Rogers Roses Posts

There’s a temptation to rush this part. To buy the rose, admire the label, imagine the blooms, and then dig a hole and hope for the best.

But preparing the soil is one of the most important steps in growing garden roses with minimal fuss and care. You usually only get one chance to do it properly, so it is worth slowing down and doing it well.

Proper rose soil preparation helps your bareroot or potted rose establish strong roots, settle in during its first year, and reward you with blooms that feel earned. Strong roots sound practical. They are. They also do their work out of sight, in the dark, long before you see anything open.

It starts with organics.

Roses are heavy feeders and benefit from nutrient rich soil. Before planting, dig a hole a spade’s width and a spade’s depth. Give the plant room. Loosen the bottom of the hole with a fork to improve drainage and aeration. If the area has established grass, tear it out and try to remove the roots as well so it does not keep growing back into the bed.

Then add life back in.

Mix in well rotted organic matter such as garden compost, manure, or leaf mould to improve soil structure. Spread and work in aged manure or another form of living organic compost, about six inches deep or more, and use a tiller or shovel to blend it into the existing soil. If you are preparing a large bed, you may consider hiring a tractor with a sub soiler to work deeper into the ground.

Make sure whatever compost you use has not been sterilized to the point that the nutrients and beneficial fungi have been stripped away. Healthy soil depends on beneficial fungi that form a symbiotic relationship with your roses.

The one you hear most about are mycorrhizae. They are vital to plant life. They help your roses draw water and nutrients from distances greater than the roots can reach on their own. This support allows roses to withstand drought and grow into fuller plants over time.

Before planting, add a handful of Toprose, bonemeal, or a good slow release fertiliser at the bottom of the hole. Add another handful of slow release fertiliser to the soil you removed from the hole so it is ready when you backfill. Roses give a lot. They need something to draw from.

Planting depth matters. Position the rose so that the graft union, the swollen area where the rose is grafted onto the rootstock, sits at least 25mm or 1 inch below soil level. This helps prevent wind rock and reduces the chance of suckers forming from the rootstock.

Gently backfill the hole with the prepared soil, spreading it evenly around the roots. Firm the soil in with your heel to remove air pockets. Press it down with intention. Gaps underground often show up later.

If you can, let the soil sit for about a week before planting, or at least give it a thorough watering. A good rain helps settle everything and allows moisture to move deeper into the ground.

After planting, apply a final handful of fertiliser around the base of the plant and water thoroughly to help the soil settle and support root growth.

Regular watering is essential, especially in the first year. Water deeply once a week during summer so the roots stay moist below the surface. Avoid light daily sprinkles. Feed roses with a balanced fertiliser in spring and a high potash feed like Tomorite during the flowering season.

Once planting is complete, mulch the soil. Mulch helps retain moisture, moderate temperature, and protect the surface from drying out.

If you are unsure about your soil pH, get a sample tested. The results will show whether you need to add lime or other nutrients. Since soil types vary from place to place, check with your local Agriculture Extension Agent or a good garden center to see what they recommend for your area.

Garden roses planted in healthy living soil cope better with drought and grow into stronger, steadier plants.

Taking the time to prepare the soil now means you will spend less time correcting problems later, and more time noticing the first bloom when it opens.

There is something steady about heritage roses. Whether they traveled from the Old World with immigrants or have been passed from generation to generation right here, these roses have stood the test of time. They feel less like a trend and more like an inheritance.

Choosing old garden roses is not only about beauty, although beauty is part of it, but also about survival instincts. As an antique rose grower, I recommend varieties not only for their form and fragrance but for their ability to endure. Zone listings are conservative, and that matters. It means you can trust that when winter settles in and deciduous trees and shrubs drop their leaves, these roses know how to rest. They understand dormancy.

In our former garden, a collection of Gallica roses taught us this quietly. They bloomed once, and what a bloom it was. The colour was deep and settled into the petals rather than sitting on top of them. Petals felt almost folded into themselves. After flowering, they returned to green without complaint, holding space in the border without demanding attention. There is dignity in that rhythm.

