It’s that time of year when my sinuses clog, my nose twitches incessantly, and I stock up on Puffs Plus. Spring is here, and my thoughts turn to my roses. My wonderfully fragrant roses. Which cause my clogging and twitching. But that’s why God made allergy meds.
Last year was a very bad year for a bunch of my roses in my oldest rose bed. I don’t know exactly what happened, but by mid-July, it was clear my favorite of the bunch, Cuthbert Grant, was dying. Maybe it was old age. Cuthbert was 15 years in my garden when he died. Even the tomatoes I planted nearby didn’t perk him up.
My William Baffin, which is only supposed to get to 10 ft at the max, is way above 15 feet and is now draped over a portion of the deck. He’s getting sparse at the bottom, and old, too. Queen Elizabeth never did get the hang of her environment, and she barely hangs in each year.
I think the soil is warm enough to be dug out. It’s time for me to go rose shopping.
My rose criteria is very simple: must thrive on neglect and be smelly. High maintenance, looks-good-no-smell roses need not apply.
Here’s my shopping list:
- two Cuthbert Grants
- John Cabot to join Bill and Liz in the climbing area
- Frau Dagmar Hartopp (yes, I’m using the German name) to sit on the other side of my other old timer, Henry Hudson
- Jens Munk to fill in the space next to my grandma’s farm rose.
That should set me back a hundred or two. But they’re worth it. There’s nothing like sitting on our back deck, with the scent of roses in the air. Pure bliss.