I pruned my roses today!

3 days into the new year and my green can is almost filled with rose canes, studded with thorns and leaves green and brown.

This is an accomplishment.

I know that roses require yearly pruning and that time is January.  But I usually procastinate because there are always a few roses in bloom, promising buds, and I hate yardwork.  By the time I’m geared up to do the deed, my gardener has gone through like a bulldozer and left a few dead canes in his wake.  This leads to sadness and disappointment on my part, followed by internal recriminations and a faint hope that the roses survived the brutality.

(I prune more deliberately, opening up the center, cutting out cross canes and leaving enough so they can grown in a nice shape rather than a haphazardly dangerous mish mosh of sprouting canes from every direction with a few roses that graze the rooftops.  It’s a choice.)

I’ve been down and out this week so when the weather was beautiful and the sun was not too warm, I armored up with a flannel shirt to protect my arms, a baseball hat and sunglasses to protect my eyes, and thick gloves to protect my hands. 

I started on the side, our “secret rose garden” with Mr. Lincoln, Queen Elizabeth, and two sunny yellow roses that I haven’t identified.  Mr. Lincoln was very prolific this year so I pruned him with care and praised him for his heavily scented deep red blooms.  I saw that he’s headed into QE’s territory so took off some growth on that side.  I hope that 2021 brings more beautiful blooms – there were many years when he only gifted me with ONE, so his schedule has been sparse.  I keep him around because that one rose is perfection itself.  How could I take out a healthy Mr. Lincoln just because he’s sparing with his gifts?  Mr. Lincoln stays.

Queen Elizabeth is one vigorous rose.  Perfectly formed, deep pink, no scent to speak of, but she speaks volumes with abundance.  It took a while to work through the canes and thorns to get to the center and there were canes that laughed at my hand clippers and nipped me with thorns.  “Fine” I told her.  “I’ll be back.  But let me warn you to leave Mr. Lincoln alone.  He’s got priority.”  Her disdain was palpable as I moved onto Yellow 1 and Yellow 2.

Ms. White next to the garage is a party girl!   I think her given name is Iceberg and that family grows wild throughout the neighborhood, adorning fences, trellises, side yards and more.  In any event, she sends out deceptively delicate canes with multiple buds and offshoots.  Two perfect blossoms greeted me and I gently cut them and set them aside.  I decided to take a few buds as well, but steeled my heart against leaving the rest.  The gardener comes tomorrow and I didn’t want him touching her.  So I clipped and wrestled thorns and detangled her canes from my flannel as I brought clarity to chaos.

Queen Elizabeth 2 was waiting and I know she is as tough as her sister, so I pulled out my big clippers with the long handles.  QE1 might have regretted her pertness as I approached.  “Maybe you shouldn’t have been so rude” I said, reaching in to get a big cane.  She retaliated with whip sharp thorns that snagged my cap and arm.  I backed off and realized I needed a plan, and this time I started at the outside, pruning the medium canes and making a path to the big ones that really required a small saw.  I didn’t have a saw so it might have been a bit painful when my blades bit down, but it had to happen for her health and mine.  I left behind a nice framework with just a few raw edges….okay, sorry your highness!  I don’t have a saw and if I did I’d probably cut myself in the process so this is the best I could do.

QE2 stood still as could be and I got the job done quickly and with minimum fuss.  

I headed up front and spent a few moments loving on Double Delight.  She is my most favorite favorite rose and I’ve had her for….heavens! 30+ years!  We bought her as a container rose when we first married and transplanted her at the front of the house.  She doesn’t get enough sun (faces east) but she produces maybe half a dozen fragrant, colorful blooms that make both of us so happy.  I whispered encouragement as I cleared out very few canes and then turned to a crazy red rose that came with the house.  

I think crazy crimson was originally root stock to a tea rose, but someone or something pruned away the graft and the rootstock took off.  Long trailing canes, flat single blossoms with a dash of yellow – she does as she pleases and never comes into the house.  She lives between warring rosemary bushes and somehow has kept enough real estate to thrive.  I snipped her back, breathed in the scent of her pungent neighbors and turned to another unnamed bushy red rose.  He was in a pissy mood and slapped me hard with thorns and recalcitrant canes.  I stepped back and silently promised him a session with the big cutters.

But not today.  The green can is at least half full and the gardeners will be hard put to get all the dead leaves and seedpods in.  I decided to leave him for another day.

On my way back, I paused to greet Mr. Olympia in the neighbor’s side yard.  He’s been sadly neglected for a few years and I adopted him.  I couldn’t water my own and ignore his thirst so I’d slop a bucket or two on him and on his partner who has never produced a bloom.  Oly had some lovely blossoms and the new owners should be moving in next week, so I told him I hoped they would provide care (so far their gardeners have treated the side yard like it’s mine and the weeds are knee high).  I clipped a few final roses before I left.

