Ep 211. Truth and Tale of Two Country Gardens

Mary Stone shares a story based mainly on truth that takes place in two historic estates built by a French architect in Northwest New Jersey, owned by elderly and eccentric weekenders from Princeton. She adds a mystery to the story, themed around the New York Times bestseller, "The Hidden Life of Trees" by Peter Wohlleben. 

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Mary Stone, Columnist & Garden Designer
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More about the Podcast and Column:

Welcome to Garden Dilemmas, Delights, and Discoveries.

It's not only about gardens; it's about nature's inspirations, about grasping the glories of the world around us, gathering what we learned from mother nature, and carrying these lessons into our garden of life. So, let's jump in in the spirit of learning from each other. We have lots to talk about.

Thanks for tuning in, Mary Stone
Garden Dilemmas? AskMaryStone.com
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Transcript

Ep 211 Truth and Tale of Two Country Gardens

Sat, Jun 28, 2025 6:21PM • 19:04

SUMMARY KEYWORDS

Garden dilemmas, nature inspirations, native trees, hope beyond decline, scientific findings, The Hidden Life of Trees, historic estates, beavers, Hurricane Sandy, Ernest and Gertrude, invasive species, mycorrhiza, tree communication, fiction writing, garden design.

SPEAKERS

Mary Stone

Mary Stone  00:00

Mary Stone, Hello, fellow lovers of all things green. I'm Mary Stone, and welcome to garden dilemmas, delights, and discoveries. It's not only about gardens, it's about nature's inspirations, about grasping the glories of the world around us, gathering what we learn from Mother Nature, and carrying these lessons into our garden of life. So let's jump in, in the spirit of learning from each other, we have lots to talk about. 

Mary Stone  00:25

Hello there. It's Mary Stone on a steamy screen porch. It has been in the mid 90s, but it feels like it's close to 100 it has been really crazy hard to work out there, but I've been out there, and so now I'm in the screened porch, where it's a little bit nicer because I have a ceiling fan going. So, I want to thank those who reached back after our last chat about hope beyond the declining native trees. We do indeed have hope, even though the decline is sad and we are losing so many beautiful trees. 

Mary Stone  00:57

So today I have a special story which is based on a lot of truth, but there are some fictional parts of the story, and I hope you can figure out, as you listen, which is the character of me. I think it's going to be pretty obvious. So the story is titled, I Hear Them, and it was inspired by the scientific findings that trees communicate, as written in The New York Times bestseller, The Hidden Life of Trees, by Peter Wohlleben. We've spoken about that book in a few other episodes, and the story takes place in two historic estates built by a French architect in Northwest New Jersey, owned by elderly and eccentric weekenders from Princeton. I look forward to sharing this story, and as I say, most of the story is based on fact and what really happened there, but I added some mystery to it, because the buildings or the houses or the estates, I should say, were kind of mysterious. So here we go. 

Mary Stone  01:52

There used to be a family of beavers, then the neighbors began to hunt them. I'm not sure why. During Hurricane Sandy the dam broke, Ernest said, We meander down the mossy path leading to the location of the broken dam, where he and Gertrude wished to have a respite spot and a modest garden. The shade of the surrounding trees was a welcome relief from the cruel heat of the day. Their leaves faintly rustling as if to welcome us. 

Mary Stone  02:22

I'm sure if the beavers were still active shoring up the dam, it wouldn't have broken. The neighbor blamed it on me and put together a lawsuit. Wait a minute, you said she was the one that hunted the beavers? I'm not sure she did. She likely hired someone, and that would not have been me. I am rather fond of wildlife, and beavers especially fascinate me. Ernest proper English accent and dry delivery made the story that much more remarkable. They are the only mammal other than humans that build their own homes. I've heard that they can be devastating, though damning water that naturally should flow. Clever little guys.

Mary Stone  03:00

As we talked, I noticed the shadow of a man in the distance, long and lean, wearing a greenish ball cap. Do you know that fellow? I can't say that. I do. I've seen him around here and there. You know how it is in the country, people just walk around in the woods like we are now, true, isn't it lovely here? I had this path cleared so Gertrude and I could take long walks down to the spot I'm going to show you. Ernest was walking very slowly, laboring really. I was concerned about his stability and modified my gait, keeping close tabs on his right arm, should there be a need to preempt a fall. It reminded me and when my dear old dad was going through radiation treatments. He was about Ernest's age then.

