I mentioned a few weeks back that I’m an amateurish gardener.
My little Sombreuil (pronounce something like "Sahm-brr-OY!" and try to look refined) has a few proud, creamy blooms ready to open, and I can’t help but bask in that tiny bit of loveliness that will soon share its fragrance and make me smile.
The rose has had its share of sorrows, alas; apart from the crappy weather and the snow a few days after it was planted, it’s also had to deal with horrible aphids that tried to munch on her delicate buds (oh, how I hate aphids!) and with some sort of suspicious, strange oil discard courtesy of our neighbors next door. Jesus, people…. do you really think it’s a good idea to leave motor oil not a whole foot away from a pretty rose? Insane people!
See how pretty she is? So very verdant and simple and lovely. You can even see a little discoloration on the bud where she sustained some aphid damage (click on picture to see larger version). She thought that was not a very flattering angle to share with the interwebs, but I assured her that this was actually a good thing: she was a fighter showing off her battle scars, not some spoiled rose who has never known a day of trial or tribulation and whose skirts are entirely too low and who’s trying to snag every photo-op imaginable holding a bible or some Buddhist literature as if that made a difference on whether said rose is guilty of driving drunk or not.
She gave me a funny look, little Sombreuil. A little clever rosy look that said, "Stop reading so many damn tabloids and get cracking with the insecticidal soap."