Had a lot of things to say about my roses so I grabbed the laptop and plunked down with my coffee to tell you all about it, but holy petulant papercuts! All the little nicks on my knuckles burn with each finger bend to tap the keys.

When Boyfriend moved in, I sacrificed my rodent-infested, live-action litter box of a vegetable garden on the side of the house. Battling every element was exhausting, with yields that were never cost-effective when you factored in the time, water, energy, motion-activated cat scarer, seeds, stakes, screens, trellises, and the fact that I hate tomatoes.

I left the asparagus bed because the work involved in planting asparagus? Yeah, that stays ’til I die. I do miss the zucchini, but alas, I digest….

There was already a fence separating the garden from the rest of the yard to give the raccoons and skunks a head start when the dogs spotted them. So, my goal was to plant a lot of big things like Shasta daisies and dahlias on the other side of the fence for two reasons: flowers to cut and put in vases, but more importantly, to hide Boyfriend’s piles of tools and scaffolding and whatever he happens to drop, wherever he happens to drop it. Out of sight, out of argument.

But I needed a star. Punctuation. Something that says, “Don’t forget where you are, sir!” Something that would shine above the rest like the shimmering crown of my Eden.

Roses!

I very politely ordered Boyfriend to take the last hog panel leftover from the fence construction, cut it, bend it, and make an arch over the gate. I never measured, but I’d guess the highest point is somewhere around eight feet.

We have a local small-business nursery that specializes in roses, so I took my vague knowledge and hiked their rows and rows looking for just the right jewel. It had to be a climber. It had to smell good. And… that was it. I’m pretty simple.

I almost selected the showy, thornless “Golden Shower,” but I’ve matured. I no longer pick things by name alone, like mere racehorses. One whiff of “Golden Opportunity” and there was no turning back.

The botanical nurse in the green hat and company name tag cheered my selection, gave me tips on watering and feeding, and pointed me to one they’d recently planted in the parking lot, assuring me I’d made a good choice. Then, like a spooky curse, just as I was heading for the register, she added one more tip: “Make sure you pull off every leaf in winter.”

I turned, half expecting her to have vanished in a cloud of dust like a witch foreshadowing doom, but no. She was still there with her clippers, tending a boring little red rose bush. Puzzled, being a Bay Area resident, I asked, “When is winter?”

That probably sounds absurd, but we don’t really have seasons here. We get rain but temperatures don’t swing wildly, so when someone mentions a plant with a seasonal demand, my brain goes straight to blueberries with a freeze requirement. That’s about as deep as my plant knowledge goes.

She gave a knowing chuckle and said, “January 1. Keep it simple.”

It’s early, but we’ve had non-stop rain for the last week, the ground is soft, and the lady on TV warned of a cold blast. I can work outside in almost anything. Scorching heat. Pouring rain. I once got stuck in an unexpected hailstorm with aerators locked on my feet. I couldn’t run, so I just stood there and suffered. It was hilarious. Even my trusty sidekick ran for cover while I stood getting pummeled with frozen rocks.

But I cannot work in ruthless biting cold. My hands freeze. My hips ache. My knees lock. No. I cannot do cold. The rain had just stopped, enough cloud cover lingered to keep the temperature bearable, and I seized the opportunity.

I was wearing sweats and a hoodie, the air was crisp, but not deadly.  I didn’t want to hassle with scraping the mud off my shoes later so I smartly popped on my knee-high muck boots. My long hair was secured in a tight bun with a velvet scrunchie and I squeezed my hands into the leather palmed gloves that end at the elbow.  I grabbed my thick cane cutters as well as the smaller blade nippers and set out like a civil war field surgeon ready to amputate limbs and dig bullets out of internal organs!

I started at the bottom, where the canes still had large air gaps between them, and carefully tore off each leaf cluster, placing them directly into the Home Depot bucket at my feet. So easy. I had the first two feet of plant bald in just minutes.

