I’ve been the voice of caution throughout this whole process. Don’t get ahead of ourselves, don’t want too much, don’t rush into something we can’t afford. But I’m starting to get excited now.
The subdivision is already in the process. MyMan moves in to the old farmhouse this week, which frees me up to start cleaning out my current home and life in preparation for moving in together at the end of the year…maybe, hopefully.
So, to celebrate this first milestone, I bought him some rosebushes for the property.
Now there’s a story here. MyMan and I are both fans of the ‘if you can’t eat it, why water it’ philosophy of gardening. But, in particular, I think roses are way too much work for too little reward; three months of flowers, 12 months of thorns and invader roots and escaping suckers. But my one-day Mother-in-Law loves her roses so, as a tribute to the family past of EastWinds, we’ll plant a rose garden at the property’s entrance where a tap has been handily situated for our use.
I did my research, chatting to members of our regional rose club for hardy varieties to suit, and presented MyMan with an armful of thorny bare-rooted branches which have since burst into leaf as they waited in water in my sunny little kitchen.
At first, when I said I’d bought him roses, he gave me a very doubtful sideways gaze. Apparently he thought I meant cut flowers, not plants, which are perhaps less than manly.
So our first roses will be fragrant white Icebergs, the Spanish dry-weather variety La Sevillana with its velvety red semi-double blooms and Blue Moons. I’ve also been given a red and yellow striped rose called Abrakadabra which seems almost reptilian; it’s not fragrant but has novelty value.
And in choosing just these few blooms for a garden I swore I wasn’t interested in, I’ve fallen in love with roses. I remember now, why, as a little girl I’d wander past the old-fashioned cottage gardens in my neighborhood, collecting the petals of the loveliest blooms (much to their owners’ disgust, I’m sure).
For my daughter, next, I’ll buy the long-stemmed pink ‘Eiffel Towers’ to remind her of her future travel ambitions; and next time the Show comes around I’ll take note of the winners in the ‘most fragrant’ rose competition. In the meantime I’ll rifle through the selection of heritage roses at diggers.com and maybe, in the far future, when I’m sitting on the deck of my ‘one-day’ house on a hot night I’ll smell the scent of our family roses rising on the east winds.
I’ve been the voice of caution throughout this whole process. Don’t get ahead of ourselves, don’t want too much, don’t rush into something we can’t afford. But I’m starting to get excited now.
The subdivision is already in the process. MyMan moves in to the old farmhouse this week, which frees me up to start cleaning out my current home and life in preparation for moving in together at the end of the year…maybe, hopefully.
So, to celebrate this first milestone, I bought him some rosebushes for the property.
Now there’s a story here. MyMan and I are both fans of the ‘if you can’t eat it, why water it’ philosophy of gardening. But, in particular, I think roses are way too much work for too little reward; three months of flowers, 12 months of thorns and invader roots and escaping suckers. But my one-day Mother-in-Law loves her roses so, as a tribute to the family past of EastWinds, we’ll plant a rose garden at the property’s entrance where a tap has been handily situated for our use.
I did my research, chatting to members of our regional rose club for hardy varieties to suit, and presented MyMan with an armful of thorny bare-rooted branches which have since burst into leaf as they waited in water in my sunny little kitchen.
At first, when I said I’d bought him roses, he gave me a very doubtful sideways gaze. Apparently he thought I meant cut flowers, not plants, which are perhaps less than manly.
So our first roses will be fragrant white Icebergs, the Spanish dry-weather variety La Sevillana with its velvety red semi-double blooms and Blue Moons. I’ve also been given a red and yellow striped rose called Abrakadabra which seems almost reptilian; it’s not fragrant but has novelty value.
And in choosing just these few blooms for a garden I swore I wasn’t interested in, I’ve fallen in love with roses. I remember now, why, as a little girl I’d wander past the old-fashioned cottage gardens in my neighborhood, collecting the petals of the loveliest blooms (much to their owners’ disgust, I’m sure).
For my daughter, next, I’ll buy the long-stemmed pink ‘Eiffel Towers’ to remind her of her future travel ambitions; and next time the Show comes around I’ll take note of the winners in the ‘most fragrant’ rose competition. In the meantime I’ll rifle through the selection of heritage roses at diggers.com and maybe, in the far future, when I’m sitting on the deck of my ‘one-day’ house on a hot night I’ll smell the scent of our family roses rising on the east winds.
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