The War of the Roses

Many years ago I wrote an article about growing roses:

For years we have had a running battle with the creatures that attack our roses.

In the beginning all was peaceful as we sat back with a cool drink in hand, appreciating the lovely display of blossoms on our rose arbor, far from the busy traffic of Shelbourne Street. Then trouble began.  Various bugs insidiously invaded our new haven.

We purchased the necessary rose spray which we very carefully mixed - so many ounces to so many gallons, sprayed copiously and all was well.  Or so it seemed.

The following year an army of little green looper worms attacked and we were thoroughly disheartened. Finally we found the proper ammunition to deal with them and managed, we thought, to finish them off.

To our dismay, they sent in reinforcements in the form of paratroopers by the hundreds, floating down on silken threads from the many oak trees on our property.  We rallied, sprayed once more and felt very confident we had overcome the hordes.

About this time, the odd black spot began appearing on the leaves, but not knowing much about roses, we ignored this situation until it was too late.  An elderly neighbor told us he had some wonderful stuff that would restore our roses to their former beauty.

We diligently applied this potion, only to find later that 'black spot' was one of the things it did NOT resolve.

We finally concluded that the mild winters of Vancouver Island are most conducive to the propagation of the insect community.  So now we have a large array of bottles and tins, all marked in metric (yet another challenge).  I cleverly located, among all the paraphernalia I keep, a little glass bottle showing clearly marked metric measurements.  This helps somewhat to dilute the intensity of Ken's wrath as he prepares to enter battle.

With all the environmental studies that have been published and the information and warning on the use of insecticides, Ken has become overly cautious when he enters combat against the enemy.  Actually he is quite a comical sight.

First he dons an old pair of jeans (which unfortunately have a zipper that insists on doing its own thing), then he puts on a equally old shirt and jacket. Next comes a face mask and then a pair of ski goggles (discarded long ago by our son, for a more superior set), a cap to protect his scalp, and finally a pair of gloves.  He is ready to engage the enemy.

The first few minutes are usually quite successful, but then the nozzle on the spray becomes clogged.  Off come the goggles and gauntlets until that situation is remedied. Back to the battleground and another interruption as the goggles steam up under the concentration of fierce battle.  This is followed by time out to throw down the gloves and pull up the errant zipper on his jeans (they do say to be very careful...).

Once, when Ken was thus attired, some teenage boys walked by and kept looking back at him as if they couldn't believe what they saw.  I couldn't resist - I had to capture it on film.

All is quiet on the western front at the moment, but I am keeping a wary eye out for interlopers.  One cannot afford to relax vigilance in The War of the Roses.

Bottlemania

It all began quite innocently, back in 1982.  We decided we were in need of some exercise, so one crisp morning we set out for a brisk walk.  We made our way along Cedar Hill Cross Road and then began the steep climb up Mayfair Drive leading to the top of Mt. Tolmie.

As we passed the deserted viewpoint parking area, what to our wondering eyes did appear but some broken glass and several empty bottles of beer.  

They were right in our path and looked very unsightly. We very carefully picked up the broken glass, placed it safely in the nearby refuse container and then retrieved the bottles, carrying them home to join our own ‘empties’.

The next time we went walking, we were more aware of our surroundings and noticed several more beer bottles enroute.  More a matter of cleaning up the environment than anything else, we tidied up as we went along, once again returning home with three or four empties.

The next week we armed ourselves with a plastic bag ‘just in case’ and discovered that without really looking, we came across quite a number of toss-aways - our bag was bulging.

What started out as a joke became serious business. Soon we were spotting a bottle or a can at quite a distance, their locations revealed by the glint of the sun or suspiciously flattened grass.

Once, my husband spotted something brown In the bushes: “There’s one” he shouted feverishly and lunged forward, startling a wild rabbit into a dash for freedom.

Sometimes we didn’t have to go far afield in our search, as unknown revellers tossed bottles on our front lawn, which bordered a public walkway.  This meant that little effort  on our part resulted in maximum profit.

One morning during breakfast I noticed as I peered out the window something glinting in the sunshine dappling the bottom lawn and told my husband I’d investigate once I had eaten.  To our utter dismay, we witnessed a little old lady, enroute to grocery shopping, stoop and pick up ‘our’ bottle.  The nerve of her!  With baited breath, we observed her movements from our kitchen window and watched as she stashed the bottle under some long grass and continued on her way. 

Just as soon as I finished breakfast I strode down to the hiding place and retrieved ‘our’ bottle.  When the lady returned later for her loot, the look of bewilderment on her face was something to behold and we imagined her saying to herself  “I could have sworn I hid a bottle under that grass!”

But you reap what you sow – the next day while out on an errand, my husband kicked a bottle into hiding, thinking to retrieve it later.  But when he returned, it had mysteriously disappeared. Was the little old lady exacting her revenge?

Another beautiful morning as I worked in the garden I was astonished to see two young chaps blatantly  foraging under our forsythia bush. I called out “What do you think you are doing?” One of them threw me a carefree happy smile “Lady we’re just looking for our case of beer.  We stashed it under here last night cause we couldn’t drink it all’ Quite undeterred, they continued searching till one of them hit pay dirt. Then they sauntered away,  their precious package safely in hand. I called after them “I wish I’d known that was there!” thinking to myself that I’d be weeding more thoroughly under shrubs in the future.

Being raised during the Depression, we always find it difficult to ignore potential income. But now, at ages 89 and 93, the thought of staggering up Mt. Tolmie, retrieving bottles enroute to save a dime or two, has somehow lost its appeal...