends his garden time, anyway. I should concern myself with my own hour in my Wellesley garden.

Wellesley praying mantis, all grown up. He is looking well but isn’t as friendly as when he first moved into the garage border. Since he’s been on the job, the hibiscus (not pictured) has seen great improvement. The praying mantis seems to have a taste for Japanese beetles, which have disappeared from my garden since he’s been on the job.

Wellesley garden, praying mantis — The praying mantis in his younger days.

The garage border goldenrod has passed its prime, yellow blooms giving way to plumes of brown fluff. There’s something still beautiful about the goldenrod, so I decide not to cut it down just yet. In taking a hard look at the garage border, I’ve decided to later move the goldenrod from the spot it volunteered for, hiding behind the Rose of Sharon, to a better spot (to me, anyway) in front of the massive, 8-ft. tall joe pye weed. Although many gardeners sniff at the sight of goldenrod in a perennial border, I don’t mind the wild weed, as long as it behaves and stays in its allotted patch. The goldenrod says it doesn’t mind life in the perennial border, as long as I don’t get all bossy pants and mess with its freedom.

These are the kind of arguments that crop up when I take an untamed rambler like goldenrod and try to exert control. The goldenrod wants to colonize large, sunny spaces. It eyes the vast and (to the goldenrod) useless expanse of lawn that is the volleyball/badminton net area, the spot that barely got used all summer, the goldenrod points out. Also, the goldenrod suggests the too-divine peonies look lonely and bored, like they could use a little wildflower fun in their lives. Which is what all the wild ones say as they try to get next to the peonies. Sorry, goldenrod, no fraternizing with my high horticulture success stories. You either swallowwort, knotweed, and garlic mustard. Those bad boys of the plant world all creep along the edges of the yard with the same old story. They just want to talk to the peonies for a little bit. Get to know them. Show them a little fun. Like an overprotective parent, first I uproot the interlopers. Then I shake them hard, smother them in plastic, bring them to a second location (the RDF), and wash my hands of the matter. If that sounds more like murder than overprotective parenting, I can only hope word gets round and has a deterrent effect on my enemies.

Wellesley garden, daisies, goldenrod — This is why I keep the goldenrod around—it looks nice behind the daisies.

To prove I don’t hang around exclusively with questionable elements, I’ve planted a real perennial in the garage border, an echinacea called Cheyenne Spirit. The idea is that the newcomer will bloom next summer in harmony with the taller daisies located behind it. Of course, the challenge will be to keep the daisies from encroaching on Cheyenne Spirit’s space. Daisies are exuberant and tend to immediately become overfamiliar with border buddies (just ask the rudbeckia), but daisies are so cheerful and hardworking that it’s hard to stay mad for long. If I’ve played my cards right, the daisies, Cheynenne Spirit, and the rudbeckia will bloom at the same time next summer, a triumph of companion planting. Although people seem happiest coupled off, plants usually thrive best in a ménage à trois situation, in which a few are encouraged to bloom at once.

With the addition of Cheyenne Spirit, I moved the finicky echinacea Merlot from its starring role in the front of the border to an off-Broadway location somewhere in mid-town. This way Merlot can put on a late-spring show, but when it becomes unhappy and pouts, as it always does, emerging stars willing to perform can take the spotlight. Merlot can then reflect in obscurity on its behavior for the rest of the growing season and plot its next-year comeback.

Wellesley garden, Merlot echinacea — Echinacea Merlot in a good mood.

An hour in the garden is never enough. At the 50-minute mark my phone notification sounds. I’m afraid our time is just about up for today. Even though there’s so much more to be done, I feel at peace for now. Gardening, like therapy, is never finished. Also like therapy, the results can sometimes be life-affirming and sometimes dubious. My therapist, the praying mantis, suggests I not overthink my time in the garden. The praying mantis says results in the garden are neither good, nor bad. They just are. I’m far from that level of wisdom. But every day I step into the yard is another chance to grow. Whoa. An epiphany. I look to the praying mantis for approval, but he’s vanished, and is not one to approve, or disapprove, anyway. My Wellesley garden is a judgment-free zone.

Beyond my Wellesley garden—a visit to Kennebunkport, Maine

September 23, 2021 by Deborah Brown 5 Comments

All dig-in-the-dirt types need occasional time away from their own gardens, even when the late-summer border on the good side of the yard demands adoration as the asters, hydrangea paniculata, and windflower anemone come into their own. All dig-in-the-dirt types need occasional time away from their own gardens especially when the weedy, ignored side of the yard looks ever-more forlorn and takes on a reproachful attitude whenever the gardener passes by. Part rejuvenation, part garden-chores avoidance technique, visiting other gardens is a must for anyone who so much as plunks in a few daffodil bulbs every fall and calls it quits for the rest of the year.