Mary Stone  03:44

My mind drifts back to the first consultation with Ernest and Gertrude Wellington in the early heat of the summer. They drove up the long, winding drive in a black Mercedes sedan, like city folk. Ernest at the wheel. Gertrude unfolded herself from the passenger seat, bleached blonde hair pulled back in a long braid, wearing large sunglasses, I guess prescription based on the thickness. Still, you could see her static blue eyes through the glass. Her crisp floral blouse topped a floral skirt in a different pattern, which was loud and clashing out of place in the country, as were her patent black flats. 

Mary Stone  04:21

Hello, I'm Gertie. Her thick German accent lingered in the air. Ernest, a bit older, very slim, wearing khaki wool dress pants, a button-down plaid shirt, and a matching buck colored belt and shoes. We sat by the pool in front of the pool house, modest but charming. Gertie brought a pitcher of iced water and thick glass cups with blue top edges, the bubbles of the glass showing through; they looked expensive. The meeting droned on for about two and a half hours through lunchtime. I was grateful for the cold drink, sweating profusely under my long cotton pants and long-sleeved cotton shirt, necessary for sun protection. Gertie had a bowl of almonds, which she offered to share. I declined the ravenous partly out of politeness, more because she was chewing them with a gaping mouth, and bits fell back into the bowl. It was hard to focus on the conversation, being absorbed and somewhat nauseated by the bits.

Mary Stone  05:18

 I learned the history of the homes built by an architect who planned to create a cluster of chalets in Sussex County, New Jersey, reminiscent of the French countryside. I especially enjoyed the account of the gardens once largely maintained by Ernest. His passion for them apparent. The second house, the adjacent guest house, was purchased about 15 years ago, after the previous tenants with children, loud children, they were specific to explain moved out. We didn't want another family with children to move in, so Ernest bought the home. Gertie seemed to gloat, pleased with her husband's deep pockets. 

Mary Stone  05:55

So there are little asterisks in the story, indicating a bounce back to our stroll. 

Mary Stone  05:59

We continue our stroll, as Ernest points out, where he'd like plants added, here and there. It's whatever you think, Julia. I trust your judgment. You obviously know a lot about plants. After the hour tour, we land back. As I was packing up my things, Ernest said, Gertrude is my third wife. We're quite different, as you see, but we've been married 36 years, so it seems to be working. My first wife was a woman in college who wanted to get married, and I was flattered, so I married her. She left after a year, which broke my heart. He pauses to catch his breath and assess his audience, his blue eyes meeting mine. Then, my second wife came soon after we were married for 12 years. We were the best of friends, but no longer lovers after just a few years, and I was not willing to spend the rest of my life that way. He stops, perhaps weighing in. So I gave her one year's notice before I filed for divorce. Then Gertrude came along, and the sex came back. 

Mary Stone  07:00

Gertie resurfaced. How did you meet? I asked, relieved to invite her into the conversation. At a holiday gala in midtown Manhattan over hors d'oeuvres, I was immediately smitten. I found an Englishman. She amorously reminisced. They smirked like new lovers, as Ernest left to find the property surveys, she continued her love story. I've had many men in my life, many men. I was 42 Ernest was concerned that I may wish to have children. He thought I was in my early 30s. She said, giggling. I didn't divulge, but I told him I was not able to have children, which made him happy. We've been married ever since. 

Mary Stone  07:39

Ernest returns with the property surveys. We've had a caretaker for the grounds who seems no longer able to keep up, maybe because he's getting old himself. I asked him to tend to certain things in the garden at the guest house before weekend visitors, and he didn't tend to them, so our guests didn't come. Is delivery not angry or hostile, more resolved that there is a void that needs to be filled, which is why I am here. I see, well, we'll get things back in order. May I come by during the week to take measurements? Do I need to check in with anyone at either house? 

