The Swellesley Report

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

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

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“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.

Rack and Ruin Garden, Wellesley
At least 15 Norway Maples, an invasive species, are making excellent headway in the Rack and Ruin Garden.

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.

Rack and Ruin Garden, Wellesley
This is a judiciously cropped shot of the Rack and Ruin Garden. Phlox, I concede you have transcended your neglected surroundings, and congratulate you. Knotweed,  I see what you’re up to. Goldenrod, I’m actually a fan and am sorry that some others don’t see your beauty.

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

Rack and Ruin Garden, Wellesley
Rack and Ruin Garden—weeds, weeds, and more weeds. I have only myself to blame for this shameful state of neglect.

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?

MORE:

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

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Linden Square, Wellesley
Write Ahead, Wellesley
Watertite Roofing

Mrs. Swellesley gets crafty with holiday cards

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Holiday cards are a big thing in our house. We love to get them, especially the picture card variety that allows us to lay eyes on our friends and family from Wellesley and far beyond. Every year the kids seem ever more hearty and hale and another foot taller, as if fortified daily by six healthy meals, plus protein-rich snacks. Everyone’s smiling, the family pets are on their best sit-and-stay behavior, and parents look like they haven’t aged a day. The backgrounds never disappoint. Beautiful beach settings. Mountaintops, so very high. Somehow, nobody’s hair is ever blown about. We love holiday cards.

Wellesley holiday cards
Repurposed holiday cards. All that’s required for this project is a stack of holiday cards, a pair of scissors, a one-hole punch, and some thin ribbon.

We used to get almost exclusively picture cards, but as our cards cohort has gotten older, the pictures have done a slow fade. At some point, families either can’t get everyone in one place for a decent shot, or young adults rebel and refuse to be included. So far we’ve been able to capture on film our entire family cheesing it up at some point during the year. We plan to splash such an image on a holiday card for as long as our kids let us get away with it.

I’m the envy of my friends because my holiday card duties are nonexistent. Mr. Swellesley does it all, from organizing the picture to ordering the cards to mailing out the seasons greetings. He has an impressive assembly line system, and I have no idea how it works. Cards for me are all play and no work. I consider freedom from the sausage-making part of card magic one of my Christmas gifts from Mr. Swellesley.

Wellesley holiday cards
Holiday cards are too pretty to just toss after a cursory glance. These beauties live on for another season as gift tags.

I do have one yearly responsibility, entirely self-imposed, and a lot of fun. After the family has had a good amount of time to admire the cards, they get crafted into next year’s gift tags. All that’s required for this project, copied one year from some Pinterest prodigy, is a stack of holiday cards, a pair of scissors, a one-hole punch, and some thin ribbon.

Not all the holiday cards will make the jump from this year’s greetings to next year’s gift cards. There’s an audition process. To pass, the gift card must on one side bear a pretty picture or lovely words (canned, Hallmark-like sentiments only, please). The other side must be be blank, so that I may write my own, highly original holiday sentiments. No human body parts are permitted to survive from from holiday card over to repurposed gift tag. No kitty paws or happy dog tails will sneak in, either. As you can see, the audition process is rigorous. The easiest way for a card to achieve gift-tag glory is, of course, for it to arrive as one of those lovely cards from a box of 20.

Wellesley holiday cards
A card that featured a string of old-timey  bulbs will live on next year as a gift tag.
Wellesley holiday cards
The back of the gift tag must be blank. I don’t want any of my gift recipients to turn the tag over and see body parts of people they don’t know. My  signature and witty holiday sentiments are quite enough.

Once the audition process is complete, I take a one-hole punch to the top left-hand corner of the cut-out tag. From there, I add a thin ribbon. Done.

Making gift tags gives me a triple shot of holiday smug:

  1. I feel pleased as punch with myself when I make the tags—I’ve reused! Just as Sustainable Wellesley always says I should.
  2. When the holidays roll around the next year I’m delighted that my gift tags are ready to roll. That’s one more thing crossed off the list, an organization technique lifted straight from Santa.
  3. It’s fun to revisit last year’s cards. Believe it or not, even after a whole year I remember which tag came from which family’s card.

