A Rose Is A Rose Is A Rose

In the course of the forty-four years we've lived here, I've planted and lost a discouraging number of roses -- floribundas, David Austins, antique,  climbing, Peace, Jacob's Coat, Nymph's Thigh, Tudor, Cherokee, Fairy, Sweetheart--the list is long and distinguished.

But this little rose endures. It was a gift from my neighbor Louise, rooted from a bush in her front yard. For forty-four years it has thriven, while the parent bush is gone. (Perhaps Louise dug it up and took it with her when they moved from what is now Justin and Claui's house -- I don't remember.)

Another survivor is this climbing rose at the greenhouse door. It's only been around fifteen or twenty years and is at last blooming well. 

I only hope the deer don't find it.

Before and After

Weeding is such a satisfying activity!  My little box beds were full of the weed called devil-in-the-garden and it was crowding out the lettuce that was the rightful occupant.

I planted snow peas along that wire support weeks ago but not a single one did I see. There were, however, quite a few volunteer tomato plants -- I'll take what I can get!

There! That's better. the next step is to thin and spread the lettuce plants out . . . another day.

 It's always pleasant to stagger to the house after a long day in the garden and then look down and gloat over what was accomplished. And lucky me! There are more weeds waiting in the main part of the garden below -- as well as tomatoes, peppers. squash, and cukes to set out, corn and beans to sow . . . 

And, of course, more roses to smell! 

 The yellow rose by the greenhouse door . . .

 

A chorus line in scarlet . . .

And Her Majesty La Reine des Violettes . . .

Breaking News!!

Miss Susie Hutchins finally brought the car back. Neither she nor Maggie would say where they'd been.

With my book turned in and my writerly obligations over with for the moment, I'm taking time to smell the roses . . .

. . .  and work in the garden . . . where I met a charming young toad.

It's a pretty hectic schedule.

I actually watched TV last night for the first time in  . . . well, a very long time. Episode 1 of Foyle's War -- I loved it -- the settings, the clothes, the pace.

Ahhhh! Time to smell some more roses.  In a burst of wild dissipation, I may even watch episode 2 tonight

Summer is Just a Click Away . . .

If the cold weather begins to seem oppressive and you find yourself longing for summer, remember that it's just a click away. Maria Cecilia's blog "Casa Dulce Hogar" is full of roses from her home in Chile -- a surfeit of bloom so complete that I can almost smell them.

The Yellow Rose

It was one of three bare root roses I bought at a local discount store -- three for ten dollars. And the wrapping showed a beautiful deep pink rose. So I planted it at the foot of our front steps by the greenhouse door -- where I could look out the window by my kitchen sink and enjoy its lovely pink blooms. Only it turned out to be yellow.

But from its first bud in mid-May to its last bloom on Thanksgiving day, the yellow rose has performed valiantly and I've been unable to resist snapping its picture over and over again.

On Thursday the full-blown rose greeted our Thanksgiving guests as they arrived. Then, as evening fell, a high wind got up and stripped all but two forlorn petals from that last lingering bloom . . .

... so that our guests had a petal-strewn path for their departure. How elegant!

I still prefer pink roses -- but this particular yellow rose has won my heart.

Betwixt and Between

One last rose blooms in a sheltered corner, a lingering breath of sweet summer time . . .

The greens from the garden are bug free at last! Dill and parsley, Georgia collards, and kale -- Black Tuscan and Red Russian -- sweet and delicious, all the better for having been lightly kissed by frost. . .

Eggs from the hen house, another flush of mushrooms -- oysters and shitakes, and fat potatoes, dark soil still clinging to them . . . the makings of a feast . . .

The temperature is falling and at last it's time for a fire.

Miss Susie Hutchins approves.

Rosebuds

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

. . . from "To the Virgins, to make much of Time" by Robert Herrick 1591-1674

I won't go on -- the poem is actually pretty depressing, especially for one such as myself, well past middle age unless I expect to live to the overripe old age of 132.

But I love the way the roses that Nancy brought on Mothers Day are so gracefully giving up the ghost and those lines of Herrick's keep echoing in my mind.

And, though neither young nor a virgin, I'm still busily gathering all the rosebuds I can -- every day. There is so much to treasure all around me and so much more out there in the world. . .

Including these lovely pictures by John William Waterhouse, a British Pre-Raphaelite who painted them in the early 1900's. I adore the Pre-Raphaelites though modern taste probably dismisses them as overly sentimental -- and so they are.

I like a lot of corny things -- raindrops on roses and all the rest of it. "The Little Drummer Boy," the Cotswolds, kids hunting Easter eggs and parents taking pictures of them, I Can Has Cheezburger . . .

Are there things you like -- even though you suspect that a lot of people think those things are sentimental/silly/ dumb . . . or corny?