When choosing heritage varieties, think about where they will live. Some are specimens, meant to stand alone and be noticed when you walk past with a basket or a cup of tea. Others make generous hedges, shaping a boundary that feels protective without being harsh. There are roses for containers, content to grow where soil is limited, and climbers that stretch upward and soften fences and archways.

Gardeners often ask for specifics, a good purple or mauve colored climber for the northwest Washington area. It is a practical question. Climate matters. Placement matters. Patience matters too. These roses have survived because they are adaptable and because they have endured periods of neglect, cold, and deer pressure in some gardens. There is no such thing as a deer proof plant. If deer are hungry enough, they will eat what you hoped they would leave alone.

Old garden roses ask you to consider more than bloom time. Do you want a single flush that arrives all at once and then fades, or repeat flowering that carries colour through the season in a quieter way. Are you planting for a hedge that will thicken year after year, or a container that can be shifted with the light when one corner of the yard feels tired. Each decision shapes the garden in ways that only become clear later.

The appeal of antique roses is layered. They connect you to gardeners who came before. They bring fragrance that many modern hybrids lack, the kind that meets you before you reach the plant. They offer resilience without spectacle. In winter, when herbaceous perennials dry and the garden quiets, these shrubs remain as bare canes against a pale sky, waiting without drama.

To choose well is to pay attention to those quieter qualities. Beauty still matters. Endurance matters more. When you plant heritage roses with that in mind, you are not just filling space. You are continuing something that began long before you arrived and will likely outlast you.

Cut back hard when you need to. Trust that growth is written into the wood.

They return.

There’s something quietly hopeful about holding a rose hip in your hand and knowing that inside it are seeds — small, hard, unimpressive things — that could become entirely new roses. Not copies. Not guarantees. But possibilities.

A hip is the fruit of the rose, and inside are seeds which will become new varieties of roses if planted. Of course they will give roses. On the other hand, it is very likely that the plants thus obtained will not be identical to the mother plant. Most roses that we cultivate are hybrids and have a very mixed genetic background. Plus, who knows which rose bush is the baby’s other lucky parent? Bees can go from flower to flower, bringing with them the pollen of several different rose bushes. These hips are called open pollinated because the bees and the wind fertilize the flowers, instead of a human placing pollen to combine two specific roses in the cross.

It is rare to get a rose worth keeping from open-pollinated hips, but I still like to grow them just to see what happens.

If you want to try, start with a ripe hip. Cut open the ripe hip and remove the seeds. You can pry them out with your thumbnail. The seeds vary in size and are very hard. Crush the fruit and remove the seeds, then rinse them under running water to remove any remaining flesh. Make sure to remove any pith from the soft part of the hip that may be clinging to the seeds, because the pith contains an enzyme that inhibits germination. If you’ll be storing them for later planting, place them on an absorbent surface and let them dry off first.

Most roses need to go through a cold period to germinate. You can sow them outside in the fall, barely covering them. Or you can lay the seeds out on a folded, damp paper towel, place the paper towel into a zipper sandwich bag, and put the baggie into the crisper of your refrigerator for at least 60 days. Mark the baggie with the name of the rose that the hips came from. Then you wait.

In the spring, with the return of warm weather — or when you take the pot out of the fridge — small plants will grow.

Some people grow roses from seed outdoors, at the mercy of season and sun. Others do it indoors in large pots, under T5 lights. It may seem silly to not have them outside, but if you live at 9000ft and don’t get the best sun through any of your windows, you work with what you have. Being that you control the sun, you can really make them grow with efficiency. Most plants seem to like 18 hours for daylight for growing and 12 hours for flowering. Almost everyone grows them at the mercy of season and sun outdoors, but indoors you can imagine coming into your house filled with beautiful plants in various stages of growing — even when it’s cold and snowing for months.