As the holiday season winds down, my wreath may still be on the door; we’re all still stepping on rogue pine needles; and I have a few returns to take care of. But by gum, my 2021 gift tags are done.

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Page Waterman, Wellesley
London Harness, Wellesley

Wellesley Dads: Something funny’s up on Brook Path this Father’s Day

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Those painted kindness rocks are always a pleasant surprise whether found in the woods, at schools, or just out on the sidewalk.

Wellesley has showered the Class of 2020 with love, in lights, with banners, at the car parade.

And while all of these speak to Dads, this Father’s Day you should expect a little more. Like a temporary trail of Dad Jokes on Wellesley’s Brook Path, between Cameron Street (Hunnewell Elementary School) and Smith Street (Wellesley High School track), and if you needed more, at Pegan Cove in Natick. Word is these will only be there through Father’s Day, June 21.

Dreams do come true…like when you dreamt you wrote The Hobbit, but were only Tolkien in your sleep.*

dad jokes

*NOT original

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John O'Toole, Wellesley

Solving Wellesley mailbox challenge: The Swellesley Stick?

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A Swellesley Report reader, looking out for residents struggling with the new secure mailboxes in Wellesley and seeking to help The Swellesley Report sustain itself financially, has made a modest proposal:

This covers a lot of ground and three or four of your recent stories.

I went to the Grove St post office to mail letters at the “drive up” (and get out) box. In fact, the driver of the car in front of me was out. But he was parked very close to the curb and was having trouble moving around his open car door and the mailboxes. He appeared to also be having trouble figuring out where to put the letters. It was dark, and the slot is not really visible in the dark. I know the challenge. After a few more moments he got back in the car, letters in hand, and drove off.

From my car I managed to get one side of my letters in the slot, then pushed them in with a newspaper I had with me. (Who said newspapers are outdated?) Which leads to the new product idea.

The Swellesley Stick. About a foot long and in the general shape of a clothes pin. Place the letters in the jaws, extend to and into the slot, release using the squeeze handles, stay in the car and feel smart. The stick would be big enough to proudly show a Swellesley logo. The basic daytime model would be just that, the deluxe 24-hour model could have a small LED. But the best part, thanks to your recent story, is that it would be made from the wood of the recently deceased Hunnewell Tree. You will have to move fast to secure the logs. I guess the fallback would be the RDF’s Christmas trees. The Hunnewell PTO could be your marketing partner in the first case, the DPW in the fallback. And for the final story, the sticks could be produced by the person who recently carved a buck statue on the base of a damaged tree on Overbrook Drive.

swellesley stick
A bad artist’s depiction of possible Swellesley Stick design

 

If people will buy a pet rock, they’ll buy a Swellesley Stick. And it will give you one more story idea, along with the revenue.

A Swellesley reader.

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Happy 15th birthday to us: The Year in Swellesley

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Nothing ever happens in Wellesley. Except it does.

We’ve enjoyed another full year of sharing your stories, breaking news and watching it go viral, and weaving in our personal adventures.

Wellesley Town Hall
Wellesley Town Hall

 

With the Swellesley Jrs. aging out of the Wellesley Public School system, Mrs. Swellesley turned her attention to The Swellesley Report as her full-time job. Our goal for 2020, our 16th year publishing, is to have Mr. Swellesley do the same.

Thank you to everyone who sent news tips and financial contributions to Swellesley in what has by far been our top year for readership and reader support. And huge thanks to all of our advertisers, who help to make Swellesley possible from a financial standpoint.

Swellesley highlights this year included:

Wellesley boardwalk
Wellesley Ecocampers make use of the vernal pool overlook.

 

lynne smith elton john
Lynne Smith: Wellesley’s Rocket Woman

 

wellesley high senior tailgate
WHS surprise tailgate

 

organ wellesley
Estey organ left at Wellesley RDF (photo courtesy of Hilary Prus)

 

Wood carving, Overbrook Dr., Wellesley

 

On a more personal note:

Wellesley Wednesdays, Beth Shedd
The Swellesleys made the cut for Beth Shedd’s Wellesley Wednesdays by Beth Shedd

 

We finished the year by ringing the Salvation Army bells in Linden Square to help raise funds for local initiatives. We saw dozens of people we knew during our shift, and thanked many we didn’t know, but they all reminded us of the magical stuff we have here.

elsa in wellesley square

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Wellesley’s own Elizabeth Suneby to read from her new picture book, “No Room For a Pup!”