Mary Stone  08:12

Surely come anytime, no one will be here. The day of inventory: while hovering over the knockouts, creaking came from the dark mahogany door, startling me. The door opened ever so slowly as I made my way to announce my intentions. Hi there. I'm Julia. I'm here to help Ernest and Gertrude with things in the garden. Maybe they mentioned. I hope I didn't startle you. I didn't expect anyone to be home. His face was tawny tan and darker in the fissures, and skinny, very skinny. He may have hair, though his faded John Deere cap hid most of it, only a few wild, wiry wisps flew from the edges like smoke from a flue. His denim overalls, threadbare at the knees, and faded flannel plaid shirt hung loosely. The small windows, bordered in dark wood with crisscross lead embellishments, projected an eeriness as the light streamed in from the half-open door. He nods and tips his cap without telling me his name. A drawn-out, awkward pause follows as his glazed blue blue-green eyes stare into mine. The silence amplified the singing of the birds and the rustling of the leaves, though barely a breeze moved the stagnant air.

Mary Stone  09:25

 Alrighty, then I'll get started. He nods, not saying a word, and tips his cap before shuffling back inside. I return to the truck for measuring equipment and a notepad. It's been hot and dreadfully humid, and the few shrubs and ground covers around the cottage show the fungi effects of too much rain. The knockout roses centered in the swath of Pachysandra are far gone, laced with holes and black spots. Folks are always surprised to learn that despite the thorns, deer love roses, although these were not eaten.

Mary Stone  09:58

The prickly Japanese barberry is spindly after years of cutbacks to keep it below the windows bordering the sun room. They were the go-to 20 years ago and became overused because of the deer-resistant burgundy foliage and admired tiny red berries that dangle long after the foliage drops. Birds love the berries too, which is why the alien plant is prolifically spreading by way of their droppings. I notice that the side-by-side roll-out windows are half open. The smell of the musty interior of the sunroom permeated through. A yellow floral tablecloth is topped with a bouquet of roses, clearly not from this garden. Knockouts have stubby stems. They're white and long-stemmed, complementing the white wrought-iron vintage garden chairs kissed with a hint of rust. 

Mary Stone  10:46

I glance into the woodland to see if there are barberry babies of the mother plants to justify a case to remove them. There aren't really only two along the woodland edge. Maybe the trees have learned to talk to the deer like Dr. Doolittle and encourage them to eat the invasive plants. I chuckle, considering the thought. As I meander further into the woods, a mature forest of hemlock, beech, oak, and maples, their leaves blow in a chorus, and the calm breeze as if to say thank you for the reprieve from the stagnant air. I stumbled upon sticks of browsed shrubs with a few tiny red berries still intact. Maybe the deer here do eat barberry. I've never seen that happen. I meander further, intrigued by the thought.

Mary Stone  11:31

 There are generous pockets of ferns dancing in the breeze, thickets of blueberries, and carpets of moss decorating the forest floor. I feel the happiness of the trees sharing the earth with their companion, native plants. I met with Ernest and Gertie A few days later to report findings and suggestions. We sit on the back patio near the garden in need of most of the improvements, overlooking what could be glorious views if they weren't impeded by vines strangling the dogwoods and surrounding sumac trees, both of which I suggest should be cleared. Gertie objected fervently. Sumac trees are very classic of the French landscape. Haven't you ever read The Gardens of Versailles? She snips; there are sumac trees all along the magnificent gardens. She trails off, staring at the overgrown vista. It felt like she was posturing for power, like a queen on a chessboard looking for a checkmate. I maneuver around the Queen by becoming silent. 

Mary Stone  12:28

Does the caretaker live in the guest house? No, no one lives there. It's rare we have guests these days. He lives in Pennsylvania, just beyond the Delaware Water Gap, he's getting on in his years. Ernest said, I kept to myself, though dreadfully curious about the older man and overalls at the guest house. He looked like he could be the man we spotted during the tour of the Beaver Dam. 