I could get really deep into the symbolism of me taking charge and pruning my roses to fit my taste.  It’s not unlike taking charge of my own life and making decisions myself instead of letting others do it for me.  2020 showed how uncertain life actually is and how little control I have over it. 

I’m so fortunate to have a job, shelter, family and friends.  But life is short and I need to, I will spend 2021 shaping my future.  It’s time for me to dig in and make some choices about what is important to me and what needs to go so I can finish my life in a good place.  I want a life of purpose and impact.  2021 is going to be the year I define that and put purpose into action.  If I don’t, it will be done to me, and I’d rather shape my own life thankyouverymuch.

These lyrics keep going through my head: 

“Stop!  What’s that sound?  The death rattle of this crazy old town.  Stop!  Where ya been…”

Change is never quiet.

Birth is not quiet.

It is violent, painful, messy.

The impulse to stay in   place

and look the other way

accept the status quo

That impulse is hard to fight.

If  I can’t even “make” my family see my point of view

or influence their behavior

how can an oppressed people change the conversation for millions?

How can there be people

who think it’s okay to go full force

and murder a jogger in full daylight?

(because there are no consequences)

To end someone’s life?  Kill them in their home when they are asleep?

(offer no apology)

To deprive someone of air until they are dead

(while others look on)

It is unbelievable.  That this happens in America today

In full sight, without outrage.

Despite my disbelief, despite my reality

It happens.  It is.  A fact.

So how do we change the conversation?

How do we break has become commonplace?

It is time, past time, to resolve this. 

I believe we are seeing the death throes of the privilege enjoyed by those

who are covered by their skin tone and place in society

Who have favorable circumstance

Who break laws and oppress others with impunity

I hear roar of protest

I hear the drumbeat of change

I pray we are witnessing rebirth

And I hope this can be done without bloodshed

It is frightening

and hard to understand why and why now.

But think – a man, most men

cannot fathom how unsafe the world is for a woman

who is seen is prey

All the precautions we take to protect ourselves are illusionary

We are abused and hurt and weaponized

Multiply that 1000 x 1000 x 1000

for people who stand out because of their color

who know at any minute

their lives are forfeit.  Who walk a tightrope of fear and hope

That they will live to see daylight.

Who are never allowed to forget

that they are here on sufferance.  They walk among us at OUR pleasure

not because they are equal, but at our wish.  They are less than.

How angry I get when I am disrespected and minimized.  When I am seen as less than

Because of my age and sex

(In that moment I have a powerful urge to kill the one who is killing me)

But I only get a fraction of what others receive

And in any circumstance I have privilege, being white, upper middle class, educated.

This is a long standing battle

built into human nature

the struggle and clawing

for more status.  For precedence.  And the belief is that only comes if someone else is less than.

It’s not going to go away

and life will not be the same.

The fire is laid and the tinder is ready

for violence, messiness and rebirth.

Revolutions are never neat

And resolutions are hard to find

My first dog memory is our neighbor’s dog – I thought it was a Lassie type collie but I am told it was a sheltie.  It had a beautiful fluffy coat, a long nose, gentle demeanor and vied with me for potato peels that drifted to the floor when our neighbor was fixing dinner.  She (?) was sweet and loving and I thought she was wonderful.

Our other neighbor had a perfect teacup poodle – iron grey hair that matched its owner, perfectly manicured nails.  We’d see him out in the side yard and would, on occasion, be allowed to take him for a walk.  He was well mannered and tolerant of children who knew nothing about his species.  I liked the dogs I got to visit, but our house had cats.

At some point my dad convinced my mom that our family needed its own dogs.  We had cats that disappeared into the foothills, but dogs would be more permanent.  Dogs would teach us things.  My dad really wanted dogs.  And eventually we brought home two mismatched litter mates – terrier poodle mixes.  Pepper had a black coat with a white spot on his chest.  He was assertive and active.  Pepper was in charge.  Ginger was the typical dust colored curly haired terrier seen in every animal shelter. Millions of Gingers look big-eyed through the kennel bars.  The dogs might have been chihuahua mixes.  In any event, they never weighed more than 10 pounds each.

Those dogs came into a home that was ill equipped to nurture them.  My mom hated dogs – the licking, the barking, the mess.  We kids had no idea how to be around them and had no consistent method of showing them attention.  My dad loved them, defended them, hung out with them.  Those dogs were HIS dogs.  And we were happy to let him have them.

They barked, a lot.  We lived in the foothills and there were many things to bark at (rats, squirrels, raccoons).  They were not leash trained. On the rare occasions that we took them for walks, they strained at the leashes and marked every tree, street sign, fire hydrant and pole.  Pepper was a “muy macho perro” who vigorously scratched the ground after leaving some pee.  I’m not sure if they pooped on walks, but we certainly didn’t know enough to pick up after them.  In general, we kids neglected them and they lived for my dad.

