My father had a knack for growing roses, a gigantic green thumb. He planted the original rose garden at the Community Church of Monterey Peninsula which attracts visitors from all over the bay area. Dad would have been 87 on January 24th. While he is no longer walking the garden path on this earth, his birthday remains forever on my calendar as the day that the roses must be pruned.
Much to my consternation, I have not inherited the ability to grow even a turnip and my attempts at rose gardening so far have been fruitless endeavors resulting in spindly branches, small aphid ridden leaves and a couple of puny blossoms. Yesterday I attacked my one and only miniature rose plant with kitchen scissors leaving a rather pitiful looking half dozen mini-bare stalks. I'll believe in Miracles (as in Miracle Grow) if it generates anywhere near the abundance of blossoms it had last summer when I brought it home from the nursery.
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