When Wyn Drabble tends to his roses, he remembers his stories.
OPINION
Except for the few that were there when we moved in, my roses have backstories.
As I tend to them – not always as well as it should – their provenance flowers in mine
brain Don’t worry, I won’t take you through 120 odd stories, but I will share a few to get my drift, so you have enough evidence that I might be off my rocker.
For example, I just came from the care of the only one I called and it is in memory of the deceased mother of a friend.
The rose variety is Queen Elizabeth and Elizabeth was the second name of the mother. After she died and the house was going to be vacant, I dug it up and brought it home to replant and care for. Mother had the use of a gin – just one – before dinner and in it she asked for “just a drop of tap water”.
Every time I water now, I tell him what I give him. I once even gave him a tiny tip of gin (yes, really) but on reflection I think that might have been a bit excessive, so now it’s just “just a drop of tap water”.
A pair of roses, Blackberry Nip and Happy Child, were year-end gifts to Mrs. D—one from a parent, one from a group of girls—to thank her for a year of effective teaching. Like prunes or water, I always remember that, even if I don’t personally know the donors.
Another, Oranges and Lemons, was a gift from two young visitors from the Czech Republic. They would park just inside our gate, then go up the long drive to ask permission to sleep there in their van for the night.
Of course it was granted, but we asked him to drive the van right to the house for increased security, so we invited him to share dinner. His English was limited, but we muddled through and had a happy night the details of which I remember every time I pointed the hose at the plant.
Right next to the Oranges and Lemons are three large Westerlands bearing bright orange flowers. Like those water, I still remember how they came.
For his particular place, he wanted orange blossoms and as I was driving to town one time I saw a fence with a wall of orange roses spreading over it. The owner was out so I could stop the car and ask what the variety was. It was Crepuscule (named after the twilight rays of the sun).
This variety was unobtainable, so I settled on Westerland as close to the color. I relive that story every time I tend to them even though they often attack me with their excessive armor of thorns.
Two that I am most proud of are the ones that I propagated from the cuttings myself. One that I grew from a cutting of what is probably my favorite rose, Blue Moon. The new one is in a pot, but every year, when it blooms, it points to its relative plant at the top of the garden. Yes, I talk to plants.
The other annoys me – I even directed bad words – just because I don’t know his name and irks me to have roses that I can’t identify. I have spent countless hours trawling through rose books and websites with no success. I also asked directly.
But the cut has blossomed into a big healthy bush, so I’m always happy to take the victory, as they say in sports. I also reward myself with a drink break now and then.
He probably won a gin.
