Just a quick post, as life does not include a lot of blogging time this week. (I’m skipping this week’s customary library book post.)
I love roses; it’s inherited from my mother, but also a result of always having roses around when I was growing up. My mom’s love of roses led her to grow roses herself, so I always remember having rosebushes in our garden.
I, however, do not like to garden–we have had some form of herb or vegetable garden for about the last 6 years, but it’s always my husband who initiates and does 99% of the work for it. So one of the best things about our current house is that it came with a rosebush right outside our dining room window. The bush was not in great shape when we arrived, but my husband cut it back a whole lot and it started producing beautiful white roses. I have mostly taken over caring for the rosebush–which basically means calling my mother when things go wrong (it got black spot last year) and dead-heading old blooms. I apparently have just enough gardening impetus to take very basic care of one rosebush. The rosebush amply repays my haphazard care, and has already started blooming this year.