Once your seedlings are strong enough, plant them out in a sunny, well-drained location. Roses are tolerant of heavy clay soils, at least as long as the drainage is reasonable. In times of drought, roses appreciate deep watering. Try watering them with a soaker hose or drip irrigation system. Both water the soil without wetting the leaves, the ideal situation for preventing rose diseases, as they tend to occur mostly on wet leaves.

Arm yourself with patience. Usually, your roses won’t produce flowers for two or even three years when you grow them from seed. To increase blooming, apply a slow-release organic fertilizer in early spring. Apply again after the first bloom. In mild climates where roses flower most of the year, a third application at the end of August may also be worthwhile.

How long does it take to grow a mature rose from seed? Long enough that you have to mean it. Long enough that you might forget what you were hoping for in the beginning. And then one day, something opens. It may not be identical to the plant you started with. It may not be a keeper. But it will be yours — grown from a seed you pried loose with your thumbnail, tucked into a folded paper towel, and waited on through the quiet dark of a refrigerator drawer.

1. Choose Beginner-Friendly Varieties

• Start with shrub roses, floribundas, Knock Out, Drift or Oso Easy roses.
• Look for varieties marked as disease resistant such as ‘Carefree Beauty’ or ‘Oso Easy’.

2. Pick the Right Location

• Ensure the spot gets atleast 6 hours of direct sun daily.
• Choose an area with good airflow, to prevent disease
• Avoid spots with heavy soggy soil.

3. Prepare the Soil

• Amend heavy clay with compost or sand to improve drainage
• Dig holes about 18 inches wide and deep.
• Mix in compost or aged manure. to enrich the soil.

4. Plant Your Roses: For bare-root roses:

• Soak in water, for a few hours before planting
• Create a soil mound in the planting hole.
• Spread roots over the mound fill halfway, water. then fill completely

For container roses:

• Remove from the pot.
• Loosen roots and plant at the same soil level,
• Water throughly

5. Water Correctly

• Water deeply once or twice a week.
• Use a hose at the base to keep leaves dry
• If your tap water is heavily chlorinated or contains hard minerals. consider using a simple filtration system to improve plant health. Learn more about the breakdown of how a water filter can help (click here)
• In hot weather water more often if soil is dry a few inches down

6. Feed Your Roses

• Fertilize three times per season:
  • Early spring when new growth appears
  • After the first bloom
  • Midsummer (if still blooming)
• Use balanced fertilizer (10-10-10) or organic options like compost tea
• Always water before, and after fertilizing.

7. Prune and Deadhead
   Prune in late winter or early spring:

• Remove dead damaged, or weak canes
• Open up the center for airflow.
• Shape like a vase.

During the season:

• Snip spent blooms just above the first set of five leaves.

8. Apply Mulch

• Add a 2 to 3 inch layer of organic mulch such as bark or compost
• Keep mulch a few inches, away from the base of the plant.

9. Watch for Pests and Disease

• Common pests: aphids beetles
• Blast with water or use insecticidal soap.
• Check regularly for black spot or mildew. Use fungicides if needed.

10. Protect in Winter

• Stop feeding in late summer to help roses harden off.
• After first frost pile mulch around the base.
• In colder zones cover with burlap or rose cones

If you’ve got a rose that actually does well in your yard quietly, without fuss it’s worth trying to grow more of it. Whether it’s a variety you like or one passed down from someone you miss, taking cuttings is one way to keep it going.

Spring and early summer are best for softwood cuttings. These are the flexible green stems just below faded flowers. You can also try semi-hardwood in late summer, or hardwood in winter (Softer ones usually root quicker.)

Instructions

Cut just under a node. Aim for a 4 to 8 inch stem with three to five nodes. Remove the bloom and all but the top leaf or two. Wound the base a little by scraping or slicing the bottom inch. That helps trigger roots. You can dip the end in hormone powder, but skipping it works too.

