...in order to recover from the cold/flu/crud/whatever it is that has settled in The Management's head and chest. But wouldn't you know it? As soon as I'd made up my mind to stay in bed like a sensible girl, along comes a beautiful Saturday on the cusp of autumn--nearly windless, cool but not too cool, warm but not too warm; it's the kind of day that reminds you why you love the plains. And to add to temptation, last night the UPS man delivered a climbing rose I'd ordered from The Antique Rose Emporium.
Naturally, I was forced to rise from my sickbed and address the situation.
The rose is a climber, Madame Alfred Carriere, that I want to train along the fence and portal in the homesteader's garden. I've decided to grow a couple of antique roses there because I can imagine my fictitious woman homesteader bringing some roses along with her and planting them to remind her of home. Madame is a blush-white noisette that dates from 1879, so she certainly would have been around during the rough time frame that I have in mind (ca. 1900). The other, Prairie Rose, is a pink North American native that I planted last year; she only dates to 1924, but I'm the boss of my garden, so I'm allowed to fudge here and there.
I love getting plants from the ARE; they always arrive healthy and packed within an inch of their lives in two boxes, a pot, newspaper, and lots of tape. It's like opening a Christmas present that smells like the earth:
And some short work later (with only minimal hacking and nose-blowing), here Madame sits, all watered in and mulched to face the High Plains winter:
Now it's back to my hot tea and a lie-down.