Ahhh, the sight and scent of roses transport me to a mental vacation. Cup of tea in hand, David Austen Roses Catalog in hand, my mind escapes the unmade beds and shoes scattered across the floor...my long awaited yoga class vanishes as I peruse the pages of beauty.
Sigh...I have nowhere to put the roses this year. The house won't be ready and the apartment complex might frown if I discard one of their ugly shrubs to put my rose in the dirt temporarily. I will have to wait until next year to put some of these beauties in my garden. In the meantime, I will remember fondly the roses I had my house on Wickerberry Lane.
My Munstead Wood rose from David Austen.
I planted these when my Shakespeare roses were not able to tolerate the sultry South. I even named my Shakespeare roses Lady MacBeth, King Richard, and Romeo...the attempt to make them feel loved with a name was unsuccessful. I did not name my Munstead Wood for fear of becoming too attached and sad if they failed. They were spectacular in Spring and Fall and hung in there during the dog days of Summer. A rose is a rose...even without an affectionate name.
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