Kennebunkport, Maine — I’m not sure if the windflower anemone was planted in this spot to match the pink shutters across the street, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. This is Kennebunkport, where details matter.

There’s no question that right up until the snow flies, my own garden could benefit from an hour a day of my attention. I really do mean to lavish that kind of care on all the hardworking plants but the thing is, an invitation to visit Kennebunkport landed in my inbox. That happens sometimes and when it does I gas up the Subaru, collect my garden posse, and we all head up to Maine.

We knew we were in for a treat, the opportunity to be welcomed into the very beautiful, very private gardens of a special neighborhood in Kennebunkport, where the summer residents really know how to end the growing season in style. “Pretty soon it will be cold and brown and gray,” reminded one of our garden guides, an octogenarian who specializes in keeping gorgeous color combinations going right into October. “It’s so important to keep everything beautiful as long as possible,” she said as she showed us around her ocean-view property.

We bopped along from garden to garden, sashaying right past “private road” signs. We wandered yards, showing the kind of entitlement that would have gotten us led out in handcuffs if it were high-summer and if we weren’t on the guest list of a long-time Kennebunkport gardener and resident. Besides, as garden-gate crashers, we’re well behaved enough. We don’t stomp around in the perennial beds, or make loud comments about how the asters are clashing with the Montauk daisies. That’s how we get invited back, dontcha know.

Here are some pics as we made our way along the Atlantic coastline.

An hour in my Wellesley garden—Rack and Ruin Garden still racked, ruined

An hour in my Wellesley garden—where to put the new dahlia

An hour in my Wellesley garden—the garage border

An hour in my Wellesley garden—Rack and Ruin Garden still racked, ruined

August 31, 2021 by Deborah Brown 3 Comments

“We’re booking into June,” he warned. That was back in March. Almost six months later and my landscaping project is no closer to completion than it was when I made that first phone call.

“June would be great,” I said, too eagerly I now know. Mistake number 1.

He played a good game of stringing me along. Asked for pictures, which I sent immediately. That was mistake number 2. Never send pictures. If they’re interested, they’ll make the effort to come and see the project. After he saw the pics, he sent along a reasonable estimate, making me certain that I had found The One. I looked no further. That was mistake number 3. Never believe you’ve found The One until they prove they’re The One.

Honestly, you’d think I’d never dated.

Rack and Ruin Garden, Wellesley — The Rack and Ruin Garden is overrun with very prickly thistles. Ever try to pull those out? My advice: don’t ever let them get started in your yard.

After sending the pictures (Oh, how I regret sending those pictures. They’re probably all over the internet by now.), I insisted that someone come over and take an in-person look at the job. The project is nuanced, I explained. After I dropped the word “nuanced,” the landscaper ceased all contact. Eventually, I broke up with him over email, a formality given that I was clearly the dumped one. But I wanted this unfortunate chapter officially over because him and me, we’ve got history. This relationship is not over for good. Mark my words, he’ll be back in the spring just like he has been for the past 20 years, faithfully delivering 3 yards of dark pine mulch.

And I’ll be waiting, grateful to get that 3 yards of dark pine mulch. Since mulch is what he can give, that’s what I’ll take. It’s not nothing. If I call on a Tuesday that mulch is dropped off in a tidy pile by Wednesday, provided I leave an overturned trash can in the desired delivery spot and a check in an envelope on the front door. Every year he takes the check out of the envelope and then pushes the empty envelope through the mail slot. In this way, the landscaper makes it crystal clear that our transaction is absolutely, positively done. He doesn’t want so much as an empty envelope to remember me by.

I’ve come to accept that I’m just a spring fling for him. Wham, bam, here’s your mulch, ma’m. Because he delivers good product, I choose to accept this bark-with-no-benefits relationship. I had hoped to take things to to the next level, but it turns out he’s just not that into my yard. Ah well, not every landscaper can fulfill my every need.

The next guy I called had done a job for me about 15 years ago. Since then he’s begged me to come back, sending marketing love-note materials every spring. I gave a call, careful to keep things casual and light. We set a date. He was supposed to show up Friday at 3. He did not show up Friday at 3. Not at my yard, anyway. Maybe he showed up Friday at 3 somewhere on the Cape, and Friday by 4 he had a beer in hand. My call went directly to voicemail. I left a message, which was not a casual, cool-girl message at all. I talked too fast. My voice cracked. “Hey, what’s up. I thought we had plans. I’m here. Call me!” He never called back.

This was annoying. I’m not the one who chased him around for 15 years. He’s the one who’s been direct-mail stalking me for 15 years. I feel spurned and have cut this weed-tease out of my gardener’s heart. If I receive marketing love-note materials from him next spring I shall scrawl “please take me off your mailing list” in red lipstick, or blood. Then I’ll send his trashy, glossy garden porn mailer—the one he sends to all the gardeners—straight back to him.

