Roses Rush In
A Gardener’s Dilemma
One rose bush.
Out of the many I’ve planted, only one has survived. Every spring, fearing it has met the fate of the others, I anticipate heartbreak. For eighteen years, it has astonished me with its survival. For yet another summer, it gives me bright pink blossoms.
The canes need to be cut back. But there’s always new growth to be coaxed upward and woven through the cedar slats arching above the sidewalk leading to our back door. I planted identical shrubs, one on each side of the arbor. They met overhead for a few years, until one was struck down. A hard winter. A black circle of thorns.
Hardy shrub roses are the only kind I now attempt to grow. I gave up long ago on grand hybrids in favor of those that require only the most cursory care. I don’t have time to deal with the showoffs, with their pouty lower lips and constant demands for attention. Never a stage mom, I prefer plants that play quietly. They don’t tug at my skirt. They draw sustenance from the soil, the rain, and an occasional boost of Miracle-Gro. My small yard is ragged but friendly.
But a few weeks ago, the leaves shriveled alarmingly. Pinpricked, lacy, the life sucked from them by . . . something. Aphids? I had no idea. Panicked, I searched the shelves of the garage for the spray insecticide I hadn’t touched in years. Nasty stuff: the label was crowded with warnings in print so tiny I couldn’t read most of them. I was able to make out only a couple of advisements. May cause nerve damage. Toxic to bees.
Bees.
They are among those creatures whose presence has declined dramatically, in my neighborhood as in the rest of the world. I rarely see them buzzing about the yard. Only occasionally do I notice the twilight stream of bats. The butterfly plants are no longer alive with monarchs. These were once a regular feature of my life in St. Paul, Minnesota. What to do?
The roses weren’t in bloom. No insects would be visiting, except for the ones already ravaging it. Against the possibility of neurological impairment, I put on heavy gloves.
The “spray” function did not work. The nozzle was permanently stuck in a focused squirt. I drenched the leaves, a few at a time, willing them to return to their glossy vibrance. It wasn’t until I treated them with what may have been three times the recommended dose, or ten – the label didn’t specify – that I discovered that the forefinger of one glove was torn, and that my hand was bathed in insecticide.
I tossed the gloves and went inside to wash my hands, upper arms, and even my face. I splashed water in my eyes. My limbs weren’t twitching, so I probably didn’t need to call 911. The only consequence seemed to be the polish stripped from a single nail. The color wasn’t my favorite. And why bother with manicures during a pandemic? Learning to use a cuticle stick, and to apply thin, even strokes without totally messing up is time-consuming. I’ll wait until I feel brave enough to go to a salon.
The next day, the leaves were back to their former healthy state. Soon there were buds. Two weeks later, a gift: a fistful of roses, pushing through the cedar slats.
If there’s a message here, it may be about tenderness. It’s tough to administer a medicine that may be harmful, that may not work. But sometimes a kind of desperate love takes over. I forget that I’m a complete amateur at gardening. I forget the Plant Snap app on my phone, and Siri and Google, the personal assistant and encyclopedia in my back pocket. Do I think to consult them? Of course not. I’m a boomer, not a millennial. Some actions are just not native to me. I’m in a different growth zone. And I’m overthinking my actions, rationalizing a twinge of guilt.
You could come up with any number of reasons to eco-shame me. Please don’t. I planted those two rose bushes eighteen years ago. Bright pink, my mother’s favorite. I lost one. I can’t give up on the other.
