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Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
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the thorns.” She picked up a pair of orange-handled shears. “Good sharp clippers are important. These are English. The best.” She scooted a hard plastic bucket along the path, making a harsh, scraping sound. “There, Albert will hear that and know I’m making progress with my clipping.” She tossed a faded rose in the bucket.
“You asked about feeding. We mix our own 6-8-6 formula with plenty of trace elements and Epsom salts. Then feed one tablespoon per plant.”
“Epsom salts?”
Glenda nodded. “Because we get so much rain here. It cleanses the soil, prevents root rot. Good drainage is absolutely essential.”
Laura was writing as fast as her pen would move. She couldn’t wait to get home and try all this on her own bushes. Except the Epsom salts—hardly necessary in the desert land around Boise.
“Of course, we spray religiously—insecticide, fungicide—and don’t water from overhead. That awful rain the other night just demolished these blooms. You’re not seeing our garden at its best at all. But then, if the rain doesn’t get them the deer will. See—hoofprints in the soil right here.”
Laura was amazed. “This close to people?”
“Oh, yes. They come in at night. Here’s more prints. And in the spring it’s rabbits. They’re worse because they eat the new shoots.”
The bucket scraped on the path, Glenda’s clippers snapped, other tourists strolled through the garden admiring the roses and asking Glenda brief questions about rose growing. A visitor picked up a rosebud from the bucket. “May I take one?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Those are for my compost pile. If I gave them all away, I wouldn’t have anything to feed the pile.” The lady dropped the rose and moved on. Glenda smiled at Laura. “I probably say that 10 times a day. It would be nice to give them away, but we use everything here.”
Laura walked on a ways by herself, then turned back. “This is the only rose garden I’ve ever seen that gives the date and nation of the rose’s origin as well as its name.”
“Yeah, that’s interesting, isn’t it? The signs are about 98 percent correct. Some young interns did them. They made a few mistakes. Someday maybe we’ll have time to redo them.”
“Are there many from Canada?”
“Just one. Jenny Butchart is the only Canadian rose developed.”
“Was it done here?”
“No. We don’t have room to hybridize. Wish we did, though.”
Laura walked along, reading the markers: Cathedral, Ireland, 1975; Sir Lancelot, England, 1967; Fragrant Cloud, Germany; Anne Cocker, Scotland; Holland, Denmark, Belgium, Japan … It was a United Nations of roses. “Mountbatten. That’s not marked, but it has to be English.” She turned back toward Glenda.
“Yes, it is. It’s a really good yellow rose—deep color. Yellow roses are favorites of mine, but they need more sun. The ones on that side of the garden get too much shade. They’ll have to be moved.”
“Oh, here’s Peace. One of my favorites. I didn’t know it was developed in France.”
“Yes, it has quite a history. It was developed just before the Nazi invasion. Francis Meilland smuggled three packages to other countries. Two were confiscated by the Nazis, but one reached the States. It was officially named Peace on April 29, 1945—the day Berlin fell. It was given the American Rose Society’s award the day the war with Japan ended. And when the peace treaty was signed, it was given a gold medal.”
For a moment Laura was too engrossed to write, even though she would need this information later. “I had no idea. I just thought it got its name from its soothing blend of colors.”
“Ouch.” Glenda’s cry interrupted Laura’s peaceful musings. “Not much gets through these gloves, but that one’s a beaut. They’re a lot worse this year—cold winters make the bushes produce more thorns. Last year was about the worst we’ve ever had—some bushes just went all to thorns.” Glenda looked at her watch.
“You asked about feeding. We mix our own 6-8-6 formula with plenty of trace elements and Epsom salts. Then feed one tablespoon per plant.”
“Epsom salts?”
Glenda nodded. “Because we get so much rain here. It cleanses the soil, prevents root rot. Good drainage is absolutely essential.”
Laura was writing as fast as her pen would move. She couldn’t wait to get home and try all this on her own bushes. Except the Epsom salts—hardly necessary in the desert land around Boise.
“Of course, we spray religiously—insecticide, fungicide—and don’t water from overhead. That awful rain the other night just demolished these blooms. You’re not seeing our garden at its best at all. But then, if the rain doesn’t get them the deer will. See—hoofprints in the soil right here.”
Laura was amazed. “This close to people?”
“Oh, yes. They come in at night. Here’s more prints. And in the spring it’s rabbits. They’re worse because they eat the new shoots.”
The bucket scraped on the path, Glenda’s clippers snapped, other tourists strolled through the garden admiring the roses and asking Glenda brief questions about rose growing. A visitor picked up a rosebud from the bucket. “May I take one?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Those are for my compost pile. If I gave them all away, I wouldn’t have anything to feed the pile.” The lady dropped the rose and moved on. Glenda smiled at Laura. “I probably say that 10 times a day. It would be nice to give them away, but we use everything here.”
Laura walked on a ways by herself, then turned back. “This is the only rose garden I’ve ever seen that gives the date and nation of the rose’s origin as well as its name.”
“Yeah, that’s interesting, isn’t it? The signs are about 98 percent correct. Some young interns did them. They made a few mistakes. Someday maybe we’ll have time to redo them.”
“Are there many from Canada?”
“Just one. Jenny Butchart is the only Canadian rose developed.”
“Was it done here?”
“No. We don’t have room to hybridize. Wish we did, though.”
Laura walked along, reading the markers: Cathedral, Ireland, 1975; Sir Lancelot, England, 1967; Fragrant Cloud, Germany; Anne Cocker, Scotland; Holland, Denmark, Belgium, Japan … It was a United Nations of roses. “Mountbatten. That’s not marked, but it has to be English.” She turned back toward Glenda.
“Yes, it is. It’s a really good yellow rose—deep color. Yellow roses are favorites of mine, but they need more sun. The ones on that side of the garden get too much shade. They’ll have to be moved.”
“Oh, here’s Peace. One of my favorites. I didn’t know it was developed in France.”
“Yes, it has quite a history. It was developed just before the Nazi invasion. Francis Meilland smuggled three packages to other countries. Two were confiscated by the Nazis, but one reached the States. It was officially named Peace on April 29, 1945—the day Berlin fell. It was given the American Rose Society’s award the day the war with Japan ended. And when the peace treaty was signed, it was given a gold medal.”
For a moment Laura was too engrossed to write, even though she would need this information later. “I had no idea. I just thought it got its name from its soothing blend of colors.”
“Ouch.” Glenda’s cry interrupted Laura’s peaceful musings. “Not much gets through these gloves, but that one’s a beaut. They’re a lot worse this year—cold winters make the bushes produce more thorns. Last year was about the worst we’ve ever had—some bushes just went all to thorns.” Glenda looked at her watch.
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