I don't know much about flowers, but my interest in obsession and collecting is pretty wide, and I leaped on this book in the same way as I read recent books about crossword puzzles and beauty pageants. When I was in Portland last month several friends were already reading advance copies, claiming this Aurelia Scott had written a book which named names and takes no prisoners, and that in rosarian circles, her book would raise eyebrows and snap certain reputations.
I have found on the contrary that she has written a gentle, merry book celebrating rose shows and the world of exhibition roses, it is not at all an expose of any kind. She is remarkably kind about her subjects, and to tell you the truth, her writing is possibly too charitable, could have used a bit more spice. She seems overly impressed by the work these gardeners spend on their gardens, and the number of roses they keep at home. OK, she takes a few snipes at Tommy Cairns and Luis Desamero, apparently the only gay men involved in the rose world. Luis especially comes across as a true eccentric, in his powder blue shorts, sort of a Lt. Dangle of the competitive rose world. It's great when he enters one contest that's actually been named after him, with a rose that carries his own name; it's either queen-size vanity or true ego fulfillment. Luis winds up winning the "Climber" award--touche!
Scott doesn't dwell overmuch on how these people finance this hobby, but it doesn't seem cheap. They must all be extremely well to do, to run around the country entering their wares, much less devote acres of private garden to their floribunda and Lynn Andersons. I was sort of curious about the economy of these shows. Are they just for rich people? Or do regular Joe Schmoes enter too? At any rate, rosegrowing seems to call for masses of time, a true luxury. "The only thing more frustrating than making an orange rose fit," moans Satish Prabhu, "is playing golf." Where Scott excels is showing how what seems like a harmless habit can take over your whole life, break up your marriage, turn you into a competitive rose-growing machine. But on the upside, you are surrounded at every turn by beauty. She counterposes the cut throat exhibition crowd to the so called "old garden rose" people, who seem much more genteel and into their history. Naturally the blowsy, smelly old roses don't win Queen of Show in competitions, the scent hasn't been bred out of them, and they're often crooked and misshapen by modern standards, and yet they have that "heirloom" thing going on, a touch of class in a strange new century.