photo by kliverap
We have a long row of the prickliest roses that you have ever seen. It borders the outer side of our cedar fence. I go out to prune them in the early evening, since I just can't tolerate much sunshine these days.
There's a great story about those roses:
We were getting a little frustrated with neighbor kids, whose aim with their winter sleds left something to be desired. We'd hear - smack! bam! hee hee! every time a new batch of snow fell and the kids' sleds veered off course on the hill and hit our fence.
Not wanting to be the neighborhood grump, instead of yelling, John waited until spring, and went off to the nearest plant nursery. He announced that we needed a nice row of rose bushes outside our fence. His criteria for choosing a rose bush? Big, nasty thorns. That was it. Color? Variety? Floribunda or tea rose? Who cares?
He threw them in the ground, and they have been blossoming profusely ever since. And, not surprisingly, the neighborhood kids' steering ability has blossomed as well. We have not heard smack! bam! ouch! even once.
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