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Elizabeth Suneby, Wellesley
EJ the pup.

When Mia’s mom says there’s no room for a pup in their apartment, she really, really means it. Mia doesn’t understand. It’s not like she’s asking for an elephant. When mom gets multiple-teamed by Mia, the neighbors, her book-club ladies, and even her own mother it seems resistance may be futile.

Author and Wellesley resident Elizabeth Suneby dedicated her new book, No Room for a Pup!, to her own precious pup EJ, who sadly passed away on Oct. 30 at 15 3/4 years old.

Suneby will read her book at Wellesley Free Library’s Children’s Room on Saturday, Dec. 21 at 10am.

 

 

Liz Suneby, Wellesley

 

 

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Catch & release: Mr. Swellesley’s fishiest run yet

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First, thoughts and prayers to anyone who saw me running shirtless on Saturday morning. But really, I had a good excuse.

I got up before 6am to log an 11-mile run, part of my training for a half marathon in October. I would have preferred to get up a little later considering I’m up before sunrise most week days, but this was a special day: Our youngest child was heading off to college for his freshman year, and he wanted to get going by 8:30am. So rise early I did.

Once I got going I didn’t mind. The run would give me a chance to finalize in my head some words of wisdom to torture my son with on our drive to his college drop-off.

I also congratulated myself for remembering to use insect repellent, anticipating that bugs would be on the attack on this humid morning. Indeed, I pretty much held off the deer flies, mosquitoes and other biting pests.

But then a little past the 8-mile mark near Babson College’s new athletics and recreation facility, I felt a sharp pain near my left shoulder, on my upper arm. I suspected an insect had snuck under my sweaty shirt and was going to town on me. I whacked the spot a couple of times and then realized I was hitting something hard. What the heck?

I pulled off to the side (something I try never to do on my runs) and discovered the source of my pain: a fishing lure set with 2 treble hooks.

fish hook

I really didn’t think I’d ever outdo this past winter’s flying shovel running incident (Groundbreaking Wellesley story: Flying shovel hit me while I was running). But I think this qualifies.

This is no fish story

fishing lure
The lure, the shirt

 

I still don’t know how the lure clung to me. My first thought was that it must have been hanging from a tree that I brushed against. Or maybe less dramatically, we had one in our house that got mixed up in the laundry.

However it got there, it got me. As I struggled to dislodge it from my shirt and myself, the hooks dug in. The next thing I knew, a fellow runner (I regrettably failed to get her name) saw me struggling and asked if I needed help.

Self-described as “not mechanical at all,” and confirming that she was “far from being a doctor,” the woman went to work, apologizing if she ripped my shirt. Struggling to free the lure, she tentatively asked if I’d take my shirt off, to give her a better angle at the barbs. Unfortunately, one of her pulls extricated a hook from my shirt and into one of her fingers. After she freed herself from the hook, she tried a bit longer to help me and then suggested I might want to go to the doctor.

Instead, I wrapped the shirt around my left humerus like a tourniquet and ran as fast as I could for the last 3 miles. That consisted of a route mainly on the Sudbury Aqueduct, past the dump and back to my starting spot near Wellesley College.

I arrived home just at 8:30am, apologizing to Mrs. Swellesley and Swellesley Jr., for my late arrival (and being reminded of the time I got stuck on the Charles River without a paddle on an inflatable raft when I was supposed to be getting home for my niece or nephew’s christening…).

And oh yeah, can you help me get this fish hook out of my arm?

surgery wellesley
Pre-med?

 

My son, a former camp counselor with some basic medical training, switched from final packing mode to surgery mode. We headed to the downstairs bathroom, where the lighting is ER-quality. Mrs. Swellesley sterilized instruments and Swellesley Jr. cut my shirt off. After 5-10 minutes, he plucked the lure from my arm with little blood or screaming from either of us.

The affair provided one last boost of confidence to my son upon heading to college. “At least I’ve got a conversation starter,” he said, knowing he’s sure to be in for a week full of ice-breakers.

Glad I could help.

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