My first couple of years growing roses, the very phrase "shovel prune"
rubbed me the wrong way. How damned insensitive of those wasteful
people, I thought. Especially if they announced "shovel pruning" one I
really liked, or thought I might.

Well, I think I finally understand.

I'm out there today, short on time, long on weeds, blackspot,
deadheading, and spraying. All kinds of ugly leaves, canes, insect
colonies, still roses to be potted, two more vole casualties to put to
rest. (MY FIRST Granada and their SECOND Reine des Violettes.)

I'm tired and hot as a paper pusher can be on a NC 90-degree June day.
I'm looking at the front bed, the first bed I planted. The ones that
need to go just leap out at me. George Burns. Not one more day am I
going to look at those Calvinesque (the kid, not the Reformer)
cowlicky blooms and that stumpy, ugly bush shape. Nicole. HUGE and
ungainly, pretty flowers, but NO SCENT at all. It has overpowered the
front bed for the last time.

I go back to the garage, get the permatil, gather the pots, shovel,
loppers, soil. I plan to pot both roses up, see if I can give them
away or maybe I'll just keep them in pots. I have others to put in
their place.

And then it hits me--how perfectly simple and beautiful it would be to
cut them up, dig them up, and toss them out with the yard trash.
Several less things to worry about. More room for pretty roses that I
love or other dogs I want to try!

There seems to be a whole circuit we travel with this rose-growing
thing, with many common stops along the way, where most of us
eventually rest, even if only for a while. I am at the one labeled
"Discover the Joy of Guiltless Shovel Pruning!"

Where are you?