Next, I took the subtle approach. I hunted my prey close to home. While pretending to garden, I waited until the friendly neighborhood landscaper drove around the corner. Then I emerged from the garage border and pounced. I tried to stay cool, like I really didn’t care. “Hey, I’ve got a thing that might-maybe need doing in the yard. Can you come over sometime and take a look?” I asked.

“I can come over right now,” he said.

My heart skipped a beat but I knew by now to hide my excitement that one of the cool landscaper guys was not only in-person talking to me, but was actually coming over to the yard. As we walked down the street, I hoped the neighbors were watching.

I slouched ever-so-casually across the yard, over to the Rack and Ruin Garden. He took one look. “Nah. We don’t have heavy equipment. We just keep it simple. You need a bobcat in here,” he said.

And with that, this Wellesley cougar was placed into the high maintenance category and dismissed. I slouched again, this time in defeat. Later I looked back at the encounter and remembered how I stood on the street corner and flagged him down, and I felt common, and cheap.

Mr. Swellesley is in a panic because he can tell I’ve reached the “pay any price” stage of project desperation. During a backyard party I spied him and one of our practical-minded friends deep in conversation over by the Rack and Ruin Garden. Their ideas seemed to hang on putting our sons’ friends to work. Thankfully, the young men are all back at college. I happen to like having those young men around when they’re in town and don’t want to chase them off by putting them to hard labor.

Meanwhile, I’m so annoyed with the Rack and Ruin Garden for putting on a show while guests were here. Here’s a cropped shot of the Rack and Ruin Garden showing off. The strong phlox showing is an obvious pitch by the Rack and Ruin Garden to be allowed to remain. But the garden is too big, and it’s gotten away from me, and I just can’t manage it anymore.

And here’s the truth about the Rack and Ruin Garden:

Here’s what the Rack and Ruin Garden looked like when we were all ten years younger:

Wellesley Rack and Ruin garden — Date night, circa 2011. According to my Facebook post, Mr. Swellesley organized and executed the outing, but neither of us can remember where we went. Not pictured: immovable rocks.Photo credit: Duncan Brown, at age 11.

Over the past decade the trees have grown, as trees do, and put the Rack and Ruin Garden in the shade. On a slow path to degradation, first the bee balm got powdered mildew. Next the rudbeckia got black spot. Then the coreopsis stopped blooming. They have all cited a lack of sun and a high dew point as reasons for their demise. And neglect. There was a lot of neglect.

It’s gotten to the point where, just to have a guaranteed successful exterior project under my belt, I’m seriously thinking about getting the house re-roofed. We had that job done two years ago, and it was the most lovely, drama-free experience. The Connell Roofing crew was very vini, vidi, vici about it all, then they moved on with their lives. And let me get on with mine. So it wouldn’t be crazy to re-roof a house that doesn’t need re-roofing, just to get some project momentum going. Right?

The truth about the Rack and Ruin Garden

Beyond Wellesley: The Hidden Gardens of Beacon Hill tour

Beyond Wellesley: This South Natick, Massachusetts garden brings on the drama

An hour in my Wellesley garden: where to put the new dahlia

August 22, 2021 by Deborah Brown 5 Comments

I spent much of my gardening time this week wandering the yard with my new dahlia asking, “How about here? Well, what about here, then? This spot looks good, right? No? You want to go around the yard one more time?”

Wellesley garden, dahlias — Tucked in among the Autumn Joy sedum is Dahlia LaBella, “Maggiore Fun Flame.” Maggiore means ‘major’ or ‘large’ in Italian. I am so ready for a major and large dahlia.

Usually such plant fussiness over its own placement is not allowed in my Wellesley garden, but this is a special flower. This dahlia is not only a gift but, since I’ve never grown dahlias, a challenge. A neighbor, knowing things were a little off kilter while a family member was laid low, brought over the dahlia to cheer me up. Not that she’s stalking me or anything, but my neighbor can always tell when the daily routine is altered at my house. I’m one of those people who needs evening cheerfulness, the kind achieved by turning on every light in the house. She says when the house is dark for one night it just means I’m out having wild times, and my family can’t be bothered to flick a couple of switches. Two consecutive nights of darkness signals uncertainty. That’s when I receive a what’s up text.

My answer, and the truth, was not an offhand, “not much.” My answer, and the truth was, “All hell has broken loose, and on a scale of 1 to 10 the pain is an 8. We’re dealing with it.”

If you ever want a new dahlia, text dramatically in just that way. You’ll probably get one. I did. (BTW, medical care was sought, and health been restored. But it was touch-and-go for a while there.)

