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Dr. Leda's Rose Journal |
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The Big Bust: Pulled
Over by the Rose Police
By Dr. Leda Horticulture, O. R.
August 1, 2002
The
sultry lethargic dog days of August had arrived, and roses were the furthest
thing from my mind. The mere thought of going out in the sweltering hot,
humid, mosquito-infested yard was enough to make me want to open a vein.
As the mercury soared and the weeds bolted, I fixed myself a tall frosty
lemonade and headed for the nearest air-conditioned sofa. Armed with a
box of gooey chocolates and a stack of lurid murder mysteries, I was prepared
to wile away an entire blissful weekend without so much as a glance at
the garden.
Lost in the harrowing adventures of my favorite detective heroine, I barely noticed the wail of an approaching siren. Suddenly blue lights were flashing all around the room, and a voice bellowed through a bullhorn,"Come out of the house with your hands in the air," it ordered. "This is the Rose Police. We have you surrounded."
I
stepped cautiously onto the porch, not wanting to incur the wrath of the
TACT squad (Thorny Arrest and Confrontation Team), the dreaded nemesis
of rose-growing felons everywhere. I could see shadowy figures crouched
menacingly behind the roses, frozen like statues in their camouflage uniforms
and green-painted faces. They were ludicrously easy to spot, since the
sadly neglected bushes had either turned bright yellow or defoliated entirely.
"Is there a problem, officer?" I called out innocently.
The lieutenant in charge of operations stepped forward. Draped in a flattering camouflage garland of enormous pink cabbage roses, he could have been mistaken for a six-foot-four bearded Mary Kay Cosmetics consultant. Until he flashed his badge. "You have the right to remain silent," he suggested, as I eyed his outfit.
As soon as he ascertained I wasn't armed (I hadn't laid eyes on my Felcos in weeks), the lieutenant ordered the Rose Police to secure the perimeter of the garden. I watched nervously as they hung bright yellow "scene of the crime" tape from my tree roses and a team of forensic rose specialists crawled around the floribunda bed, gathering incriminating evidence. They took fingerprints, footprints, photographs and leaf samples. They even drew chalk marks to outline my grisly misdeeds. I could already imagine the convicts on the Group W bench sidling away from me in disgust.
"I'm
charging you with leaving the scene of an accident involving blackspot,"
said the lieutenant, scribbling furiously. "Failure to remove spent blossoms.
Felony weeds, in excess of eight inches. Improper exhibition of Felcos."
Thank goodness the hundred degree weather had sent so many of my roses
into summer dormancy. Otherwise, he could have nailed me with aggravated
clashing, attempted second degree overplanting, and excessive use
of pink.
I was guilty all right, there could be no denying it. But my guilt in the legal sense was nothing compared to the deep inner turmoil of my psychological guilt and soul-rending remorse. I loved my roses! They were my children, my prides and my joys. Why oh why had I suddenly lost interest and abandoned them? What on earth had come over me?
By the time the bailiff led me before the judge, I was ready to confess to a ten-mile litany of rose sins. I had resigned myself to a life sentence of powdered potatoes, predatory cell mates, and bright orange jumpsuits that didn't do a thing for my complexion.
"Oh for heavens sake," said the judge, rolling her eyes at the stacks of incriminating reports, pathological tissue samples, and ghastly color photographs. "Not those ridiculous Rose Police again." She tossed the charges into a nearby trash can. "We go through this nonsense every August," she told me apologetically.
"But,
Your Honor," I stammered. "I'm guilty! I've inflicted cruel and abusive
injury on my roses!"
The judge waved her hand dismissively. "Please. Everyone is tired of roses
this time of year. I certainly am. But roses are tough. A little benign
neglect won't kill them. In fact," she added cheerfully, "roses are closely
related to blackberries. Have you ever tried to murder a blackberry bush?"
I saw her point.
"Nevertheless," she continued, peering sternly over her steely little bifocals. "You have not served as an exemplary role model for your readers. I'm going to have to send you up the river."
"You're putting me in the penitentiary?" I gasped, wondering if I'd have time to dye my hair a matching shade of auburn before I donned the dreadful jumpsuit.
"No," said the judge. "You're not going to prison. I'm sentencing you to a one week vacation."
I
could hardly believe my good fortune! A mandatory, court-ordered vacation!
Would she send me to a chi-chi lodge in the Hamptons? A luxury spa in
Palm Springs? A seaside resort in the Cayman Islands? But my face fell
like a ton of bowling balls when she handed me a brochure. "A nude polka
dancing camp in Cornfield, South Dakota?!" I wailed.
She nodded. "You're already enrolled. They're expecting you. Look at the bright side: there won't be much to pack. And when you return, I guarantee you'll have a much better attitude toward your roses. You'll be relishing the fall flush and obsessing about next year's catalogs. You might even get around to taming those climbers on the front porch."
So, dear readers, I'm off to pay my dues to society. I'll be back in September, with giant calf muscles and inside gossip about new rose introductions. And if you absolutely insist, I'll show you my vacation slides. Don't forget to water your roses!
