I have enough roses

Chelsea Donoho

I’m taking advantage of the mild weather to do a job I’ve been putting off that really should be done now: Pruning the roses. There are 65, planted in 2016 and 2017. Most are of the Fairy Tale series by the German breeder Kordes—’Lion’s Fairy Tale’, ‘Caramella Fairy Tale’, ‘Floral Fairy Tale’, and ‘Elegant Fairy Tale’—soft colors and romantic flower forms that look nothing like tea roses. I also have a couple of rich reds out there, plus five of ‘Sally Holmes’, which throws arched branches loaded with creamy yellow single flowers the shape of native roses. There also are 10 plants of a white garden rose called ‘Summer Memories’.

It doesn’t really get cold here until late December. Late fall can be full of sunny days in the 50s and 60s, with only a little breeze, and this year we are getting an extra helping of days like this. I have a south-facing front porch where I am writing this in the middle of the day. Pearl is sitting near me on the steps with her little face turned toward the sun and her eyes closed.
I’ve tricked myself into getting this pruning job done by using my tactic of setting achievable immediate goals: keeping it easy, going out in the late afternoon, when there isn’t much time before dark, and telling myself I only have to prune and clean out five or so plants. I’ve done this twice and am more than half done.

The job is worse than ever, though, because I got behind in 2018, the year we built the house. That consumed every bit of our spare time, and I had to set priorities. Roses are, well, thorny. They are not a key crop here—as they are in California and Texas—just bonus flowers I use for crowns, boutonnieres, floral confetti, fancy additions to large arrangements, and my own enjoyment (at least in theory). I pruned them beautifully in 2017 and not at all in 2018. They became misshapen and weedy, and last year the Japanese beetles ruined every bloom, and I decided I would take them all out, so I didn’t prune them again. Nor did I get milky spore down in the fall to discourage the beetles in their larval stage. I simply gave up. This is a shameful way to treat such an investment, but I considered it cutting my losses on a high-maintenance, low-producing, unprofitable crop.

Then this spring, in a pandemic, a year of such destruction, they bloomed early, before the Japanese beetles usually come, and I thought better of my decision. I am rehabilitating them, cutting them down to bare bones—just a few main branches—clearing out all the deadwood and weeds, and topping the crowns with compost to protect the plants against the coldest cold of January and February.

I’m not planning to get any more roses. This fall I filled in the ends of the rose rows with peony tubers. But I will keep these 65 planted and care for them better and see how they do, and when they bloom I’ll be reminded of their forgiveness of my neglect and the gentle company they gave me in a lonely year.