I learn something else today

I may be stupid, but I’m not crazy, and when certain people bring plants to plant sales, well, look out, because I might just knock you down to get to the plants.

Way back in the last century a very well-known horticulturist, who in my opinion possesses the most exquisite taste of any gardener known to me, brought a bunch of plants grown from seed to one of the plant sales hosted by the Rocky Mountain Chapter of the North American Rock Garden Society almost all of which went home with me that day.

I hesitate to name the person in question just in case I actually did knock them down, and the last thing I need is an army of lawyers coming to my door, unless they happening to be gardening lawyers who would have sympathy with my case.

One of the plants was a rose grown from seed collected in the wild (somewhere in Central Asia) by Josef Halda, and was labeled Rosa aff. kokanica. A rose with affinities to the species kokanica. A mystery rose from Central Asia. The Silk Road. Camels. The cry of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. Vast landscapes surrounded by mountains twice as tall as the Rockies.

It went into the garden as fast as my trowel could dig, and it grew and grew. It was, after all, a species rose, much hardier than your typical garden roses because it actually goes fully dormant in winter. (Roses that have the Tea Rose, etc., in their ancestry do not have the adaptation that allows them to stop growing in winter, meaning that the plants have a need for water at a time when nature can’t provide it. Thus the die-back of canes. Though there are a very few exceptions, a need for water, and an ability to take it up, is what makes a plant not winter hardy. You read it here first.)

Then it bloomed. White flowers, as is fairly evident from the picture. Flowers with a sweet scent, slightly tinged with the aroma of linseed oil, like Rosa foetida. And swarming with bees; you hear the rose before you see it.

Thinking that Rosa kokanica had yellow flowers (because that’s what the books say), I decided this was R. fedtschenkoana instead, reading about its “leaden gray leaves” and white flowers. So I referred to it that way for many years. After all, calling it aff. kokanica admits of uncertainty, and no doubt, even with a person as august as Halda, there could be the chance of error when collecting seed from a rose long out of flower. But still ….

So today, after scraping up all the hideous bluegrass and revealing the path in all its glory (oh, the metaphor!), I turned my scholarly attention to the rose. Why not actually look something up for once?

I did. Rosa fedtschenkoana, “branchlets terete, prickly; prickles yellowish …etc.” (You don’t come into this garden and talk about the “thorns” on a rose. They are prickles.) More importantly, when we get to the leaflets, “margin simply serrate”.

On to Rosa kokanica where we find “petals 5, pale yellow or white” but even more interestingly, with the leaflets’ “margin acutely doubly serrate”. I picked one and took its picture.

Rosa kokanica it is.

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a case of the creeps

This will probably sound stupid, and if it sounds stupid, it probably is.

I’ve had this case of the creeps for quite some time now, and haven’t been able to find the cause. Just this vague, uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Something in the garden.

Years ago I introduced myself, since that was the only way, to the novels of Witold Gombrowicz, and one in particular, Cosmos, has affected me to this day. (I did discover that walking around a college campus with another of his novels, Pornografia….no, it isn’t about that….tucked under your arm does not attract women.) Though today I would reject a lot of the ideas as being Western attempts to create patterns of order on things that are really quite ordinary, this eerie sense of something vaguely disturbing that is sending me some message I can’t quite decipher is still with me. What was it that caused me to shudder as I walked out to the shed?

Since I no longer have my “soul-mate”, or constant companion (I like that better) around to say “You’re just being weird, knock it off” and since I see the garden every single day but often don’t really see it, and have very few visitors (probably because of the first thing), there have been no pair of like-minded eyes to tell me what was wrong.

As I’ve said before, I’m replacing the lawn for the umpteenth time (umpteen is less than a zillion, by the way), and yesterday I finally got around to the south side of the lawn, scraping it up with an “army shovel” (Tool, Entrenching, Model 1945, saw action in Korea, has been my primary gardening tool since, like, forever)

and all of a sudden, there it was.

The creeps. Where the grass had been scraped up, I saw a lightness a spirit, a sense of being freed some some nameless horror, the feeling you get after you come out of a dark, spiderweb-infested crawlspace, into the sun.

I remembered this morning how much Cindy disliked having the grass do this, too, and how much time she spend scraping away at it, and now my case of the creeps is just a memory.

I still feel stupid. Not much I can do about that.

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