My roses need a fairy godmother with a green thumb

I am the kiss of death for indoor plants. I can kill cacti in a single week. Spider plants shudder at my approach. One plant I received as a gift didn’t stand a chance, and all it needed was a thimble full of water once a week and a splash of sunshine.

Jeff oversees all plants in the house now. They flourish under his touch, grateful not to be under the care of a foliage assassin like me. One fern in his charge started as a small counter plant in the bathroom but grew so fast it was soon relocated to the dining room, where it soon overwhelmed the space. It was banished to the great outdoors.

I successfully managed the outside garden for many years. Wild perennials that spread with abandon and little attention are my plants of choice, combined with annuals that remain firmly in place, like snapdragons and petunias. I don’t really like petunias, though. You must pinch them to keep them blooming, and I hate the smell on my hands. (Wear gloves, says Jeff.) Funny, but popping the seedheads off the snapdragons doesn’t bother me at all. I find it somewhat therapeutic.

The outside plants seemed safe from my black thumb.

Except for the roses.

I have longed for a rose garden, a tidy row of blossoms that runs along the fence. When I started my garden, I had one lone rosebush in the back corner where the decrepit fountain feature had been. I added two more over the years. Then the transformer above the roses blew, spewing black gunk all over my beloved plants. DTE dug up the two that were dripping with goo, including the soil around them, and transplanted the survivor to a spot near the back door.

I planted a partner for it the next year.

That’s when the bugs descended upon my poor darlings. Little tiny bugs, hard to see with my naked 60+-year-old eyes. I think they are rose slugs, which are as disgusting as they sound. I developed my own system for fighting them. Every spring I inspect the underside of the leaves for the little rascals. When they appear, I whip out the rubber gloves and the soapy water. I run each leaf delicately through my fingers until the bugs fall off. Not my favorite way to spend a morning, but a necessary one. There is nothing therapeutic about this chore. It’s more sadistic in nature. Die, little varmints, die!

For two years, this worked. My two rose bushes, one pink, one mustard and ketchup, were the centerpieces of my gardening extravaganza. The blooms showered us with fragrance and color all summer long. Every fall I consider saving the rose hips for tea, but never get around to it. So, just a quick snip after the first frost ensures the plants came back the next spring.

This year, the bugs never arrived, so I got lax in my inspections. With all the preparations for Devon’s wedding I admit I did not follow through as diligently as I should have. That’s when the black spots appeared. I was late getting the black spot treatment going. Now my poor rose bushes have dropped all their leaves, standing naked and forlorn. They had one last violent bloom and are now just straggly stems.

My first thought was that the bushes were doomed. I was all set to prune the heck out of them and hope for the best next year. But today, when I went out with my deadly (but very clean) shears in hand, I saw some fresh growth in the upper leaves.

Can there be hope? Should I hold off on lopping the heck out of my show pieces?

If anyone has tips that might rescue my poor roses from their imminent demise, please let me know. Otherwise, my pragmatic husband will insist I relinquish my dream of a rose garden and plant hostas instead.

Not there’s anything wrong with hostas.