My roses were rusty.
Past-me is surprised that Present-me even just typed that sentence. But it’s true:
My roses were rusty. And it sucked. Continue reading
Because I need it right now:
My roses have risen from the dead.
When we moved in, the eight rose bushes in front of our house (all different types, and from the looks of them, many years old) were so mismanaged and infested with aphids, I thought they were bound for the compost heap. Every petal eaten, every cane withered, every leaf munched into a slice of swiss cheese.
But after meeting with a gardener and reading up on how to hard prune mature rose bushes, I (warily) decided to give it a shot. I devoted a sunny September Sunday afternoon to sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, lops in hand.
It cost me quite a few bloody fingertips, and the rose bushes looked frighteningly shorn for a few weeks, but now I have this:
And, now that the rain has arrived, soon I will have blooms.
Lots of blooms.
Grass babies, meet rose babies.