At the three-foot mark, it started getting tricky. Side shoots emerged, tangling among the canes. It became harder to find where the leaves connected. I pulled the first Velcro strap securing a cluster to the arch. Like a booby trap, they sprang forth, grabbing the sleeve of my right arm while my hand was elbow-deep, fingers hunting for leaves.

By the four-foot mark, I had to remove most of the ties. The canes needed to be stripped and straightened. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, blinding me as I looked up to untangle the tops without breaking stems. I balanced precariously on the edge of a wooden garden box, slick mud packed into my rubber boots, and reached higher.

Now I was grabbing leaves and releasing them to the wind, letting them fall where they may. I was too high to drop them in the bucket. I couldn’t look down. I couldn’t pull my arm free from the tangle of vines hugging me to the metal arch. I’m no fool. I know the grasp is conditional. If I slipped or lost my balance, this loving embrace wouldn’t save me. It would mock me, shred me with its barbed talons, and drop me in the mud.

At the five-foot mark I pull the few remaining ties, and the canes rejoiced as they swayed freely in the breeze.  I flinch, I twist, I swerve.  I feel like Indiana Jones in the pit of vipers as the thick branches dance around me until one catches my hair.  I’ve got one arm stretched above me, steadying a stalk as the other grabs at leaves, there are no hands remaining to untangle the thorns hooked in my tresses so I move slowly, deliberately, to avoid major blood loss.

I had reached the limit of my natural ability. I could stretch no higher. I wiggled free and stepped back to inspect, but large clusters of leaves still clung to the top, well out of reach.

I had no choice. I needed a ladder.

My boots, much larger than my natural shape, limited mobility. Bending was nearly impossible, but I forced my oversized clodhopper onto the first aluminum step. As I shifted my weight, my foot slipped. I paused to balance before climbing to the second step. The narrow feet of the ladder sank, and I was suddenly at a precariously wobbly angle. I told myself it was fine, as long as I didn’t make any quick movements.

As if the monster would allow such foolery.

I grabbed the small clippers and stopped cleanly pulling leaf clusters, opting instead to snip wildly. She said remove them. She didn’t say it had to be a precise amputation. I stretched. I couldn’t reach. I tried to bend the vines to my will. They grabbed the fabric cuff of my glove and laughed.

The sky was clearly amused and she chortled at my antics. The canes flailed in her joy. My heart raced, fearful one of those stems would two-step its way to a broken neck, so I carelessly climbed another step higher to fasten them to the top of the arch. Lower stems with fresh new thorns, hooked like a cat’s claws, tearing at my legs while my hands fought the Velcro stuck to itself as I struggled to wrap it around the wire support.

I finally resort to using my teeth to straighten the ribbon shaped tie and immediately my brain wandered to what types of organisms visit my bushes and the toxicity risks over whatever bodily fluids they may have deposited on beforementioned Velcro.  But I am up a ladder, elbow deep in what feels like razor wire, my shoulders are burning from holding my arms up, I just need to save this damn delicate, fragile little stem from the dangers of wind!

I again shimmy free, carefully climb down and step back to assess.  I have now reached the point of childish tantrum, this is hard. I am tired and frustrated.  I sit on the patio, staring at my bald canes, hating roses but – being an adult – I know I have to finish, but, being an immature adult, I’m not as careful as I could be.  I clump the canes in groups for re-attachment, reasoning that I will come out and “fix” them, before spring, before the leaves return.

Yes. We all know this is a lie. 

Sometime mid-March, this entire scene will replay, as it does every three months when the canes have grown into odd angles, or new side shoots are hovering two feet away from the arch.

But, unlike the pet crocodile whose only intent is to kill for the sheer joy of murder, my wildly vicious bush will reward me.  All at once she will burst with blooms, dozens of heavenly smelling golden apricot colored roses, and in that moment, I will forgive her.

Three hours.  An afternoon of mayhem for only one bush.  The right side still needs to be shorn but I fear it took notes.  I’ll wait until my wounds have healed before I schedule her surgery.