Place the cutting in a pot filled with half perlite, half potting mix. Water it. Cover with a clear bag or jar to keep in the moisture. Keep it out of direct sunlight. Shade helps (so does patience, hehe)

Some cuttings root in a few weeks, while others don’t show any promise. Check now and then, if one rots, toss it. If one roots, great.

Look for signs like new leaves or roots poking out the drainage holes. When it’s strong enough, pot it up or plant it out. Give it 9 to 12 months before expecting much. (remember, patience again)

This doesn’t need to be exact. You don’t need a greenhouse or fancy tools, all you need is just pruners, a pot, and some time. Take a few cuttings and see what sticks. Some will fail. Some won’t, just get yourself in the feedback loop.

And when one finally takes, it’s enough. A small win from something you already had.

Try again next season if you need to.

All the best

Want more roses? You’ve got two solid options: cuttings or grafting. One’s fast and direct. The other’s a bit more involved. Let’s break it down so you can get started.

Cuttings

Benefits: Cuttings are quick and simple.

• Grab a softwood stem just under a faded bloom in late spring.
• Semi-hardwood in late summer and hardwood in winter also work—just slower.
• Prep your spot first. (preferrably use a tray with perlite and coarse sand)
• Cut early while the plant’s still hydrated. RootBoost helps, but it’s not essential.

For more insights, see my full guide to growing roses.

Slice each stem into sections with four nodes. Keep just one leaf at the top. Dip the end, press it into the mix, cover with a bottle or bag. Mist to keep things moist. Some cuttings root in two weeks. Others won’t. That’s fine—take several.

Grafting

Grafting’s more technical but powerful. In the UK, most roses are grafted onto Rosa laxa. It gives the rose a stronger base and controls aggressive varieties like rugosa. Here’s how it works: make a T-shaped cut in a one-year-old rootstock, insert a bud, clip it, and cut back in spring. That bud takes over.

Spot rootstock regrowth by checking leaf color, thorn direction, and stem pattern.

Tip for Rosa Laxa: leaves look silver, thorns hook down, and stems shift from green to brown with pale streaks.

Don’t clip those shoots, rip them out at the base to stop regrowth.

Summary

Cuttings give you the original rose, rooted on its own. Grafting builds a stronger plant by pairing two parts together. Choose based on the plant, your time, and what result you’re after.

For more insights, see my full guide to growing roses.

Try both. One’s fast. One’s tough. Either way, you’re building a better garden. Go you!!

Caring for roses isn’t just a technical process. It’s part ritual, part quiet pleasure. And you don’t have to be an expert to do it well. All you need is six hours of sun and a bit of stillness in your mornings, you’re already close.

Here are a bunch of pointers and reminders to help your roses flourish (mostly in chronological order) and get the most bang for buck out in the garden:

• Raised beds help, but even a simple patch away from trees works.
• Give your roses drainage and space to breathe.
• When planting, make the hole slightly larger than the container, keep the graft line just above the soil, and tuck in a handful of bone or alfalfa meal.
• The early effort sets the tone.
• Mulch helps.
• A couple of inches of shredded bark holds moisture and gives the soil consistency.
• Watering should be like writing letters: not rushed, not daily, but full when done. Wet leaves invite problems. Aim for morning, close to the roots.
• Fertilizing follows the plant’s rhythm.
• As leaves appear, start with nitrogen or alfalfa meal.
• Epsom salts encourage new canes.
• When shoots reach four or five inches, add a slow-release fertilizer. Every few weeks after that, use something gentle like fish emulsion. Container roses need more frequent feeding since water drains nutrients more quickly.
• In late summer, shift to a fertilizer with less nitrogen. Bone meal encourages deeper roots and steadies the plant before winter.
• Stop feeding altogether six to eight weeks before the first expected frost.
• Growth pushed too late struggles to survive cold.
• Prune with intent. In early spring, when buds swell, remove dead wood and crossed branches.
• Aim for an open center.
• Trim strong canes to around six or eight inches.
• As blooms fade, cut back to the first five-leaflet set. It keeps things tidy and encourages more flowers.

