Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
(I hope you will enjoy my rose story. It was originally posted on The Cottage In My Mind blog on May 6, 2014. I wanted to include it here for Julie Valerie's Hump Day Blog Hop! Like to party? Hop along the Hump Day Blog Hop on Julie Valerie’s Book Blog. Click here to return to the Hump Day Blog Hop and see what others are writing about.
Nothing says cottage garden more than roses to me. I want old fashion English roses that look like the roses in magazines, climbing over arbors, twining through picket fences.
My wish came true today. In a small way. But big enough to fill my heart with the beauty I covet. And it is growing in my back yard.
My very own David Austin rose is in full regalia with blossoms and buds ready to burst open at any moment.
Now, if I were a true gardener, I could tell you the name of this rose. But I don't have a clue. It was purchased twenty years ago from a catalog. The photo was one of many that I had trouble deciding on. I knew pink was a must.
It took years to bloom. The rose is planted next to the back of the house. My late husband built a huge trellis for me. The vines took hold of the wood railings and started to climb high. But the rose never had a single flower.
Did you fertilize it? you might ask. My answer is no. I did nothing to help this English lady blossom.
I just waited.
Back when my husband was alive he was not happy with the bush. It reached out far into the yard with huge thick thorns that stuck him as he rode by on the lawnmower. There may not have been flowers, but the branches had a life of their own. He pruned it back a few times and tucked the branches back on the trellis, hoping to contain it. Sometimes cutting it back further than he should at times when pruning was not recommended.
Still the rose bush held its own coming back each year. But no blooms.
The year after my husband died, I had to put a French drain in next to the foundation of the house. There was water in my basement. The trellis was moved. The rose stayed in place.
"Cut that rose bush when you dig the ditch and it is off with your heads!" I told my handyman and his crew as I wagged a finger in their faces.
The rose survived the French drain.
It bloomed the following year. And has had a rose or two on it each year since.
This year it is taking me by surprise.
Huge blooms. Many buds.
My rose bush. Neglected. Managed to grow despite adversity and is now a thing of beauty.
I know there is a life lesson there.
For now I'm just going to watch with awe.