The Irish Rose: Stubbornness, Shamrocks, and Blooms in the Making
- Denise-Marie Martin
- Mar 17
- 3 min read
They say the Irish are stubborn, hard-headed, strong-willed, maybe even a touch feisty. As a proud half-Irish woman (thanks to my 100% Irish mother), I wear that badge with honor. But nowhere does that trait serve me better than in my Pacific Northwest gardens—specifically, among my 33 beloved roses.
Growing roses in the greater Seattle area isn’t for the faint of heart. Our damp climate might be perfect for moss, but roses? Not so much. Powdery mildew lurks like an uninvited guest. Black Spot plays its usual tricks. (Roses love water, but not rain.) Rabbits eye the baby roses' tender shoots as if they are a buffet just for them. And let’s not even start on aphids and sawflies.
But here’s where a bit of Irish stubbornness shines. I learned that I must corral my young roses with individual 16" fences (to protect lower shoots from the rabbits), battle insects, and prune with purpose. I wage war on fungi and pests, knowing full well that much of the reward is off in the distance, still waiting to bloom. It’s a long game, one that requires more persistence than perfection, more grit than glamour.
The scientist in me has sampled many different rose offerings: own-root, grafted, potted, bare roots, and six different suppliers. I have learned much from my mistakes. I have my favorites and will gladly share (if you contact me). I don't have a green thumb (although my neighbors think so). Rather, I am simply patient, persistent, and stubborn—traits one also needs to write a novel.
On this St. Patrick’s Day, as I tend to my roses and peer at the five pots on my deck holding the newest members of my little rose nursery, I can’t help but think: Maybe my love for roses is less about the flowers themselves and more about the process. The patience. The will to coax beauty from a patch of earth that doesn’t always want to cooperate.
Call it Irish determination. Call it stubbornness. I just call it gardening roses in the Pacific Northwest.
And when that first bloom opens—defiant, fragrant, glorious—it feels a little like magic. The kind of magic that makes you believe in shamrocks, hard work, and the quiet reward of sticking with something you love.
May your life be like a wild rose,
Growing strong against the storm,
May its fragrance bring you peace,
And its beauty keep you warm.
Timothy Thomas Fortune,
Dreams of Life: Miscellaneous Poems (1905)
For the curious, the names of the roses I have planted are listed below:
Graham Thomas David Austin
Abraham Darby David Austin (two of these)
Mary Rose David Austin
Don Juan
Country Dancer
Apricot Impressionist
Robert Clements
Double Delight
Peace
Mister Lincoln
Princess Elise
Outta The Blue
Julia Child
Eleganza Wedding Bells
Eleganza Gypsy Soul
Eleganza Winter Sun
State of Grace
Like No Other
English Coral
La Di Da
Eleganza Grande Amore
Parfuma Earth Angel
Fragrant Cloud
Michelangelo
Nicole Carol Miller
Purple Aura
Sweet Mademoiselle
Sweet Madame Blue
Sheila's Perfume
(My Sunista rose didn't survive the rabbits--before I fenced in each rose.)
Several roses were already here when we bought our house in the summer of 2018. I replaced four whose immune systems were shot. Three have survived my exacting standards. Those three—a white, a pale yellow, and a red—are on probation due to their ugly graft balls (I always bury the joint). I suspect these three are as old as the house. I don't know their names, but they have no fragrance, so I likely would never have planted them. :-)
Denise-Marie Martin is the author of The Better Part of Worse: A Novel of Hope and Tangled Violets: A Novel of Redemption. She also writes general fiction for her youngest grandchildren under the pen name Millie Nance. Her first book is Stories to Grow By.
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