‘Mermaid’ rose: Approach her at your peril. Where hardy (Zone 7 and up), she’ll grow into a monster, bristling with ruthless thorns. An impenetrable berm-like barrier if it rolls along the ground, or higher up, a hard-to-control swarm that can swamp a garage.
And where not hardy—Zone 6 and colder—the rest of us scheme about having any of her company at all. Just a scrap, a shrimp, a struggler. A hint, a glimpse, a gone-before-you-know-it tease. What about planting it in the favored Southwest-facing corner of the house, with mulch and burlap for the Winter? Or keeping it in a container (slow, slow, slow) where the bush never fails to gash a thumb or draw blood from the forearm as we lug the pot into cover in October and back into warmth in May?
Mermaid is worth the effort, of course, for the flowers.
(Or rather, you know that you’ve gone off the deep end in your gardening when you think Mermaid is worth the effort for the flowers.)
No one can deny that they are ravishing. Butter-white petals—just five, mind you, so each is precious—surrounding an enthusiastic yellow “poof” of stamens in a gentle but noticeably large—to five inches—soft pentagon of grace.
Is it just me, or do single flowers, which always seem so much less contrived in form than the doubles and so much more honest in function too (“Yup, those are the stamens and pistols. We’re putting it all out there front and center, to drive the bees wild and therefore get ourselves royally pollinated.”) have a simplicity that is all the more irresistible for being so calculatedly naïve? And therefore are even more sophisticatedly seductive than the far-fluffier doubles, so blatant and shameless in their tricked-out plumage and juiced-up size? Or maybe it’s just me.
Single and sophisticatedly seductive: Maybe that’s why this rose is called “Mermaid”: You’re drawn in helplessly, and only after it’s too late to get free do you realize how painful your relationship will be.
I keep my Mermaid in a pot because I’m still not confident that it would be hardy even in my most favored SW corner, mulch and burlap and all. I’m thinking, deluded suitor that I am, that I can keep my Mermaid deliriously happy in a pot, growing huge and blooming without shame or reticence, and that I’ll somehow be able to keep her vicious canes attractively under control and the bush to a somewhat manageable size. (Yes, the question is why I don’t I grow only smaller-scale semi-tender roses in pots? Both Mermaid and La Mertola would be monsters if they could.)
My Mermaid and me, we keep our relationship going at its currently modest level (although, clearly, I have hopes it will take off in a big way) because—of course—I actually do get a few blossoms each Summer. Just one at a time, every week or two. But I get them.
Maybe this Winter I’ll keep my Mermaid in leaf, in the greenhouse instead of leafless, moist, and dormant in the dirt-floor basement. (The parent that passed on the I’m Not Hardy genes to Mermaid is Rosa bracteata, who is happiest in the subtropics: San Diego, say, or on the Amalfi Coast.) In the greenhouse it’s no colder than Fifty, and it feels like Spring even in February. And by March I’ll pot it up unstintingly, lavish with the compost. Bigger Pot: Bigger Plant?
We’ll all see by this time in 2011.
And where not hardy—Zone 6 and colder—the rest of us scheme about having any of her company at all. Just a scrap, a shrimp, a struggler. A hint, a glimpse, a gone-before-you-know-it tease. What about planting it in the favored Southwest-facing corner of the house, with mulch and burlap for the Winter? Or keeping it in a container (slow, slow, slow) where the bush never fails to gash a thumb or draw blood from the forearm as we lug the pot into cover in October and back into warmth in May?
Mermaid is worth the effort, of course, for the flowers.
(Or rather, you know that you’ve gone off the deep end in your gardening when you think Mermaid is worth the effort for the flowers.)
No one can deny that they are ravishing. Butter-white petals—just five, mind you, so each is precious—surrounding an enthusiastic yellow “poof” of stamens in a gentle but noticeably large—to five inches—soft pentagon of grace.
Is it just me, or do single flowers, which always seem so much less contrived in form than the doubles and so much more honest in function too (“Yup, those are the stamens and pistols. We’re putting it all out there front and center, to drive the bees wild and therefore get ourselves royally pollinated.”) have a simplicity that is all the more irresistible for being so calculatedly naïve? And therefore are even more sophisticatedly seductive than the far-fluffier doubles, so blatant and shameless in their tricked-out plumage and juiced-up size? Or maybe it’s just me.
Single and sophisticatedly seductive: Maybe that’s why this rose is called “Mermaid”: You’re drawn in helplessly, and only after it’s too late to get free do you realize how painful your relationship will be.
I keep my Mermaid in a pot because I’m still not confident that it would be hardy even in my most favored SW corner, mulch and burlap and all. I’m thinking, deluded suitor that I am, that I can keep my Mermaid deliriously happy in a pot, growing huge and blooming without shame or reticence, and that I’ll somehow be able to keep her vicious canes attractively under control and the bush to a somewhat manageable size. (Yes, the question is why I don’t I grow only smaller-scale semi-tender roses in pots? Both Mermaid and La Mertola would be monsters if they could.)
My Mermaid and me, we keep our relationship going at its currently modest level (although, clearly, I have hopes it will take off in a big way) because—of course—I actually do get a few blossoms each Summer. Just one at a time, every week or two. But I get them.
Maybe this Winter I’ll keep my Mermaid in leaf, in the greenhouse instead of leafless, moist, and dormant in the dirt-floor basement. (The parent that passed on the I’m Not Hardy genes to Mermaid is Rosa bracteata, who is happiest in the subtropics: San Diego, say, or on the Amalfi Coast.) In the greenhouse it’s no colder than Fifty, and it feels like Spring even in February. And by March I’ll pot it up unstintingly, lavish with the compost. Bigger Pot: Bigger Plant?
We’ll all see by this time in 2011.
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