We have roses. This is a hugely exciting thing for me; I'm completely incapable of growing anything whatsoever, so when flowers actually bloom near me it's practically a federal holiday in our household. My mother is a fabulous gardener -- when she can get the deer to stop eating her plants, that is -- and she grows wonderful roses. Next to her garage is this big wooden planter; when I was in high school, some friends and I built it for her on the condition that before she filled it with dirt, we could drag it to the school's theatre and use it as a prop in our production of a French playlet called 'The Washtub'. It was, of course, the washtub. After its starring role in high school theatre, the planter moved to its permanent home, and now it's filled with climbing roses that grow over a looming piece of lattice placed there for that purpose. They bloom like crazy. The roses I remember the most fondly, though, are wild roses. On the mountaintop my parents chose to build their house on, wild roses bloom alongside the road in glorious profusion, a pink sea of floral bliss that lasts for only about a week in June. I haven't seen roses quite like them anywhere else. But at least I have roses.
We have three rosebushes. They're planted along the fence that divides the side yard from the back yard, on the far side of the house opposite the driveway. The middle one is the largest -- bigger than I am, actually -- and it's covered in the white roses pictured below. On the left is a medium-sized bush growing fabulous yellow roses (my second-favorite, after peach) that are incredibly large. On the right, in the corner of the yard, is the smallest and saddest rosebush, which seems to produce one bright pink rose at a time. These bushes have all done without any attention; nobody has taken care of this yard in almost ten years. I'm beginning to think I've found a plant I won't kill by proximity.
No comments:
Post a Comment