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Dr.
Leda's Rose Journal |
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Ten Rosy Resolutions for the Upcoming Year
By Dr. Leda Horticulture, O. R.
December 2002
Dr. Leda ushers in a new era of self-improvement...
- My internal clock tends to run fast (which explains why I'm writing
New Year's Resolutions in November). Every winter, I grow restless and
try to jump-start spring. Inevitably, I develop a violent and irresistible
urge to prune roses on New Year's Day, but the recommended date here
in Louisiana isn't until mid-February (and the recommended pruning date
wherever you live is whenever your forsythia comes into bloom).
Last year I jumped the gun, and a disastrous late freeze turned all
my tender new growth into slimy black mush. The protective foliar cuticles
ruptured, leaving even resistant roses vulnerable to disease. This
year I will be patient and NOT prune too early. Better a tardy spring
flush than sick whiny roses.
- One day towards the end of pruning season last year, I was browsing
in a book store when I noticed a stranger staring at me intently. He
was holding a book titled Self-Mutilation and the Language of Pain.
The skin on my arms was crisscrossed with the jagged scratches and slashes
that only a vicious 'Mermaid' can deliver. "Oh, ha-ha!" I
said cheerily. "It's not what you think." The man just shook
his head morbidly and turned away. This year I am actually going
to wear my gloves when I prune. Sturdy opera length gloves, with
thick leather palms and canvas gauntlets. Maybe even a welding mask.
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- When I teach pruning classes, I always tell my students that the
First Commandment of Rose Pruning is, "Thou shalt not prune wearing
an expensive hand-knit sweater." And yet my neighbors recently
received an entertaining real-life demonstration of the consequences
of ignoring this mandate, as the prunee du jour snagged my favorite
Aran Islands souvenir and unraveled it dramatically before their horrified
eyes. This year I will finally take my own advice and wear a heavy
denim jacket.
- Any rose that fails to make my heart tap dance like Fred Astair must
go, to make room for roses that do. Those jolly green giants that grow
huge but rarely bloom: must go. The leprous dogs that drop leaves like
confetti: must go. The maladroit losers that bore me to tears, or clash
with companions, or blow their petals in five minutes: all must go.
Call me Madame Defarge, but this year I will don my black hood and
shovel-prune without mercy. ("Many of you feel bad for this
ugly rose. That is because you are crazy. It has no feelings."
- There's an old dictum that the harder a hole is to dig, the deeper
you ought to dig it. Those of us with bad backs and heavy clay soil
have come to loathe this dictum. As a decrepit old pro, I sometimes
feel entitled to take shortcuts—like "snapping" the spent
flowers with my bare hands when I deadhead, instead of meticulously
cutting each stem at a perfect 45 degree angle above the next node with
five leaflets. I've even been known to prune with a chainsaw. But no
more shortcuts when it comes to holes! This year I am going to dig
my planting holes 2 feet wide and 2 feet deep. Henceforth, decadent
pampered roots will luxuriate in a lavish underground Club Med of impeccable
drainage and organic abundance.
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- All my life, I've had the typical nurseryman's garden: one of everything,
and the more bizarre the merrier. This makes for a fun playground, but
my eyeballs have grown weary of the crazy-quilt commotion. I yearn for
restful expanses of color, laid out in bold sweeping swaths. This
year I'm going to plant my roses in groups of three. Repetition,
rhythm, and continuity are the new buzz words down at Cafe Chez Dr.
Leda.
- "Wouldn't a brilliant blue Morning Glory look stunning on the
fence beside my climbing pink 'Dream Weaver'," I once remarked
with alarming naivete. Two months later I couldn't locate the house,
much less the fence or the rose or the patio furniture or the dog. The
rapacious creeper had devoured everything, like a blanket of thick green
snow. Twenty years from now I'll still be fending off volunteer Morning
Glories. This year I will refrain from planting lovely but invasive
and self-sowing vines within 50 miles of my roses.
- I have an embarrassing confession: I don't own a single orange rose.
This year I'm going to expand my color horizons. I'm going to redo
the entire south side of my driveway, creatively and adventurously working
in warm peachy oranges, sophisticated smoky oranges, pastel sherbet
oranges, festive coral oranges, and tropical sunset oranges. Maybe I'll
even include a flaming hot tangerine orange. Er, better make that three.
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- It's probably due to egotistical vanity rather than selfless generosity
that I've been inclined to leave the roses out in the yard, where they
can be admired by a vast array of total strangers, rather than bring
them into the house for the enjoyment of a drastically smaller number
of dearly beloveds. This year, I'm going to cut more roses for the
house and to give away to friends. The strangers on the sidewalk
will have to be content with admiring foliage, while a certain rather
attractive gentleman of my acquaintance will be obliged to look up from
his morning paper at regular intervals to exclaim over the contents
of a vase.
- In his 80s, Sir Winston Churchill delivered a commencement address
at Harrow, the boarding school he attended as a boy. Legend has it he
stood up at the podium, glared over his glasses, and gave the pithiest
of speeches: "Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, give up.
... Never give up. ... Never give up. ... Never give up!" he roared.
Then he sat down to thunderous applause. The story may be apocryphal,
but the message is timely. From now on, I will not be plunged into deep
dark paralyzing despair by unexpected freezes, lengthy droughts, infernal
summer heat, plagues of blackspot and thrips, hurricanes, tornadoes,
Biblical deluges, or any other fast balls Mother Nature decides to pitch
my way. This year, I'm just going to roll with the punches and enjoy
the heck out of my roses.
I hope you all do the same. Have a wonderful 2003!
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