Once I had my new comfort dahlia, I walked it around the yard for several days before it finally asked to be put in among the Autumn Joy sedum. Once settled, the dahlia looked like it had always been there. I brought out a pot of compost tea and left the sedum and the dahlia to chat. The new fast friends barely acknowledged me, which is a very good sign. Now I must keep up my end of the friendship bargain by learning how to care for the newcomer. As I said, I’ve never planted dahlias before, and that’s because my neighbors one street over grow such beautiful specimens. All summer long I invent excuses to walk by their house just so I can see their exuberant, colorful, yard-sweet-yard where something’s always popping. As I leave the house, I call out over my shoulder any number of excuses for my mid-workday absence. Gotta mail a letter. Gotta drop stuff in the library drop box. Need to make sure the new ice cream shop is putting out a consistent product (they are, but it’s still a good idea to keep on top of the situation). I always feel refreshed after passing by my neighbor’s garden. And after my ice cream.

One day I caught one of my neighbors outside and asked how they raised their flowers to such prominence. Mr. Dahlia first made sure to tell me that he’s not the gifted gardener, she is. He has said the same on other occasions, but certain formalities must be observed before discussing gardening techniques. It’s terrible form to take even inadvertent credit for art. Also, Mr. Dahlia is a Southern gentleman and formalities mean something to him. Once, when Mr. Swellesley had some of the neighborhood men over to watch a football game, Mr. Dahlia stood when I entered the room. All the other men looked around at each other then (finally) stood up as well. I may have heard a few grumblings that it was “just Deb.” But in that moment I knew I wasn’t “just Deb.” I was a lady, thank you very much. I made sure I didn’t enter the room for the rest of the evening so as not to test the “lady” theory.

Although herself, the true gardener, was not available at the moment I was passing by, Mr. Dahlia was willing to say a few words. Here’s what he told me. Even though he doesn’t know anything about anything, it seems to him that dahlia tubers must be dug up before the first frost, which is usually in early October, as far as he remembers. He also suggests that from his observations of the process, the tubers must be placed in a paper bag with some peat moss or sawdust, and stored in the basement for the winter. He’s almost certain, but not entirely so, that the tubers should then be planted out in mid-May, at the earliest. But beware of a wet forecast and probably delay the planting process if a week of rain is expected, which is nothing more than common gardening sense, of course. Any fool would know that tubers will rot if exposed to excessive and cold spring rain. Other than that, he really knows nothing.

After absorbing this advice I returned to my own garden, where the dahlia and the sedum were getting along just fine. Then, oh miracle, I spied movement in the wheelbarrow. The friendliest praying mantis, shiny and new, was starting out his own gardening life. He made eye contact, then hopped on my arm and crawled up to my shoulder, where he settled in. Pirates can have their loud, squawking parrots. As a gardener, having a praying mantis choose me as its companion has been the most exciting wildlife experience of summer. The praying mantis hung on as I brought him inside to meet the family. Everyone was charmed.

The internet tells me that this chance meeting is very auspicious, indeed, and that the praying mantis will bestow good luck upon me and my garden and, by extension, the new dahlia. Apparently my prehistoric-looking insect friend will hang around my Wellesley garden as long as there are plenty of tasty insects to eat. No problem there. I’m reminded of why I resist spraying insect killer when the Japanese beetles chew holes in the hibiscus blooms and the aphids attack the Stargazer lilies and the mosquitoes beleaguer me at the wood’s edge. Hah, the joke is on these foul pests. Soon I won’t have to put up with their destructive influences. My attack praying mantis is coming to get them and will protect the new dahlia, and everything else. I can only spend an hour a day in my Wellesley garden, but my praying mantis, loyal and true, will be on the job 24/7. I’m sure of it.

swellesley green ad — Praying mantis meets the family. Everyone was charmed.

An hour in my Wellesley garden—the garage border

August 14, 2021 by Deborah Brown 6 Comments

I was unavailable to garden for a few days, a matter of taking care of people before plants. When I got back out there, clippers in hand, the perennials seemed to barely notice my absence. That’s the advantage of normally spending an hour a day in the garden. Even when life throws a curveball and you have to dial back your commitment for a bit, the garden probably won’t mind all that much. An hour a day keeps things organized enough so that when you do come back, a little deadheading and conversation are all the flowers really need. This philosophy…no…”philosophy” is too high-falutin a notion to apply to my Wellesley garden. Let’s instead say practice, as in “keep trying.” Breathe. Try again. This practice applies only to non-obsessive gardeners with the patience for imperfection. Dig-in-the-dirt types like you and me. Garden-variety gardeners.

The garage border benefited from my gardening return. I started out with the daisy patch.

Wellesley garden, daisies — The daisies need deadheading, one of my favorite tasks. There’s something so zen about clip-and-tidy gardening.

Wellesley garden, scissors — I just use an old pair of scissors, which gets thrown in the dishwasher now and then for cleaning. I do sharpen them periodically.

