Read Online Roses in Autumn by Donna Fletcher Crow - Free Book Online
Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
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she exhibited outward calm and professionalism, she entered the rose garden.
A young woman in a tan coverall was bent over pruning roses in a bed halfway along the path. “Excuse me,” Laura approached her. “Can you tell me where I could find Glen Hampden?”
The young woman straightened up, pulled off her glove, and extended her hand. “I’m Glenda Hampden. You must be the writer who wants an interview?”
“Yes, I’m Laura James.” All business now, Laura put her personal turmoil aside as firmly as she drew her notebook from her briefcase.
“Good. Let’s sit over here by the gazing ball.”
Laura couldn’t believe her fortune! She had made the appointment to learn background for her rose-grower heroine—and here was a real-life horticulturist made to order: soft brown pageboy with auburn lights, sprinkling of freckles across a pert little nose, a smile that made you think you heard children laughing. Laura’s pen moved even as she sat on a cement bench beside a pedestaled crystal ball reflecting a web of sunshine around them.
“You’ll have to forgive my surprise; I was expecting a man. Narrow-minded of me, I suppose. Anyway, I’m glad you’re not.”
Glenda smiled and nodded. “There are several women on the staff. Most women horticulturists seem to prefer working in greenhouses, but I want to be here with my roses.”
“Yes, that’s what I would choose too. They are gorgeous. What are your favorites?”
“I love them all, but of course, you do develop favorites. Roses are living things; they have personalities just like pets or even people. I like roses I can go into the garden and smell—like Double Delight and the David Austin English roses. Of course, I get my share of scratches, but it’s worth it.”
“You’re getting the garden ready for winter?” It sounded like chitchat, but Laura would need to know these things about her Gwendolyn’s work.
“We will soon. The pruning I’m doing now is really just cosmetic—for the tourists. If this was my own garden, I wouldn’t be pruning this time of year.”
“You don’t prune for winter?”
“We do here, because it looks better. But I would let the old blooms form hips and seal the canes. When you prune for winter you leave an open wound and frost can just go right down the cane. Besides, you can use the rose hips for tea or jelly in the spring—great source of vitamin C, you know.”
“Will you mulch for winter?”
“Yes, that’s my next job. We mound mushroom manure well up over the graft.”
“Mushroom manure? I’ve never heard of it.”
“We get it from mushroom growers. It’s the richest mulch we can find. We don’t use straw because it draws the phosphate from the soil, and then it all has to be hauled off in the spring. The mushroom manure we can just dig in around the plants.”
Laura glanced at the list of questions she had prepared ahead of time, but she found it hard to stick to business. She felt so drawn to this girl. She wanted to get to know her personally. “Where do you get your roses?”
“Everywhere, really. Some of the big growers in America are great, but really, we need a Canadian rose grower. Getting the rootstock across the border is an awful hassle. If the inspector finds any bugs, he’ll torch the whole lot. You can easily lose $10,000 at a whack that way.”
“Is it any easier to get roses from England?”
“It’s really a matter of where the rose you want is. If it’s in Timbuktu, you go for it. And keep your fingers crossed for the ag customs officers.”
Laura looked at her next question. “What do you feed them?”
Glenda stood up. “Albert, he’s our head gardener, said I could talk all I wanted, but I should work while I do it. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all.” Laura stood too. “I’ll just follow you around. I want to get a real feel for what you do.”
Glenda pulled on her gloves and extended her hands. “Sheepskin. They’re special to protect from
A young woman in a tan coverall was bent over pruning roses in a bed halfway along the path. “Excuse me,” Laura approached her. “Can you tell me where I could find Glen Hampden?”
The young woman straightened up, pulled off her glove, and extended her hand. “I’m Glenda Hampden. You must be the writer who wants an interview?”
“Yes, I’m Laura James.” All business now, Laura put her personal turmoil aside as firmly as she drew her notebook from her briefcase.
“Good. Let’s sit over here by the gazing ball.”
Laura couldn’t believe her fortune! She had made the appointment to learn background for her rose-grower heroine—and here was a real-life horticulturist made to order: soft brown pageboy with auburn lights, sprinkling of freckles across a pert little nose, a smile that made you think you heard children laughing. Laura’s pen moved even as she sat on a cement bench beside a pedestaled crystal ball reflecting a web of sunshine around them.
“You’ll have to forgive my surprise; I was expecting a man. Narrow-minded of me, I suppose. Anyway, I’m glad you’re not.”
Glenda smiled and nodded. “There are several women on the staff. Most women horticulturists seem to prefer working in greenhouses, but I want to be here with my roses.”
“Yes, that’s what I would choose too. They are gorgeous. What are your favorites?”
“I love them all, but of course, you do develop favorites. Roses are living things; they have personalities just like pets or even people. I like roses I can go into the garden and smell—like Double Delight and the David Austin English roses. Of course, I get my share of scratches, but it’s worth it.”
“You’re getting the garden ready for winter?” It sounded like chitchat, but Laura would need to know these things about her Gwendolyn’s work.
“We will soon. The pruning I’m doing now is really just cosmetic—for the tourists. If this was my own garden, I wouldn’t be pruning this time of year.”
“You don’t prune for winter?”
“We do here, because it looks better. But I would let the old blooms form hips and seal the canes. When you prune for winter you leave an open wound and frost can just go right down the cane. Besides, you can use the rose hips for tea or jelly in the spring—great source of vitamin C, you know.”
“Will you mulch for winter?”
“Yes, that’s my next job. We mound mushroom manure well up over the graft.”
“Mushroom manure? I’ve never heard of it.”
“We get it from mushroom growers. It’s the richest mulch we can find. We don’t use straw because it draws the phosphate from the soil, and then it all has to be hauled off in the spring. The mushroom manure we can just dig in around the plants.”
Laura glanced at the list of questions she had prepared ahead of time, but she found it hard to stick to business. She felt so drawn to this girl. She wanted to get to know her personally. “Where do you get your roses?”
“Everywhere, really. Some of the big growers in America are great, but really, we need a Canadian rose grower. Getting the rootstock across the border is an awful hassle. If the inspector finds any bugs, he’ll torch the whole lot. You can easily lose $10,000 at a whack that way.”
“Is it any easier to get roses from England?”
“It’s really a matter of where the rose you want is. If it’s in Timbuktu, you go for it. And keep your fingers crossed for the ag customs officers.”
Laura looked at her next question. “What do you feed them?”
Glenda stood up. “Albert, he’s our head gardener, said I could talk all I wanted, but I should work while I do it. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all.” Laura stood too. “I’ll just follow you around. I want to get a real feel for what you do.”
Glenda pulled on her gloves and extended her hands. “Sheepskin. They’re special to protect from
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