’Tis the Last Rose of Summer: Grumblings of a Non-rose Person

Though I have heard the siren’s call within the pages of a David Austin catalog, I am not a rose person. At least not yet. I have every intention of becoming one at some point, but with the lack of space and adequate sun exposure, not to mention a family that needs me, it could be a few years or decades off.

Having said that, one of my most prized nursery finds is a red rose with a scent so sweet it will forever be embedded in my brain, like a floral-candy necklace hanging between synapses.

As far as I know, there is no other like it. It came with no tags and had no name. It was on a table of “experiments,” of which I was told were up for grabs by a kind but possibly misinformed employee.

Having any amount of doubt, a better gardener might have walked away. But for me, the thrill of acquiring a plant that nobody else has or will ever have, unless I decide to bless them with a cutting, is unmatched. So I paid the nice lady and then booked it out of there before anyone realized the potentially huge mistake that had been made.

As much as I love to relish my luck, I’m sad to say this rose has suffered mild forms of neglect for the past few years. It’s watered, but that’s about it. I haven’t moved it out of the container it came in, and only recently tossed in a contemptible amount of fertilizer, and it’s also rooming with some white clover.

I’m not a fan, but trying to weed clover out from around a rose is more painful than how it looks, so I’m embracing it as a “living mulch.”

My rose bloomed once at the beginning of summer and is now pushing out another flush of buds, just in time for the season to wrap up. I’m thinking the bit of food I tossed in gave it a reason to thank me. Either that, or I’m missing something.

Despite its general mistreatment, I thought I could recall it reblooming multiple times in years past, but only seeing an early summer bloom and now a late bloom has me questioning things.

Dare I begin to wonder what kind of rose is in my possession? I can only imagine that beginning the search for answers will inadvertently usher me into my rose era. But thinking about that lucky soul to whom I might bestow a cutting someday, should I not be prepared to give instructions for the best outcome?

The search begins with trying to figure out the classification, of which there are 25 to sort through: 10 classes of modern roses and 15 of old garden roses. Of these categories to place my rose into, from the general habit and look, I know it is not a climber, nor a rugosa, nor a shrub (landscape) rose. The blooms don’t seem to resemble any of the old garden roses. And so between the canes, thorns, size, and flowers, I believe I am dealing with a modern rose like hybrid tea, floribunda, or grandiflora.

Hybrid teas are known for their long stems with a single bloom, making them excellent cut flowers. The plants can grow between three and six feet tall. Some varieties have intense fragrance while others do not. Blooms are around three to five inches wide.

Floribundas and grandifloras alternatively have flowers that grow in clusters; the main difference between the two is that floribundas (a cross between hybrid tea and polyantha roses) are small and bushy, making them good for planting in groups. Grandifloras (a cross between a hybrid tea and floribunda) are taller and often planted as focal points. The floribunda blooms are also a bit smaller, around two and three inches, while grandifloras are four to five inches.

Based on flower size and its small growth habit, it could be a hybrid tea or floribunda. But the line between the two will remain blurred until I start treating it with more respect.

However, as I continued my research into things like root stock and vase life (and thus as I have been writing this), I came to a sudden realization about why my prized mystery specimen was most certainly meant to be on that table, unlabeled, unnamed.

Delightful as the smell may be, it pretty much lacks all the desired traits of a modern garden rose.

The blooms, a deep ruby red, lose most of their luster as they unravel. They are also small and comically short-lived; petals barely hang on after a day or two, and that turns to mere hours in a vase. Then, as they fall and begin to dry out, whatever compounds create the sweet scent only work to hasten decay.

Essentially, to bestow upon someone a cutting of this rose, I might as well be giving them macaroni art. It would be one thing if I made it myself, but alas, I bought it in the bargain bin at a yard sale.

Had I just been a rose person, I could have recognized all this earlier. But as half of being a rose person is grumbling over your collection, I think I have arrived.