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Chapter One

California Story

Above: Tulip tree (Liriodendron tulipifera)

My father was a naval officer. We moved fifteen times by the time I was seventeen. Many of those moves involved long car rides imprisoned in the back seat with my three siblings. As the car sped along, I remember gazing out the window wondering what that blur of green was. At some point I learned that the green was trees—east coast trees, mid-west trees, mountain trees, west coast trees. I became determined to learn what each individual tree was. Thus began my long romance with gardening. For forty-one years I worked in public horticulture. Seven years at Ringwood State Park, six years at the Morris County Park Commission— both in new Jersey, and twenty-eight years at the Worcester County Horticultural Society in Massachusetts. Those years were spent learning, gardening, guiding, teaching, designing, raising money and initiating and completing dozens of garden projects. I enjoyed every minute of every day. There were frustrations and setbacks but they were overshadowed by the many successes. This book is my story: from my gradual introduction to the world of gardening to the opportunity to build one of America’s great public gardens, 1956-2012.

Early in my career at the Worcester County Horticultural Society, Isabel Arms, Vice President of the Board of Trustees, reviewed my accomplishments and said, “These many realized goals are the work of a benign dictator, a man with a kindly and gracious disposition.” I took this as a great compliment. Isabel would later make a bequest of more than a million dollars to the Society.

My very first plant memories are from when I was five years old living in a suburb of Madison, Wisconsin. Our house was part of a new development built on what had been farm fields and the old farmhouse was diagonally across the street. The couple that had farmed the land continued to maintain a large fruit and vegetable garden. I remember one solo visit to that garden where the farmer’s wife let me pick currants. I had no concept of why or how this fruit came to be, but I do remember how good it tasted and how pleased my mother was to get a small bowl of the berries.

Kindergarten was not my “finest hour.” If one could fail kindergarten I managed to do it. My one happy memory from that difficult year was the lesson of sowing a lima bean in a milk carton. One day we were told to bring an empty milk carton from the cafeteria after lunch. We were shown how to put soil into the carton, place a large bean seed into the soil and then add a bit of water. We wrote our names on the cartons and placed them on the windowsill. Each day we dutifully repeated the exercise of adding a small amount of water to the soil. When we returned to the classroom after the following weekend we witnessed with surprise and delight the emerging plants. The experience was simple, but, as it turned out, inspiring.

Not Even Asking

As an adult I gained a reputation for acquiring things for whichever institution I was working for. The first thing I ever acquired, however, was for myself, though it was unintentional. I was six years old. I had an earache. My father tried to relieve my discomfort by blowing cigarette smoke into my ear. It did not work. My mother’s remedy was to put cotton in my ear—a lot of cotton. It did not work. They called a doctor who lived across the street and asked if he would take a quick look. “Sure” he said, “bring him over.” I remember how young the doctor and his wife looked. They had me lie on my side on their kitchen table so they could get a good view of my ear. My gaze from that position was to the top of the refrigerator. There, I focused intently on a blue and red plastic wishing well. With his wife holding my head, the doctor slowly removed a wad of bloody cotton with tweezers. He examined the inside of my ear and finding no damage, gave me ear drops that immediately soothed the ache. During the procedure the wife had noticed me staring at the wishing well and, when I was ready to go home, she asked if I would like to have it. I didn’t really want it, but I said yes to please them. A repaired ear and a toy—quite a night.

The Trexler family, 1955

Left to right: Jimmy, Sally, John, Emily, Trex, Bobby

That was the first time I realized I had the ability to acquire things without really asking.

I was eight-years-old and living in Coronado, California, when I was introduced to what a “garden” is and the different aspects of gardening. At that age you tend to be fairly active—bike riding, roller-skating, skateboarding, and using our favorite toy the Flexible Flyer (the California version with wheels). We made a lot of noise and had a good time horsing around but there were times I needed a little eight-year-old quiet reflection. These moments led me to Dr. Wheeler’s house next door. Dr. Wheeler had made it clear that no one—especially children—were to set foot in his yard. I was mesmerized by the beauty of his property and would stand on the sidewalk with the tips of my toes touching the edge of his perfect lawn, craning my neck to see what was inside the yard. I repeated this exercise on a regular basis. I’m sure Dr. Wheeler observed this weird little kid on more than one occasion. One day he appeared, introduced himself, and invited me into his yard. He asked me if I wanted to see his garden. This was my first memory of the term garden. What I remember is a lawn, green and soft under my bare feet, a fish pond and fountain with multi-colored fish, and a remarkable collection of orchids—what I now think were Cataleyas. This first adventure into a garden remains vivid. Shortly after my private tour of Dr. Wheeler’s paradise, some neighborhood kids, under the cover of darkness, poisoned all the beautiful fish.