When gardeners first start to self-identify as such, it’s a beautiful thing. They look around their yards with excitement. They start noticing where the sun falls in patches all day and where the shade dapples, shaving a few degrees off the official temperature. They become conversant about frost dates. Then these gardeners make the mistake of looking through magazines and going on garden tours. Suddenly, the initial delight with their domain is dampened. They start referring to the spot where they were going to plunk in a few peonies and foxgloves as a “garden room.” They decide hardscaping must be done, expensive stone walls must be built, to provide “structure” to the space. The space? What happened to “the yard?” Once they start consulting a color wheel, you know any sense of spontaneity, joie de vivre, or just plain fun has gone to hell. Suddenly these gardeners are plotting out their plantings as carefully as their career trajectory. Once they start calling themselves “horticultural enthusiasts,” look out.

Wellesley garden, false sunflower — Lately I’m in love with my Wellesley garden newcomer, false sunflower, as are the daisies which have sidled right up to the addition. Its Latin name is heliopsis helianthoides, var. scabra. I can provide you with this because I took Latin in high school and a biology course in college. Also, it was listed on the tag.

Wellesley garden, spirea — The pink spirea is experiencing its second blooming. It first goes crazy in spring and the shrub is covered in pink flowers. After blooming, I cut the shrub down by half. By August, the spirea offers up a second act that isn’t as showy, but is still a welcome sight to the pollinators.

Wellesley garden, garage border. Pink spirea, foreground; purple dwarf butterfly bush, far right; joe pye weed, towering.

The once gardener, now horticultural enthusiast, insists the garden must adhere to a design principle, and all plants are required to fit in with an aesthetic. From the dig-in-the dirt gardener’s perspective, all this stress is completely unnecessary. A dig-in-the-dirt gardener isn’t out there to impress anyone. Yes, some law and order is desirable in the yard (although many dig-in-the-dirt types would vigorously dispute that). But what’s really happening out there is pure enchantment. The idea is to own your own garden and have fun with it. What do you want, magic or computer-generated directions plotted out on graph paper? I thought so.

I make my way over to a plant that has been a tremendous disappointment, the Echinacea Merlot. I brought it home from the garden center for its unusual dark stems, and because I thought that echinacea couldn’t do a bad turn. Because I have trouble with goodbyes, and because I give most plants two full seasons to prove themselves, Echinacea Merlot will be permitted to remain until fall. Then I will likely turn it straight out of Eden. If you happen to know the most foolproof echinacea, please drop me an email (theswellesleyreport@gmail.com) and enlighten me. This is not my first echinacea heartbreak, but I’m willing to try to love again.

Wellesley garden, Echinacea Merlot — Echinacea Merlot, if I could drink you maybe we could come to terms. Below, Echinacea Merlot when it’s in a good mood. Only spring puts this persnickety plant in a good mood.

wellesley garden — Echinacea Merlot in spring, a season for which it pines 40 weeks out of the year. Whiny plants just don’t get to stick around in my garden.

It’s great to be back in my own garden, but giving some of my garden time to Uncle Jerry from Dorchester was well worth the short absence. Uncle Jerry’s garden follows the design principles of pure exuberance. Always has. Right now he can’t get out there and tend it like he used to, but the blooms can still be seen from space. I dove in with my clippers and tamed the wild corners for him.

“This was always my relaxation,” Uncle Jerry said from his front-porch, from where he greets passing neighbors (and they’re always passing, to pay homage to the master and to get a look at what’s blooming). “If I came home and my day at work had been bad, as soon I started out here, all of that didn’t matter anymore.”

Uncle Jerry's garden — Uncle Jerry’s garden, late spring.

Now that’s a true gardener. That’s the kind of dig-in-the-dirt kindred spirit you give some of your gardening time to, in the kind of garden where there’s something new to learn around every corner.

An hour in my Wellesley garden after 9″ of rain

An hour in my Wellesley garden—tidying the shed

A heron visits my Wellesley garden

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An hour in my Wellesley garden after 9″ of rain

August 1, 2021 by Deborah Brown 2 Comments

Wellesley got a whopping 9″ of rain in July, which was altogether too much wet weather for most of my heat-loving summer-blooming perennials and shrubs. The gentle ferns didn’t like it either, and the new rhododendron registered bitter complaints about wet feet. Even the crimson barberry shrub, considered an invasive species by the plants police, and normally indestructible in my yard, suffered.

The lawn, however, looks like it’s made a deal with the devil. I see no hint of the late-July dormancy that usually affects wide swathes of my suburban sprawl. All I see is grass with the look of early-spring youth, the kind of vibrancy that can’t be achieved in mid-summer without some sort of soul exchange. Hey, we all want to be young again, grass, but didn’t anyone ever warn you about dabbling in the dark arts? It appears that in exchange for youth, my lawn agreed to give up a pound of flesh—about 10% of the lawn is gone forever, turned by pounding rains and weeks-long puddling into a mud slick that will need reseeding in the fall. So the lawn makes the deal with the devil, and I have to fix the mess. Just another day in the garden.

