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I'm from the Deep South. I'd like to say from the outset that I can use large words, understand a great many of them, and have never in my entire life eaten corn pone. Ever. I am not a rosarian any more than I am a tomatorian, bambooarian, petuniarian or mugwortarian, though all grow quite contentedly in my garden. I call manure, manure; not organic bovine soil amendment, and I absolutely adore roses. I've been growing and studying them for more years to which I will admit, and early Spring here in the Pacific Northwest never fails to find me out there hunched like a raven in my old black raincoat in the cold drizzle, as I walk the beds looking for buds. Only another rose lover would understand the passion. My neighbors have gotten used to seeing me this way and most have stopped offering to help me find whatever it is I have lost. "Your mind," my Beloved Husband offers as I trundle back inside, teeth chattering. I smile and give him the bud count, the survival rate of the rooted babies from last summer and he does a fabulous job of looking interested as he rubs the cold from my hands. He wouldn't know a tomato from a turnip unless it leaped into his salad bowl and covered itself with Catalina dressing, but he went out into the heat of summer and hacked me a garden from concreted turf, hauled wheelbarrows full of topsoil for days, nursed blisters on feet and hands and from his labor, my garden was hewn. In this, as in all things, he is the firm foundation under all I do. And I absolutely adore him. When I am not gardening and he is not fretting that I am working too hard out there, we run our Web Design, Graphic and Illustration Studio, A&A Studios. So welcome to Roses with a Southern Exposure: that's me. Bring your sense of humor, bring your questions, and bring your own tales of your passion for roses. I cannot promise to know all of it, but I'll try to keep you entertained while I attempt to find out. |
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