Prejudice and Genocide

About the time I had my adventure in Dr. Wheeler’s garden, I was introduced to certain principles of gardening by my father. He had decided to replace all our grass with a popular grass substitute, Dichondra. He taught me the repetitive job of removing plugs of grass with an empty coffee can and replacing them with plugs of Dichondra. He hoped the ground cover would grow and eventually overwhelm the grass. It was one thing to slowly eradicate the grass; it was another more challenging chore to eliminate dandelions and other broad-leaved weeds that infiltrated the lawn. My father introduced me to a handy device called the “Killer Kane,” a three-foot hollow plastic tube with a dispenser-nozzle at the bottom. You filled the transparent tube with water and then deposited a green tablet that reacted like a fizzy soft drink disk. The result was a reservoir of perfectly balanced liquid weed killer. My job was to methodically place the nozzle over the center of each weed, dowse the weed with the poison, and repeat the action until all the weeds were treated. The lesson was this: that there are certain plants so detestable and harmful to perfect harmony that they should be eliminated from the planet. Without realizing it, my father introduced me to two all too human traits: prejudice and genocide.

Propagation

Out of nowhere, or so it seems, I became obsessed with jade plant (Crassula argentea) and red geraniums (Pelargonium x hortorum). Dr. Wheeler taught me how to propagate these two plants. The technique involved putting sandy soil into a clay pot, cutting off a tip of the “parent” plant, sticking it in the soil and waiting patiently for the plant to grow. Obtaining the soil was easy; the pots required a bike ride to the local hardware store and buying, with my allowance, six-inch clay pots. I arranged the pots on a terrace located outside my bedroom. They grew and flowered beautifully.

The Roman Forum from Encyclopedia Britannica

Other Character Building Lessons

My parents celebrated my birth by buying a TV. I grew up watching Howdy Doody, Captain Kangaroo and classic movies. I remember being spellbound by Titanic, starring Barbara Stanwyck and Clifton Webb. I had never heard of this great ship and I was not aware of its fate. The elegant interiors were captivating. You learn that, although the ship was touted as being “unsinkable,” it struck an iceberg on its maiden voyage and sank two hours later, killing 1,500 people. A horrific conclusion.

When I was nine we moved to a more isolated house on Coronado Island. I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time reading and transcribing the Encyclopedia Britannica (God only knows why). Being a tidy child, I started with “Aardvark” and eventually made my way to “Architecture” where I found dream-like drawings of famous buildings in history. I was riveted by one of the Roman Forum, a particularly beautiful arrangement of buildings and open space crowded with people. Of course I didn’t know what “Roman” or “Forum” meant. I went immediately to the R’s in the encyclopedia and read about the Roman Empire, which to this day has had a tight grip on me. The article included many photographs, one being the Roman Forum in its present ruined state. I couldn’t understand how in one picture the Forum was whole and beautiful, in the other a clutter of rubble.

A year or so later, living in the same house, I became aware of the actress Marilyn Monroe. She was frequently on the cover of, or featured in, the pages of Life Magazine. One August day I was returning from a swim at the officer’s club just down the street and encountered my brother who was on his way to the club. He stared at me, laughed, and said, “She’s dead.”

Drawing of Marilyn Monroe by Phil Kaelin, 1969

“Who’s dead?” I asked.

“Marilyn Monroe, she killed herself,” he answered.

I was shocked. When I got home I asked my mother if what my brother said was true. She said, “Yes, she committed suicide. She took her own life.” I couldn’t comprehend why someone so beautiful, famous and wealthy would do that. We were taught that beauty and all the rest was the key to happiness.

In a span of two years, I learned that beauty is ephemeral. A garden can be beautiful and disrespected. A great collection of buildings can be awe-inspiring one moment and vandalized and neglected the next. A beautiful person can apparently have everything that we’re told matters, but fall into the depths of despair and even take their own life.

Despite these grim lessons, I knew I had the desire and drive to build and maintain beautiful things. At the same time, I realized all of it might share a destructive fate.

Sweet Peas

Winters in Coronado were cool, but never cold, and it was the perfect time to sow sweet peas. By spring the pastel-colored blossoms would fill the air with an intoxicating fragrance. My mother was in charge of growing these plants. She cut blossoms and made arrangements for the house. I was never able to grow sweet peas as well in the northeast although I try every year.