My Botanical Corner Lot
What Ten Years Taught Me About Life, Chihuahuas, Moms, and Gardening a Corner Lot
I never thought I'd end up back in my home state of Rhode Island.
For years, I imagined I would always live in New York City, working as a fashion photo stylist and telling people on Monday mornings, "I just got back from the country. How was your weekend?"
But life had other plans.
This year marks about ten years since we moved into what I like to call our coastal cottage. Over the years, I've learned to "Just Observe," as my mother likes to say.
And you know what?
I wouldn't change a thing.
Our property isn't a grand estate. It's a modest suburban corner lot just a few minutes from the beach. In fact, before we bought the house, I had my mother time the drive.
Two minutes.
That was close enough.
The front bed when we first moved in: An existing yew, a mophead hydrangea, an azalea, and a rhododendron. All photos by Parsley & Petal.
I remember someone visiting shortly after we purchased the property and remarking, rather dismissively, "This yard isn't that great."
Perhaps they were right.
At the time, it wasn't.
But I wasn't worried.
I had spent more than a decade styling photo shoots and creating environments for the camera. While I knew very little about gardening, I understood composition, structure, and how small details could transform a space.
With a little help from my mother and plenty of research, I figured I could learn the rest.
And so began the transformation from the Empty Corner Lot to the Botanical Corner Lot.
During that first spring, we were dog-sitting my sister's beloved senior Chihuahuas. Looking back through old photographs, I'm struck by how often they appear in the earliest images.
There they are, walking down tattered wooden steps in dire need of replacement.
There they are, standing in a crabgrass-ridden lawn by what would become the Egg Bed.
At the time, I was focused on planting and lawn renovation. Ten years later, I find myself missing the dogs.
Funny how that happens.
The Egg Bed its very first year, named for its oval shape. During that first spring, we were dog-sitting my sister’s beloved senior Chihuahuas.
Wooden steps and garden borders, which urgently needed to be replaced with something new and safer. Daylilies and Asiatic lilies, which I later learned were deer and rabbit food, were gifts from my dear mother.
The first major project was the corner berm. Then came additional beds, shared plants from family members and neighbors, a new deck, Phantom hydrangeas that even the husband approved, a new shed, a rose garden, and eventually an outdoor shower tucked into the garden.
Some additions were planned.
Others arrived more gradually.
The garden seemed to reveal itself a little at a time.
The front bed forming its personality over the years.
The front lawn finally looking decent. The Dwarf Alberta Spruces, which were not my style and in decline anyway, were replaced to make room for updated plantings.
The corner berm, consisting of the Colorado Blue Spruce ‘The Blues’ and daffodils, in the early years, was created to break up the vast expanse of green lawn formerly known as the Empty Corner Lot.
My mother helped plant some of the earliest daffodils. Over the years, she contributed plants, advice, observations, and occasional wisdom disguised as ordinary conversation.
My mother, planting annuals in the Egg Bed, named for its oval shape. The rhododendron is tiny here!
The South Garden bed in its early years, with the original mophead hydrangeas and daffodils planted with help from mom.
Most of the time, she insists she's completely average.
The evidence suggests otherwise.
One lesson she taught me early on was not to rush.
When we first moved in, we didn't fence the property, as most people who value privacy would. We observed.
I grew up in a neighborhood without fences, and my sister loves to tell the story of how, when I was a toddler, I had a penchant for yelling, ”Get off my property!” at random strangers while standing on the lawn in diapers.
One side of the yard bordered an empty lot. Another had a quiet neighbor. Later, new neighbors arrived, fences went up, and our needs changed. Eventually, we added unobtrusive protection for deer and rabbits and a modest dog fence to match.
The solution wasn't the one I would have chosen on day one.
It was the one that made sense after paying attention.
The same was true throughout the garden.
Over time, the lawn improved. Beds matured. Trees grew. Plants came and went. Neighbors would stop to comment.
The South Garden at its peak.
"I love what you've done with the place."
"It's so calming."
"It feels like a sanctuary."
More than one visitor described it as a botanical park. I laughed each time.
What surprised me most was that the comments were rarely about a specific plant.
They were about how the garden made people feel.
Our Chihuahua, as a puppy, enjoying salvia atop the new granite steps
Her brother, who we couldn’t keep initially, is now summering with us and has been rolling around in the grass around the second berm, home to the Norway ‘Acrocona’ spruce and various perennials.
A new addition to the Botanical Corner Lot, Scarlet Fire (Cornus kousa ‘Rutpink’) with a mature Japanese Dappled Willow (Salix integra 'Hakuro-Nishiki') in the background.
Looking back now, I realize I wasn't just creating a garden.
I was creating a place.
A place where the family gathered.
A place where beloved dogs grew old.
A place where new dogs would eventually arrive and begin their own stories.
A place where my mother's daffodils still bloom every spring.
A place that taught me patience, observation, and the value of letting things evolve.
Ten years ago, I thought I was transforming a corner lot.
What I was really doing was building a life around it.
And somehow, without quite realizing it, the Empty Corner Lot became the Botanical Corner Lot.
For more seasonal notes and garden observations, read The Seasonal Edit.
The Seasonal Edit
The Seasonal Edit is a recurring garden checklist of what’s emerging, what can wait, and what deserves attention now. Practical tasks. Clear structure. Timed to the season as it unfolds.