A rose by any other name -- say, #@$%&!

Well, sonofabitch, the rambler rose survived another winter.

Yes, it's spring, when an already tired, burned-out gardener's fancy turns to thoughts of a townhouse with just a tiny patch of lawn and garden space, as he or she contemplates the work ahead. Or maybe just a patch of pavement, sufficient for a grill and a couple of chairs and, if one really needs some color, a planter or two with some indestructible geraniums in them. What the hell, make 'em plastic.

Back to the rambler rose, which I planted not long after we moved into this house in 1999. It was advertised as only marginally hardy in our area, and it arrived in the mail as a sickly little stick. I was unfazed, as I'm one of those gardeners who laughs in the face of gardening zones. More than once, I've outsmarted the zone makers, coaxing plants advertised as hardy in zone 6, even 7, to success in my zone 5 garden, although granted, that large banana grove didn't work out too well.

But gardeners are eternal optimists, despite all evidence to the contrary. So, undeterred, I planted this little stick at the base of a mature birch tree next to a walkway that goes from front to back yard. I figured it likely wouldn't survive but, if it did, I had visions of it winding its way into the highest limbs and bursting forth with an explosion of pink color and spectacular fragrance for a couple of weeks every summer. I would linger under it, and luxuriate in it as I sipped a mint julep. I mean, that's what the photo and description in the catalog said would happen.

This was before I learned that garden-catalog writers are incorrigible manure spreaders -- wildly overstating in some cases, in other cases using cagey euphemisms to disguise a plant's true nature. Such as describing, say, gooseneck loosestrife as a "vigorous grower." Indeed. "Vigorous" is one of the garden-catalog writer's favorite adjectives. Let's put it this way: If garden-catalog writers wrote a history textbook, they'd describe Hitler's advance into Poland as "vigorous." Also, they’d describe Bill Clinton's amorous adventures as "self-sowing readily" and a tsunami as "spreading rapidly." At the other end of the spectrum is the phrase "tender perennial," which denotes a plant that will require daily, gentle massages of its precious stems, recitation of love poems into its stamens and the construction of a large heated silo to get it through even the mildest winter.

Anyway, good news and bad news about the rambler rose. It has thrived -- its branches reaching high into the tree just as I imagined. But it has bloomed just once, for about one week. Meantime, those branches, though I carefully train and tie them into place, manage to break free and their thorns grab at me when I walk under it or climb the ladder to clean out the gutters. It's not called a rambler for nothing, you see, though I have come up with a few other names for it when one of its thorns digs into my cheek. I swear the thing sees me coming sometimes.

By my calculations, that's one week of glory and 623 weeks or so of worthlessness.

So, I've been secretly hoped for the rambling rose's death the last few years. I may or may not have "accidentally" run it into the base of the rose with the mower a few times. And it's possible that once some drift from Roundup spray might have settled on the rose. It may even be possible that an entire bottle of Roundup got kicked over at the base of the rose.

And yet the rose gets stronger, its branches stouter, its thorns thornier. But no flowers. It may even be feeding off of my frustration, as if my curses are fertilizer. So every year I contemplate just ripping it out. It certainly wouldn't be the first plant I've removed because it displeased me. I have what gardening experts describe as a "mature landscape," which is defined as one in which the gardener spends as much time tearing out his or her mistakes as he or she does planting.

But digging out a rose of this size will be no easy undertaking. Also, I'm a little afraid of it. What if I try to dig it out and fail? Then, I've got a pissed-off rambler rose to contend with. Finally, I have a certain grudging admiration for its ability to survive and bounce back despite its ugliness and pretty thorough uselessness. Not unlike the feeling I have toward Newt Gingrich. Anyway, every year I talk myself into giving it one more year to prove itself, even as our relationship has evolved from love-hate to hate-hate.

In any case, as noted earlier, we've begun to contemplate a smaller home and yard. So, at this point, I suppose I'll leave the rose for the house's next owners to face. They might tear it out the moment the deal closes, or perhaps they'll have the knack for coaxing it into annual bloom. A couple of years from now, maybe I'll sneak into the backyard and find the owners lying in a hammock under the bounteous, fragrant blooms sipping a mint julep. I'll slip up and overturn the hammock and run like hell.

As for our next home, like I said, I believe I'm ready for just a tiny patch of garden space, although, now that I think about it, I do believe I could make a go of a crop of mangoes, never mind what the garden catalogs say.