Wellesley garden, hibiscus — The hardy hibiscus thrives in the garage border. The lawn looks mostly amazing, an unusual mid-summer situation, given I never water it. Look closely at the patch to the right of the giant pine tree. That brown area in front of the Daylily Border that Never Blooms is former lawn that literally drowned during the July rains.

Other plants thrived with all the rain. The inkberry, a once half-dead find years ago from the Wellesley Recycling and Disposal Facility, hasn’t minded the wet one bit. In fact it’s thrown up impressive new growth and then asked for a good pruning, but we haven’t been able to schedule an appointment. The last time I was in that part of the yard, the rain had weighed down the shrub’s thin branches. I couldn’t get a true read on how best to trim, so my visiting salon services had to wait. The next time I was passing through with the clippers I still couldn’t prune. At that time, the inkberry was covered with the most darling teeny-tiny white flowers which were being worked over by the most darling teeny-tiny bees. The inkberry and I agreed that pollinators come before primping. I’ll be back another time, inkberry, and we’ll get that haircut taken care of, promise.

Wellesley garden, barberry — The greenery at the top is a privet shrub that volunteered. They do that, and are considered invasive in some areas. The sad, brown, dead-looking thing below the greenery is a barberry. When not practically drowned by 9″ of rain the barberry leaves are maroon and look nice against the green of the privet, so I keep it around. This forlorn, crunchy-leaved sight convinced me the barberry was dead, so I set to with the clippers, but…

The hardy hibiscus I got last year from Wilson’s Farm in Lexington couldn’t be happier with the rain. All it asks for is well-drained soil kept evenly moist, and a sunny spot. I explained to the newcomer that “evenly moist” is certainly not one of the services provided in my Wellesley garden. The hibiscus rose to the challenge and and from season one produced dozens of buds, which popped open, one by one, to salad-plate sized flowers. A single hibiscus flower blooms for only one glorious day, but then passes the torch to the next bud, which carries on the showy tradition, and so on and so on through summer. The hibiscus with its flashy ways has become a family favorite, and I may find room for another somewhere in the garden.

Buzzing about 9″ of rain

There’s a bumper crop of mosquitoes out there in the yard. They break right through the DEET I spray all over myself, and treat me like dinner. The tarp that covers my mulch pile had standing water in parts, which is as good as starting a mosquito farm. So there I was, part of the problem. Must make way through cloud of insects. Must lift tarp and spill out water. Must save neighborhood (from my own mistakes). Done. “Curse you, super-gardener,” wailed the foiled mosquito larvae.

After my hour in the garden—time mostly spent playing with mosquitoes—I head inside sporting a couple of itchy welts on my arms. The mosquito bites bring back the long summer nights of my childhood playing Ghost in the Graveyard with the neighborhood kids. There wasn’t a bug repellent in the land that could have stayed on that sweaty band of troublemakers. Only a gardener can romanticize mosquito bites of the past. The mosquito bites of today are damned dangerous, what with West Nile virus and Eastern equine encephalitis. I’ll try to be more careful out there. But first, it’s gotta stop raining.

Beyond Wellesley: this South Natick garden brings on the drama

Autumn in Mrs. Swellesley’s Wellesley garden

Beyond Wellesley: The Hidden Gardens of Beacon Hill tour

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An hour in my Wellesley garden—tidying the shed

July 25, 2021 by Deborah Brown 5 Comments

After a July that brought 9 inches of rain to Wellesley, my garden was left a sodden mess. Between rain forest-like humidity and long cloudy days that hid the sun, parts of the yard will likely be mucky for at least another week. The leaves on the geraniums have yellowed, and the echinacea is droopy, both hungover from too much of a good thing. Looking on the bright side, as gardeners always do, the wet weather brought an opportunity to putter about the shed and take inventory. I even put together a floral arrangement for the space, although such fussing smacks of “she-shed” nonsense. Don’t be distracted by the paintings and poetry—this is a working shed that’s not trying to impress anyone. If it happens to please, so be it.

Here’s a peek inside my shed with its combination of Wellesley RDF finds and hand-me-downs. There are some store-boughts, too, but they seems to be in the minority. A combination of functional and fun, my shed gets daily use and I guard it jealously. The phrase, “Just toss it in the shed,” is never uttered by family members. That’s be because anything that gets carelessly tossed into the shed gets unceremoniously tossed out of the shed.

Respect the shed, and nobody gets hurt.

The simple and sturdy 9ft. x 11ft. structure is about 7 years old, a purchase from Decks Plus in Westborough. It rests on a foundation of crushed bluestone. Because my shed is under 100 square feet, no building permit from the town of Wellesley is required. For supersized sheds that measure in over 100 square feet a building permit is required, and you must submit a drawing or sketch of your dream shed, among other rules. I might up my shed game one of these days. It could be worth it just to evict the lawnmower from the garage.

