The Bard's Fire

A couple of months ago, after the big maple in our front yard was removed, Himself mentioned that its absence meant an opportunity for planting something that needed full sun where there hadn’t been full sun since we bought the house 24 years before. That something was roses. Did I mention I’m very fond of roses? Particularly red roses?

Three rose bushes were ordered and subsequently arrived, looking like nothing so much as three pieces of incipient kindling. It was, I thought, a bit late in prime rose-planting season, but then again, I’m not the gardener in the family. I have the world’s blackest thumb. I somehow managed, some years ago, to kill a houseplant that everyone swore was unkillable and nigh unto immortal. But the company from which the plants were ordered had a guarantee that promised to replace, free of charge, any bush that did not grow and thrive in its first year.

Over the course of three days, three rose bushes masquerading as incipient kindling were planted, watered, fed, and observed. A few days ago, the first one planted produced a gloriously red rose and a riot of buds. Then the second bush did likewise. The third is throwing buds.

We have roses!