If that all feels like a lot, there are easier paths. The Oso Easy series lives up to the name, if you are looking for more information.

Here is a phrase I like to remind myslef of: The garden doesn’t need perfection. It just needs my presence.

Roses are often selected not only for their beauty but for the sensory experiences they offer.

Whether it is the color, the shape of the bloom, or the scent, roses make a distinct impression. Whenever possible, choose roses in person to evaluate their fragrance and appearance firsthand, rather then ordering what “looks good” online.

Before planting, assess the growing environment. Consider the soil, sunlight, and available space. Compact varieties suit container planting near doorways or patios, while climbing or rambling types are ideal for trellises or natural structures. Ensure the site receives at least six hours of sunlight daily and provides adequate drainage and avoid overcrowding, roses require good air circulation to thrive (key points)

The planting process depends on the form in which the rose is purchased. Bare-root roses, typically available from late autumn to early spring, should be soaked in water prior to planting. Dig a hole twice as wide as the root system, form a small mound of soil in the center, spread the roots evenly, and fill in with soil. Peat-free compost may be used, provided it remains moist. For container-grown roses, remove from the pot and position the plant so the graft is just above soil level.

Apply a 2 to 3 inch layer of bark mulch around the base to retain moisture and regulate soil temperature. Water deeply at the base in the morning to ensure hydration and prevent disease. Avoid wetting the foliage. (this is even more key)

I’ll throw in another quote:

Roses do not require perfection, only appropriate care and attention to their environment.

Some pages in my gardening journal have softened with time. The corners are frayed and a few are stained from teacups or thumbprints still carrying compost. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. Neatness was never the point.

I didn’t grow up journaling. But once the garden became more than a pastime, more than just a weekend habit, I found myself wanting to keep track. Not only of the flowers and failures, but of how things felt while I was out there. What I noticed. What I needed to say, even if only to myself.

There are the usual notes: “Eggshells deterred slugs around the delphiniums.” “Yellow climber bloomed again. Mid-April this time.”

But more often, it drifts into something softer: “The compost smelled sweet again. That’s usually a good sign.” “Smells like my grandfather’s shed. Sharp, musty, comforting.”

One I keep returning to was written last winter, just after trimming the roses (see Post 2). I remember brushing soil off my gloves and sitting on the low wall thinking I should write it down before I forgot. It read, cutting back is another way of holding on.

That’s the thing about these scribbles. They’re more than reminders. They’re conversations—with memory, with the weather, with some quieter part of me I don’t always hear in the rush of the day.

I’ve started giving myself little nudges in the margins, for days when the words don’t come easy:

• What surprised me today?
• What did I let go of?
• What am I still holding tight?
• What do I want to carry forward?
• What scent stayed with me?

That last one… I’ll be writing about it more in Post 4. Scent has its own way of anchoring us. Of bringing something back without asking.

Sometimes I sketch a rosehip, a feather, the bend of a stalk that refused to stand straight. I don’t aim for accuracy. Just memory. Sometimes I tuck things in. A curled leaf. A flattened petal. The papery skin from garlic I forgot to plant. Each one its own quiet story.

On wet mornings, when my knees ache and the shears feel too heavy, I make tea and open the journal. I don’t always read it. Sometimes I just hold it. Let my eyes fall where they will.

The margins are where the real garden lives. Not in the rows, but in the in-betweens. Where things are messy and meaningful. Where nothing needs fixing.

This journal, like the garden, has grown into its own sort of companion. Neither of them perfect. But both rooted in love, and still learning.

Some pages in my gardening journal have softened with time. The corners are frayed and a few are stained from teacups or thumbprints still carrying compost. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. Neatness was never the point.