Not sure why I have three rakes, since the two smaller ones hardly ever get used. Still, getting rid of a rake seems like a bad idea. What if one late-October day two people come along who say they simply must help me rake up the fallen sugar maple leaves? It could happen. When it does, I’ll be ready.

Now that things are ship-shape, I can look at the interior of the shed with a critical eye. The shelf is obviously sagging under its weight of a gallon of vinegar (used to control weeds in the driveway cracks), a volume of Mary Oliver poetry (Devotions), and other odds and ends. I should replace the flimsy particle board panel with a sturdy pine plank before I come in one day to find that the shelf has collapsed and vinegar is seeping into the floorboards. Nothing worse than a shed that stinks permanently of salad dressing.

I try to keep most things off the floor so the shed is easy to sweep out.

Shed vignettes are so fun to put together on a rainy day. The display box came from the Wellesley RDF, as did the hedge shears and the painting. I’ve picked up the fishing bobbers from the Charles River over the years. Every time I go out in the kayak, a couple bobbers come my way. I usually find them caught up in the detritus that collects near fallen trees, or at the edge of popular fishing spots. Bobbers are easiest to find in fall and winter after the low-growing vegetation has died back, but a sharp eye can spot them year-round.

A few quotes keep me inspired.

My wheelbarrow is actually green, but I feel no need to rush out and get a red wheelbarrow just to get all matchy-matchy with the William Carlos Williams poem. Nor do I want white chickens. I imagine Williams, who was a physician as well as a poet, would find such literalism tiresome.

River, I feel you.

The sound advice painted on canvas is found art from the Wellesley RDF. This unsigned treasure helps keep it real in the shed.

The metal cone from the RDF holds scissors. The painting above, also from the RDF, has served as inspiration for many floral arrangements.

Cleaning done, I walk out of the shed and there’s Bunny Injured. As usual, he acts like he’s never seen me before and panics, barrel rolling twice before trying to bolt. During early bunny-hood his back hind leg met with some sort of disaster, and every time Bunny Injured tries to make a straight blaze toward the safety of the arborvitae, he can only manage quick, tight circles. When it dawns on him that I’m still right there, Bunny Injured remembers his occupational therapy sessions and tries to control his desperate shaking. I ignore him as he gives me side-eye filled with terror. Finally, equilibrium recovered, he slowly sideways hops to cover, dragging his left hind leg. It must be hard to be a bunny whose instincts work against you.

With the improved weather, I’m back out in the garden for my daily hour. I’ve deadheaded the bedraggled daisies, butterfly bush, and asiatic lilies, and put in a couple of late summer-blooming plants. Part of the lawn looks like it won’t recover, so a reseeding project will have to happen in the fall. The jury (me) is still out on the new rhododendron. The rhod has complained bitterly about its wet feet and how it simply won’t tolerate such conditions. Only the strong survive around here, I told the rhod, and haven’t heard a peep out of it since. I also happen to be judge and executioner in the garden, and the rhod may have heard from others about my tough sentencing guidelines. There’s no mollycoddling in my garden. Either be as useful and beautiful as the shed, or make way for something that will be.

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Wellesley garden visit: Ribbit the Exhibit at Elm Bank Reservation

July 21, 2021 by Deborah Brown Leave a Comment

Things have really started hopping over at Massachusetts Horticultural Society with the installation of Ribbit the Exhibit, running through Sept. 7 at The Gardens at Elm Bank. Nineteen whimsical 4 – 7 foot copper frog sculptures depicted by North Carolina artist J.A. Cobb have been placed throughout the 36-acre property. There’s Cora the Local Garden Enthusiast in the Bressingham Garden, gleaming metal watering can in hand; Emerson, A Morning Person, relaxing on a bench with a cup of coffee; Edward the Treefrog, perched in a tree, of course; and the rest of the engaging and amusing crew. Each frog comes with a backstory—just look for the nearby signs.

Elm Bank Reservation at Mass Hort — Emerson relaxes in the Bressigham Garden at Elm Bank Reservation.

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A heron visits my Wellesley garden

July 12, 2021 by Deborah Brown 3 Comments

The forecast says the sun will come out in a couple of hours and chase off the mist. I could wait for that to happen, but to what end? An hour of gardening in the mist is better for the complexion than a day at the spa, therefore the DIY facial wins every time. Plus, since gardening counts as exercise, mist gardening counts as both spa time and gym time. I never regret choosing an hour in my Wellesley garden over something marketed heavily as “self care” that requires me to be inside. The spa and the gym will still be there in February. Today, it’s summer and the gentle mist draws me outside.

