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Dr. Leda's Rose Journal |
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Women Who Run With Felcos
By Dr. Leda Horticulture, O. R.
October 1, 2002
Dr. Leda's macho crusade fizzles...
"What statement does your garden make?" asked a fascinating article I once read. "What is your yard's message to the world? Does it announce that you are a goddess of abundance and fecundity, attempting to recreate Eden? Does it proclaim that you are a free-spirited iconoclast who revels in non-conformity? Or does it try to convince the neighbors that you have loftier, less bourgeois concerns than yard work?"
Very interesting, I thought. I wasn't sure how to answer. "Whether intentionally or not," the article continued, "your yard makes a strong statement about who you are. What does your garden say about you?"
I closed the magazine and went outside. Standing in the middle of the street, I tried to see my front yard through the objective eyes of an outside observer. What exactly did this landscape say about its owner? What enigmatic messages could strangers decipher, what implicit impressions would passersby glean from it?
I
studied what was left of the lawn, then examined the surrounding plethora
of slowly encroaching rose bushes. There was 'Guy de Maupassant,' 'Frederic
Mistral,' 'Gene Boerner,' 'Gruss an Aachen,' 'Cape Cod,' 'The Fairy,'
'Flower Girl,' 'Ballerina'... Why yes, now that you mention it, every
rose in the yard was indeed light pink.
And it dawned on me slowly that my garden's unintended but unambiguous message to the world was this: "Barbie's Grandmother Lives Here." (Ok, there were three dark pink Knockouts at the end of the driveway. "Mary Kay Is Having a Hot Flash," said that corner.)
How in the world had this pinkosity happened? I never set out to create an all-pink girlie garden. I had merely selected beautiful roses that would stay healthy and bloom all summer in my climate. Their unrelenting pinkness was coincidental, and did not reflect the first thing about me.
As
a card-carrying member of the Tomboys of America, I had always eschewed
the pink and the frilly. I'd rather climb trees and shoot slingshots and
throw baseballs. Look, see? I can steer a pickup truck with my knee while
I fumble with the map because I'm incapable of stopping to ask for directions!
(I can even do it backwards in high heels!)
So, if my garden was going to be a vehicle for artistic self-expression, all that silly pink stuff had to go. I decided to redesign the entire yard from scratch, using big, bold, androgynous colors. And I knew exactly where to turn for design inspiration. There was a Legend out there in cyberspace, and I needed his help.
By day, Steve Fenner is a mild-mannered engineer who, with his pretty wife Wendy, cultivates an exquisitely enviable rose garden in suburban Atlanta. But when no one is looking, this man slips into a phone booth somewhere in north Buckhead, dons the requisite superhero cape and tights, and emerges as the legendary "Rosebud the Enabler." Then he fires up his computer and makes mincemeat of willpower and self-control all over the world.
I'm sure "Rosebud" would never misuse his superpowers. But if he wanted to, he could easily convince the entire NFL to stay home on Sunday afternoons and plant roses. He's that persuasive. There's even a rumor that a member of the WWF is changing his name to 'Betty Prior,' in honor of the Enabler's eloquent rhapsodies about that tough, indomitable floribunda.
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Steve does have a way with words, but his deadliest weapon is a digital camera. Some of his most dangerous work can be viewed on the Greater Atlanta Rose Society's award-winning web site (see links in box). The spectacular photos of Steve and Wendy's garden literally took my breath away—I had to exhale into a paper bag to avoid passing out from sheer jealousy. I also discovered that Steve has written the most practical and useful advice I've ever read on landscaping with roses.
Looking through his garden shots, the first thing that struck me was this: Steve Fenner is a Real Man who is not afraid of pink. He uses it boldly—pink roses, pink lilies, pink Crape Myrtles, pink bedding annuals. And yet somehow his garden never looks frilly. By varying the shades of pink and combining it judiciously with reds, blues, yellows, and whites, he also avoids the dreaded "explosion at the bubblegum factory" effect. In the world of Steve Fenner, pink is a strong, dignified, respectable color. There's nothing ditzy or twee about it.
I
had to rethink my position. Perhaps I wouldn't need to rip out everything
and start over after all; maybe my garden could incorporate pink roses
and still manage to utter a coherent phrase or two about my impressive
bench-press techniques. The Enabler concurred. Of course he would, he's
a man of addition, not subtraction. Never cut back on pink roses, says
the Enabler philosophy. If you think you have too much pink, it simply
means you need to add more roses in different colors.
Thanks to Rosebud, I've added more roses than I can count. Last season, I leaned heavily on rich jewel tones; this year, I'll be bringing in more cheerful yellows and warm golds. There's no end to it. As long as I have a blade of grass left in the yard, there's room for more roses.
So, what statement does my garden make now? I think it probably says, "I Am Rose Lunatic, Hear Me Roar." Or maybe, "Runs With Felcos, Dances With the UPS Man, Doesn't Color Inside the Lines." We're certainly getting closer to the truth.