I didn’t grow up journaling. But once the garden became more than a pastime, more than just a weekend habit, I found myself wanting to keep track. Not only of the flowers and failures, but of how things felt while I was out there. What I noticed. What I needed to say, even if only to myself.

There are the usual notes: “Eggshells deterred slugs around the delphiniums.” “Yellow climber bloomed again. Mid-April this time.”

But more often, it drifts into something softer: “The compost smelled sweet again. That’s usually a good sign.” “Smells like my grandfather’s shed. Sharp, musty, comforting.”

One I keep returning to was written last winter, just after trimming the roses (see Post 2). I remember brushing soil off my gloves and sitting on the low wall thinking I should write it down before I forgot. It read, cutting back is another way of holding on.

That’s the thing about these scribbles. They’re more than reminders. They’re conversations—with memory, with the weather, with some quieter part of me I don’t always hear in the rush of the day.

I’ve started giving myself little nudges in the margins, for days when the words don’t come easy:

• What surprised me today?
• What did I let go of?
• What am I still holding tight?
• What do I want to carry forward?
• What scent stayed with me?

That last one… I’ll be writing about it more in Post 4. Scent has its own way of anchoring us. Of bringing something back without asking.

Sometimes I sketch a rosehip, a feather, the bend of a stalk that refused to stand straight. I don’t aim for accuracy. Just memory. Sometimes I tuck things in. A curled leaf. A flattened petal. The papery skin from garlic I forgot to plant. Each one its own quiet story.

On wet mornings, when my knees ache and the shears feel too heavy, I make tea and open the journal. I don’t always read it. Sometimes I just hold it. Let my eyes fall where they will.

The margins are where the real garden lives. Not in the rows, but in the in-betweens. Where things are messy and meaningful. Where nothing needs fixing.

This journal, like the garden, has grown into its own sort of companion. Neither of them perfect. But both rooted in love, and still learning.

The garden out back always quiets in autumn. Not silent, just less loud. Like it’s letting go of something it held all summer.

This is trimming season, but gently. Not the sort of cutting that tidies for show. The kind that makes room. The kind you do when your hands know something your head hasn’t quite named.

Every year, I end up in the same rhythm—emptying watering cans, brushing my thumb down stems, seeing which ones feel spent. A few weeds get tugged, but some I leave. Maybe I’ll come back for them. Maybe not. The world won’t end.

Pruning takes a quiet kind of trust. You’re not correcting a mistake. You’re believing in rest. In roots doing what they do best underground, without help or notice.

I stop feeding the roses once the nights drop. There’s a part of me that wants to keep going, especially when blooms keep coming, late and unexpected. But feeding too long confuses them. They don’t know when to stop. And there’s comfort in stopping, in letting things wind down.

Clippings go in the compost, always have. I don’t bag much anymore. Just layer stems and old leaves, maybe turn the pile with the garden fork once or twice if my shoulder allows. That warm, earthy smell rising from the centre—it always reminds me of damp library stacks. A strange association, I know. But it makes sense in my head.

And I don’t trim everything. Just the places that ask. Autumn isn’t for stripping bare. It’s for softening. Making space for what’s still to come, without hurrying it along.

Here are three things I tend to remember:

1. Mix your green clippings with dry leaves. It helps the pile breathe.
2. Stop feeding once night temperatures drop below ten. It gives the plant time to settle.
3. Prune lightly. Save the bigger shaping for winter’s end.

These aren’t rules, just rhythms. The kind you come to recognise after a few decades of watching, waiting, noting things down in the margins.

Last autumn I scribbled a line in my gardening journal, right beside a flattened rose petal. I’ll share the full page next time, but the line stayed with me: “cutting back is another way of holding on.”

Letting the garden grow wild in summer (see Post 1) helped me make peace with these slower months. Autumn doesn’t rush. It waits, steady and quiet. And I’m learning, still, how to follow its pace.

So I watch. I breathe. I prune a little, then rest my hands in my lap.

No rush. No pressure. Just a gardener, settling too.