 |
|
 |
|
|||
 |
|||
 |  |  | 
|  |
 |
Dr. Leda's Rose Journal |
 |
|
Pruning Roses with Ernest Hemingway
(A Farewell to Canes or, The Old Man and the Hybrid Tea)
By Dr. Leda Horticulture,
A Clinically Diagnosed Rose Addict
December 15, 2001
If only Ernest Hemingway had learned rose pruning from Dr. Leda....
It was almost a new dawn. It had been a starry night but now the polar star was lost behind a fragrant cloud. I was cold and wet and annoyed, like a cat singin' in the rain. It was opening night of rose pruning season. I needed a drink.
The Lilac Rose was brightly lighted and full of people; a clean, well lighted place. As I went in I saw three men at the bar with Felcos and green plastic garden clogs, linking arms and singing war songs. The air was thick with the smell of wet leather gloves.
The place was crowded. There were no empty tables. A sultry looking woman sat in solitude at a table near the kitchen. It was Leda. She was a buff beauty, a real hot tamale. A classy lassie. A knockout. She could be feisty. She had once pruned a Mermaid with her bare hands.
I removed my yellow jacket and took the chair opposite. I reached for the already poured Champaign cocktail and drank deep. It was cold and fizzy and good.
She spoke first. "Hello, darling. Awfully good of you to come." Her shocking blue eyes took in the bandages on my arms. "Nasty business, that," she murmured. "Was it the lateral shoots on Ballerina?"
"It doesn't matter. It's nothing."
The compassion left her voice. She leaned forward. "You know the forsythia is blooming. Today is Friday. It's time to prune. You are ready?"
I poured another cocktail and drank deep. It was good. The Felcos were sharp, like the taste of fear. I nodded.
"Where will you start?"
"The rambler, The Nun, and Radio Times," I said, making a very short story of it. I rapped on my saucer with my glass, hoping the bartender would bring some brandy.
"It's no good," she said. "The rambler is once-blooming. It blooms on old wood. You should have pruned it last summer." She watched the men in green clogs dance a polka on the bar, her eyes nearly wild with burning desire.
I shrugged. "What about the English roses?"
"Cut the frail growth. Leave the strongest canes. Upright shrubs, prune back by half. Spreading, arching and bushy shapes by one third." She leaned forward in the chair. Her geranium red lips grazed the fresh scratches on my cheek.
"And the climbers?" I poured another aperitif and drank deep. I was impatient.
"Remove dead wood," she said. "Cut back lateral branches. They can be dangerous. Carry tweezers. You must know when to prune and prune not."
"What do you mean, dangerous?" I said. "They all look dangerous to me." I leaned forward. My glass was empty. "I say, Leda, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours?"
Her stainless steel eyes drifted to the blood stains on my shirt. "Your glass is empty, darling," she said. "Let me buy you another." She beckoned the bartender.
Outta the blue, a waiter appeared with a full bottle. "Here's your whiskey, Mac," he said. He was missing a finger. He wore an eye patch. His face was scarred. He looked down at my Felcos and gauntlets and his lip curled with scorn. "Roses!" he spat. "Again today, a man was badly cogido. A big thorn wound. All for fun. Fun, you understand."
"You're not an aficionado?"
"Me? What are roses? Plants. Brute plants." He looked up. "A cornado right through the back. For fun — you understand." He limped away, carrying the empty bottles. "Muerto!" he called back over his shoulder. "With a thorn through him."
"He once pruned the roses," said Leda. "Now he just grows orchids." Her fabulous eyes were cool as an iceberg as they followed him back to the kitchen, a room full of cowardly, orchid-growing men. Men without women. I poured another glass and drank deep. It went down like a smooth lady.
"I need your help, mon cheri," I said. "My honor is at stake. Tell me the secret to pruning tree roses."
Her raven hair hung in her eyes like smooth silk, cloaking them with intrigue. She leaned forward. "It's child's play," she whispered through the bandage on my ear. "Prune them like bush roses. Cut out diseased and dead wood. Plus any branches that are rubbing against each other. Then shorten all canes by one third."
My glass was empty again. I rose from my chair. The sun also rose. I turned to face danger. "One man alone....ain't got no chance," I gasped. "Remember me, Leda!"
"Oh, darling," she murmured. "We could have had such sheer bliss together."
"Yes," I said, brandishing my Felcos in the air like a macho man. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
