I disliked roses when I was growing up.

My mother didn’t have any in our garden. Lilacs? Yes. Lily of the valley? Yes. Peonies (and the ants that hid in their petals)? Yes. Even some tulips and daffodils. But no roses.

I got my only experience of them by watching black and white “Million Dollar Movie” classics on TV. The plots usually involved something like this: an illicit love affair between a beautiful up-and-coming pianist and a famous violist, with a frigid wife in the background who invariably had a Steinway grand piano in their elegant living room, on which was perched a crystal vase holding an exquisite bouquet of thornless long-stemmed red roses.

The roses were as impeccably frigid as the wife.

Ugh. I hated them.

Other vignettes from old movies featured stars of Broadway plays who are sent beribboned, narrow white boxes from admirers that open to reveal, again, long-stemmed red roses. Their petals are always clenched like petulant lips, and upon seeing them, the Broadway star inevitably oohs and aahs appreciatively.

Not for me such rigid bouquets.

Not for me – or so I thought – roses.

Then, when I was in my mid-thirties, I moved into a house. One with a garden, albeit a small one. And at exactly that moment in time, through some mystery of communication known only to vendors with mailing lists, I received a catalogue from Jackson & Perkins, a nursery in South Carolina, who grew and sold…

Roses.

Could the lush plants featured in their catalogues … the ones with wide-open smiling faces and dancing petals … actually BE roses? Could the panoply of colors, from to pale pink to raspberry red to violet to orange to purple to yellow to any other color you can think of, actually be associated with a flower that I always thought came only in varying shades of red? Could these wild, rambunctious, delicious celebrations of joy truly be roses?

Well … yes.

And that was my introduction to a brand new, completely unexpected, type of a plant.

Not being particularly brave, I started with what my Jackson & Perkins catalogue called “Simplicity Hedge Roses,” guaranteed to help me “create a stunning row of easy-to-grow roses.” I picked pink, purchased a bunch, and planted them, with only moderate success.

But I was hooked.

In subsequent years, I bought and planted additional expensive and beautiful plants. Again, with limited success. Nevertheless, my fascination turned into an addiction. One for which I definitely am NOT seeking a cure.

Before I tell you the current status of my relationship with roses, I want to give you a sense of the melody and artistry with which rose growers imbue their beloved blooms. Here – from various sources – are names of some roses.

I’ll write. You visualize:

Magenta Magic. Soaring Glory. Lemon Burst. Mysterious. Eden Climber. Moondance. Walking on Sunshine. Summer Surprise. Outrageous. Burgundy Iceberg. Daring Spirit. Love Me, Love Me Not. New Dawn. Angel Face. Carefree Wonder.

The book ROSES by Gilly Love lists roses in a multitude of colors. My friend Jeannie gave me the book when she realized that she couldn’t get me out of my garden long enough to carry on a civilized conversation.

Apricot, copper, and orange-colored roses. VARIETIES: Amber Queen. Fellowship. Apricot Nectar. Julia’s Rose. Just Joey.

Lilac mauve-colored roses: VARIETIES: Blue Moon. Old Master. Lavender Pinocchio. Lilac Charms. Heirloom. Intermezzo. Bleu Parfum.

White, cream-colored roses: VARIETIES: Evening Star. Iceberg. Polar Star. Pristine. Virgo.

Yellow, gold-colored roses: VARIETIES: Golden Years. Pandora. Clarissa. King’s Ransom. Sunblest. Tequila Sunrise.

I could go on forever.

And I will tomorrow, while you are reading this. Meanwhile, I’ll be grubbing around in the dirt, pulling weeds that are encroaching on my stems, adding fertilizer to roots, watering it all in, and rejoicing in the tumult of blossoms to come.

About which…

Once my addiction to roses was irreversibly incorporated into my being, I lowered my standards and increased my output. Instead of buying expensive roses from reputable nurseries across the country, I started to go to local hardware stores, garden outlets, or roadside vegetable stands, and buy whatever is cheap and looks good. I’d read the label on the packaging, and as long as it said “Floribunda” (meaning that it would bloom from spring to autumn), and it was any shade of pink, red, or white, I would buy it.

Thorns? Sure. The more the merrier. If I’m not bleeding, I’m not gardening.

Scent? Yes! If possible. If not, I can be bought with color, sass, and style.

So, there you have it: today’s love letter to you, my readers, and to roses, the flowers that I never thought I would grow to love.

May we all enjoy long and happy lives, digging in the dirt, and being rewarded with lush and lovely blooms.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit: www.shellyreuben.com