Mary Stone  12:51

When I returned a few days later to take measurements in the distance, a man on a green tractor was cutting the Great Lawn I wave. He dismounts and meanders more quickly than the older man could. As he came closer, he looked to be in his mid-30s. Hi there. I'm Julia. Hello. I'm Otto. He said with a heavy German accent, Nice to meet you. I'm here to grab measurements for the garden that Ernest and Gertrude asked me to design. Maybe they mentioned? No, but help yourself. Quite a place for just two weekenders, no less. Can't imagine how they use it all. Are you related to Gertie? Aren't all Germans related? You could be your son. I joined in his laughter, then sensed an uneasiness and shifted the subject. 'Does anybody ever visit?' Ernest mentioned they were to have guests. I don't think the guests ever came, but there was a man I met. My voice trails off as I observe his discomfort. I don't know. I think they switch between houses. I've seen Gertie in the courtyard of the guest house, while Ernest is in the garden of the main house. He deeply chuckles. Maybe that's why they're still married. You know, plenty of room to be by themselves, right? It occurs to me that Otto looks like a young version of the older man in the cap. I catch myself staring and look away. Well, off to take measurements. Nice to meet you. 

Mary Stone  14:14

I meander down a rocky path, then over a steep hill to the desired respite spot. A weathered wooden bench now overlooks a field of weeds, primarily mugwort, another invasive species, difficult to remediate, hardly a view at all. Oddly, the mugwort has taken hold and not barberry. It's scientifically proven that trees form communities that speak to each other through their root systems, attached by a network of fungi; they send warning signals to each other by emitting a chemical that changes the chemistry of the neighboring tree to deter predators from feeding. So I'm wondering, can roots change the chemistry of the pH of soil to inhibit the growth of invasive species? I'd never heard that's the case, though. 

Mary Stone  15:00

As I sat to contemplate how to design an area with little charm, I heard the crunching of leaves sounding like a large animal in the woods behind me, likely a black bear. Unlike most, I love coming upon them, and don't fear them unless it's a mom with cubs. As the steps grew closer, they sounded two-footed rather than four. I stood up for a better view to find in the distance the older man with the John Deere cap. He didn't seem to notice me while he gazed up into the canopy of trees.

About an hour passed before I began walking back, taking the longer route along the mossy path leading to the gate. As I came out of the woods, Mr. John Deere stood before the line of hemlocks bordering their gravel driveway. Their lower branches had been lopped off, grossly disfiguring them. The cuts to remove the beefy lower branches were about 10 feet high up, just on the driveway side. They were recent—the smell of the fresh-cut wood still in the air. Sappy streaks were coming from the wounds like tears from the whirled eyes where the former branches once were. Mr. John Deere was shaking his head, holding his hat in one hand, his chin with the other. I feel bad for the trees, I said loudly, not to startle him. After a lengthy pause, he glanced at the ground before my feet. He didn't seem surprised I was there. He remained silent and stared back at the trees. 

Mary Stone  16:27

They say trees talk to each other. Have you heard about that? No reply. I continue. They are connected by mycorrhiza, which is an interwoven fungus. I stop. He doesn't speak. And when there is an attack by an insect, they send signals from their neighboring trees of the same species, which changes the chemistry of the trees that make it distasteful to the predator. I stop, still, no response, an endless, clumsy silence. I'm talking to myself about talking to the trees. He must think I'm mad. Then he looks up and into my eyes. His blue green eyes were watery. I hear them, his only words. 

Mary Stone  17:12

He looks back down to the ground before my feet, then back to the wounded hemlocks. He bows his head and nods in sorrow. Mr. John Deere turns away, his head still held low, and shuffles towards the guest cottage. I say softly to whoever could overhear. I hear them too. 

Mary Stone  17:40

So I wrote this story a few years ago when I was taking a fiction writing class, and I thought you'd enjoy hearing it. I have to say, the heat on the screen porch today is perfect to revisit the story, which, again, much of it is based on the exchange that occurred with those clients. I just enjoyed sharing it with you, and I'd love to hear if you have a story you'd like to share with me that's themed around nature and gardens. I prefer that they be true stories, or at least largely based on truth. And if you are adding a fiction element, just go ahead and tell me which part of it is fiction. It's fun to hear stories from you. I so love our exchanges, and I look forward to the next time. I hope it's cooler than this because, boy, the heat is on, just as it was when I had that interview with Gertrude and Ernest. That's not their real names. Anyway, thank you again. See you next time. 

Mary Stone  18:33

You can follow Garden Dilemmas on Facebook or online at GardenDilemmas.com and on Instagram at hashtag Mary Elaine Stone. Garden dilemmas, delights and discoveries is produced by Alex Bartling. Thanks for coming by. I look forward to chatting again from my screen porch, and always remember to embrace the unexpected in this garden of life. Have a great day.