After this winter’s gawdawful freeze, pretty much everything died. Things I didn’t think would ever be killed, even by flamethrower gave it up. Even the bananas haven’t come back up yet, which is shocking.

But guess what has come back with a vengeance? The absolute last thing I’d have guessed.

The freaking roses. They’re blooming all over the freaking place. I haven’t been able to keep them alive, at all, ever, but there they are.

The dead stick that had been Ebb Tide is blooming:

The Lady Banks went crazy:

St. Joseph’s coat is busting out:

For the first time, even Zepherine Drouhin put on a show:

And even Double Delight is living up to its name:

I’ve been at a total loss to explain this. I have watered, fed, pruned, and watched for blackspot with a level of paranoia that I didn’t have when Alison was learning to ride a bike. For naught. They die. Until they were subjected to true abuse…and then they thrive. Honestly? How contrary is that?

Roses are referred to as female, and women are generally contrary by nature. Maybe that’s the only answer there is.

Or maybe they were trying to lull me into a false sense of security, all the better to break my heart later. Which, in the end, might not be unrelated to the woman-thing either.

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