Unfortunately, my dad was not a disciplined person.  He rarely disciplined us, and never trained the dogs.  They were not housebroken and they peed and pooped with abandon.  Eventually the back shower was given over as a potty area, but they preferred to pee on soft surfaces.  The rule was “if you leave it on the floor, it turns yellow”  If you wanted to take a shower, the sight of little brown lumps was enough to send you to the other bathroom.  They chewed up my Jane West doll – she became an amputee with a scarred face after one encounter, and I’m sure they destroyed other things as well. The very worst thing they did was get into my brother’s chicken coop and kill the birds.  He loved those chickens and devoted a lot of time to them.  One day I came home and he was in a towering rage.  I saw feathers on the ground.  I beat a hasty retreat.

In the end, they were killed by neglect.  Dad didn’t believe in neutering and Pepper developed testicular cancer.  His backside was hideously deformed by tumors and mom finally made us take him to the vet for euthanasia.  He looked at us, looked at the dog and suggested surgery.  We took Pepper home and mom hit the roof.  “He thinks it’s your beloved pet!  Take it back!” she said.  One of us convinced the vet that the dog needed to go and we left him there.

After Pepper’s death, Ginger came out of his shell.  He lived a long time, matted coat, rheumy eyes, asthmatic breathing.  He was a mean little bugger – we didn’t dare go near our father when Ginger was in his lap.  The dog snarled and nipped, which my dad found amusing.  I think Ginger passed while I was away at school.  He was not particularly missed, although the house was quiet without his wheezing.  It was nice to be able to shower in the back bathroom again.

For years I hated dogs.  I mistrusted their motives, hated their moist tongues and stinky breath, and didn’t know how or where to pet them.  I was firmly in Camp Cat.  But then one day I met a corgi…..

(see what I did there? I crack myself up)

A story:  The year was 1990.  My fiancee (coffee) and I (tea) went to high tea at a fancy high end Los Angeles restaurant to get ideas for our wedding reception.  This was THE place for tea – elegantly appointed, delicious food, it was the shining high standard of the day.  

We were seated at a table with snowy white linens, delicate china cups and saucers and silver plated utensils.  The tea was poured.  I knew at once what it was and sighed deeply.  I asked the waiter if there were any other selections and he haughtily explained that this was the house blend.  Friends, it was the dreaded earl grey.

I let my beloved draw his own conclusions – he knew how I felt about EG but had never been around it.  I maintained a neutral posture as he lifted his cup, sniffed, tasted, and grimaced.  He rolled the liquid over his tongue and wrinkled his nose.  “is this….” he began.  “yes” said I .  The waiter brought scones and clotted cream and we embarked on a mission to make the beverage palatable.

We doctored that tea with lemon, with lemon and sugar, with sugar by itself, with milk, with milk and sugar.  The distinct bergamot scent and flavor dominated every cup.  It defeated us.

You either love earl grey or you hate it.

We did not serve EG at the wedding.

I love my bedroom. The walls are a warm toasty caramel color, the furniture is mission style oak, the floors are original 1949 hardwood and the bedding and valances match. I made the duvet cover out of burgundy paisley sateen and sewed my very first piping along the seams. The back is a repurposed burgundy sheet. The valances are covered in a coordinating paisley fabric with burgundy sheet corners and burgundy braid separating the two fabrics.

It’s warm. It’s harmonious. In spite of the large dog crates that say “dogs live here” it is a comforting room 6 months out of the year.

And then summer rolls around. The blanket and duvet cover go under the bed and we pull out the mother-in-law blanket.

My MIL was a nurse who worked the night shift and on those fortunate nights when the patients were asleep she crocheted to pass the time. Her favorite pattern was the “ripple” – done in stripes. Our blanket is queen sized and must have taken hours to make. It is an electric orange and grey stripe dacron yarn that has worn like iron and will outlast my lifetime. It is heavy and a bit scratchy and requires a trip to the laundromat for washing. It could easily take down my washing machine in the first few minutes of agitation.

I am a crafty woman myself and I appreciate the time and effort spent in making this item. I’ve tried, and failed to successfully learn the ripple pattern. Every time I look at the blanket, I feel an ungrateful pang because it is so UGLY. Those colors! That yarn! It’s so heavy! I kind of hate it.

But I haven’t made a duvet cover for it, or swapped it out with my blanket inside my tasteful burgundy paisley cover. I cringe at the orange, but I remind myself that this was probably made in the late 70’s time period with affordable yarn. It is scratchy but strong. It is unapologetically a blanket, utilitarian and strong. It was made with love for a younger son who used it faithfully until I came in his life.

I align the stripes and ripples along the foot of the bed. We will push it almost off the bed as we toss and turn and try to get comfortable in the summer heat. Around 4 in the morning one of us (usually me) will grab a corner and pull it up for warmth. This blanket works. And it is filled with memories of an iron willed woman who worked a difficult job and raised two successful men. I am honored to shelter in its warm. I bring it out to remember.

8/5/19

dsh