I’m not the only one. Looks like my gardening time is to be delayed. While I was in the shed with my back turned to the yard, the great blue heron glided in and took up sentry near a known rabbit hole. He’s been doing that lately. According to Mass Audubon herons like to hunt at the edge of a wetland. Technically my yard fits that description, the river being within four flaps of his great wings, and in view from the spot he’s staked out. Still, an expanse of freshly mown suburban lawn doesn’t seem like a heron’s ideal hunting ground. Unless you’re an epicurean heron. Instead of mucking about at the river’s edge stabbing sunnies and frogs, like all his friends, this guy’s in my yard for the never ending supply of scrumptious baby bunnies. Let all the other herons eat the same old thing day after day. My guy demands variety in his diet.

Wellesley garden, heron — A great blue heron stalks prey in my Wellesley back yard.

I take a seat in the shed for prime viewing of the scene. The heron’s stop at the specialty market that is my back yard could take awhile. I haven’t been able to find anything that suggests herons use their hearing to hunt, but my guy cocks his head as if he were listening for something, much the way a robin puts an ear to the ground when listening for the movement of worms, grubs, or other tasties. The 4-foot tall bird doesn’t take the trouble to bend all the way over. He just stands perfectly still. Once he’s good and ready, there’s just that cock of his head, then a lightning-fast stab with his sharp, dagger-like bill. The heron then throws his head back and that baby bunny slides down his gullet as neat as a shot of tequila. Satisfied for now, the heron flies off downriver, full of prehistoric grace. Then, I would guess, all hell breaks loose in the rabbit warren after the abduction of one of their own.

Poor Mama Bunny. She tried so hard to get her family nicely situated. She’d been priced out of her childhood home, the prime real estate under the shed. Although that neighborhood had location, location, location going for it, the spot had become overcrowded, and a certain gardener was always stomping around overhead. Mama Bunny and many, many of her siblings looked at the seemingly endless expanse of green they’d peeked out at as young bunnies from the safety of the under-shed. When they grew up, they made the rash decision to ignored the obvious perils and set out.

What started out as a few timid bunnies cowering under the shed has become a brash, multi-generational clan that has leapt forth, multiplied, and radiated out every which way. After a springtime spate of intense den digging, my yard has been turned into a regular Watership Down. The problem is, with the exception of the coveted under-shed section, most of Watership Down Wellesley is a very dangerous neighborhood, indeed—hawks above, coyotes cutting through, and a heron slowly stalking from the depths of the river.

Even though I often curse the bunnies for their crimes against the garden, bunny-cide is always a little sad. Of great concern is Bunny Injured, who has somehow made it all the way to adolescence even though his left leg is almost useless. When startled, which is almost always, Bunny Injured forgets all about his left leg and tries to bolt. When he realizes he’s just moving in a tight circle and his enemy is still right there, Bunny Injured sits back, wild-eyed, and trembles and trembles. He’s grown too big to be of interest to the heron, but the threat of hawks and the coyotes will always be real. Bunny Injured will probably meet his eventual demise purely due to stress.

The heron hasn’t been back in a few days. A gaggle of 15 teenage Canada geese has been patrolling this end of the river, looking for trouble, and he probably doesn’t want to deal with their nonsense. Even though the young geese won’t be able to fly until sometime next month, they still think they’re all that, strutting around the yard, pooping wherever they please. The recent heavy rains have made it easier for them to breach the fencing. As herbivores, the geese aren’t interested in baby bunnies. They just want to annoy me, and they succeed. That they waddle faster than I can give chase is something I consider my own moral failing.

The yard is experiencing a rare moment of quiet, so I dash out to deadhead the daisies and stake the Joe Pye weed, which shot up to 6-feet when I wasn’t looking. For now I’ve taken control, so herons stay in the river, bunnies remain underground, and geese go far away. The gardener needs her hour.

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Massachusetts Horticultural Society digs deep to pass out prestigious awards

An hour in my Wellesley garden—praying mantis at work

Beyond my Wellesley garden—a visit to Kennebunkport, Maine

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An hour in my Wellesley garden—Rack and Ruin Garden still racked, ruined

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An hour in my Wellesley garden: where to put the new dahlia

An hour in my Wellesley garden—the garage border

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An hour in my Wellesley garden after 9″ of rain

Buzzing about 9″ of rain

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Please support Swellesley’s independent journalism and writing efforts by contributing or advertising.

An hour in my Wellesley garden—tidying the shed

Please support Swellesley’s independent journalism and writing efforts by contributing or advertising.

Wellesley garden visit: Ribbit the Exhibit at Elm Bank Reservation

Support Swellesley’s independent journalism efforts by contributing or advertising.

A heron visits my Wellesley garden

Please support Swellesley’s independent journalism efforts by contributing or advertising.

Hemlock Gorge & Echo Bridge guided walk

Free event: Big Joe the Storyteller in Linden Square

Free event: Big Joe the Storyteller in Wellesley Square

Schofield 5k, Fun Run and Fun Fair

Hazardous Household Waste & Document Destruction Day