Looking at the garden through rose-colored glasses

The roses arrived on a snowy day.

Sure, the calendar said it was spring, but fat, white flakes were dropping faster than petals from a month-old bouquet. On my desk sat a brown box with a Texas postmark and an ominous warning: Live plant material. Open immediately.

Inside the box were three plastic bags, each holding a bare-root English rose.

They looked like thorny sticks that branched into roots at the base. A tiny leaf poked tentatively from the end of one; the others showed no sign of life. But the roses had names, printed on plastic bands that reminded me of hospital bracelets: 'Graham Thomas,' 'L.D. Braithwaite,' and my favorite, 'Noble Anthony.'

I nodded hello and opened a sheet of paper stuck between the bags. Do not delay, it warned. Plant these roses now. If the bed isn't ready, at least 'heel them in' by digging a temporary hole and burying the roots in loose, damp soil.

I looked out the window and thought about my garden. Snow was gathering in the corners, where the ground had barely thawed. These roses weren't going anywhere soon.

The roses arrived on a snowy day, and I tried to remember why I'd ordered them, months before. All summer a colleague had shared his homegrown roses, leaving a vase on my desk when his night shift ended. Working daylight, I'd savor their scent until noon, when he returned to reclaim his flowers.

The fragrance reminded me of home. My dad has long grown roses, mostly hybrid teas. He stomps and swears, hills and prunes, sprays and crushes Japanese beetles in his grimy hands - then tenderly snips a stem of 'Peace' or 'Mr. Lincoln' for the mantel.

Once, when I was small, I watched him come indoors, straight from the garden, and hold a rosebud gently beneath my mother's nose. I remember how she closed her eyes, breathing in the scent. She didn't say a word about his muddy shoes.

The roses took root on a cloudy day. They looked no worse for wear after a week in the cool, damp basement, waiting for spring to appear.

Typically English, I thought. Stiff upper lip, and all that.

Still, I took care to plant by the book, soaking the roots in a bucket while I selected a sun-filled spot and dug a generous hole for each plant. I set the sticks atop neat pyramids of soil amended with compost, bagged cow manure and moist peat. I filled the holes with the same rich blend, plus a measure of fertilizer. I watered them carefully, twice.

When I was sure they'd settled in, I mounded loose, moist peat around the canes to keep them from drying out. 'It is ESSENTIAL to cover them ... until the young shoots start pushing their way through,' the instruction sheet insisted. 'Then water regularly to keep the soil nicely damp.'

I know why I've shied away from roses all these years: They're a lot of work. After digging and mixing, mulching and watering, all I had to show were three thorny sticks hiding under little piles of peat - plus a bloody scratch from wrist to elbow, courtesy of prickly 'Graham Thomas.'

Romance, they say, comes at a price.

The roses will bloom on a sunny day. I'm counting on it. All three are leafing out nicely now, although 'Graham Thomas' got off to a poky start. The thorny sticks are beginning to look like thorny little shrubs.

I'm keeping an eye out for bugs and diseases. The David Austin catalog (call 903-526-1800, or check www.davidaustinroses.com) touts these English roses as 'robust' and 'disease-resistant,' but some reports dispute those claims. I'll have to see for myself.

Just in case, I've been haunting the garden center, perusing the labels on pesticide bottles and fungus-killing sprays. If problems crop up, I'll be ready.

But I'm making other preparations, too. I've sharpened my pruning shears and polished a crystal bud vase. In my desk at work, another little vase sits waiting.

When my roses bloom, I'll share a fragrant stem with my colleague, the rosarian. The next time I go home, I'll take one to show my dad.

And on a sunny day, I'll sit in the garden and breathe their perfume, caught up in the romance of roses.

How does your garden grow• Send questions or comments to Green Thumb, c/o Tribune-Review, 622 Cabin Hill Drive, Greensburg, PA 15601.

Not all roses are alike. Nurseries and mail-order catalogs group roses by 'class,' based on their history, blooms and growth habits. Some familiar names: