is one of those. It performed so elegantly last year, I wanted to put it in spot better than next to the mailbox.
|It's back and bigger than ever.|
So, late last winter I pruned its canes, then in early spring I set out to relocate it, going at with a shovel and a pick. But it held on, making it clear that the only way to move it was to cut away most of its roots. Not wanting to do that, I simply ignored the plant. As I had done last year.
As it did last year, the rose survived, and bloomed, as these images show. In fact, this year it produced more buds than last year, when it got whacked accidentally by my string cutter; it is like many of us, made stronger in the broken places – often with no help from anyone.
I plead guilty to doing nothing for this determined survivor (pest-ridden leaves verify that), and I admit to enjoying it. Call it the rose that thrives amid my ambivalence.
When I cut the last bud and gave it to Lyn, she said, "We love that rose, and I'm glad you didn't dig it up."
Not because I didn't try. If I had succeeded in digging it up, the stress might have killed it – along with our pleasure. Sometimes a failure beats a try.