Why I Chose No-Spray Roses

​Not long afterward, I decided to bring a piece of family history into the garden.

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My great-grandfather, whose love of roses included the old tradition of planting banana peels beneath them, had grown roses for many years. Hoping to preserve that connection across generations, I hired a landscaper to move one of his roses to my property.

Unfortunately, the rose did not survive.

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At the time, neither of us knew much about roses, and despite our best intentions, the transplant failed. Years later, while removing the remains, I discovered something unexpected in the soil: the original metal identification tag.

I still have it.

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Although I lost the rose, I didn't lose the story.

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In fact, it was in that loss that I found something else entirely. Looking for answers, I searched for local rose societies and discovered the New England Rose Society. What began as disappointment became an invitation into a remarkable community of generous and knowledgeable rosarians. Through friendships, conversations, lectures, and hands-on experiences, I discovered that roses have far more to teach us than simply how to grow beautiful flowers.

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Somewhere along the way, another opportunity presented itself. I purchased a tiny six-inch rooted cutting of Jeanne Lajoie for five dollars. I had no idea where that little rose would eventually lead me. But it rooted, it grew, and in many ways, I grew with it.

Today, that curiosity has blossomed into a collection of more than sixty roses representing nearly every class. Along the way, I became a Consulting Rosarian with the American Rose Society and continue to learn from fellow rosarians who have generously shared their wisdom and experience.

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Over time, I found myself asking a different question.

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Instead of asking, "How do I make roses fit into my garden?" I began asking, "How do I create a garden where roses want to thrive?" That shift in perspective changed everything.

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One of the greatest joys of gardening has been discovering the remarkable relationships that exist among plants, insects, birds, and soil organisms. Healthy soils, diverse plantings, and thriving populations of beneficial insects contribute to resilient gardens. Hoverflies, lacewings, parasitic wasps, native bees, songbirds, spiders, and countless other organisms all play important roles in maintaining balance.

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For me, choosing a no-spray approach has never been about rejecting good horticulture. Quite the opposite. It has meant paying closer attention. It has meant observing more carefully and learning to work with nature rather than trying to overpower it. One of the habits I've developed is simply pausing before reacting. When I notice an insect on a rose or a few leaves showing signs of stress, I resist the urge to assume something is wrong. Instead, I spend time observing. Is the damage increasing or remaining isolated? Are beneficial insects nearby? Has the weather been unusually wet? Is the plant otherwise healthy? Sometimes the answer is to act, and sometimes the answer is simply to watch a little longer. More often than not, those extra moments of observation tell me far more than an immediate reaction ever could. 

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Perhaps the biggest surprise has been realizing that roses themselves have changed.

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Many of us inherited an image of roses from decades past, when spraying programs and high-maintenance practices were widely accepted. But hybridizers have never stopped working. Breeders such as Dr. Griffith Buck, the Kordes family, Ping Lim, and the Canadian Explorer program have spent generations selecting for disease resistance, hardiness, repeat bloom, and overall garden performance.

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The result is that today's gardeners have access to roses that our grandparents could scarcely have imagined.

Perhaps the question isn't whether roses belong in modern gardens. Perhaps the question is whether we've noticed how much roses have changed.

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Along the way, I have also become convinced that healthy plants begin with healthy soil. My great-grandfather probably didn't know much about the soil microbiome when he tucked banana peels beneath his roses, but I suspect he understood something important. Healthy soil matters. Perhaps the science is catching up with some old wisdom.

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My own garden no longer consists of roses alone. Roses share space with native perennials, herbs, grasses, and flowering plants that support pollinators and beneficial insects. Single roses feed bees. Hips provide food for birds. Dense shrubs offer cover and nesting sites. Roses are not separate from the ecosystem—they are part of it.

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One of my favorite signs that the garden is healthy appears each summer on my Seven Sisters rose. Tiny native leafcutter bees carefully cut nearly perfect circles from its leaves, carrying each one away to line the chambers of their nests. The first time I noticed those missing circles, I did what many gardeners do, I paused to learn more.

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What I discovered changed the way I saw them.

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Instead of seeing damage, I began imagining each tiny circle becoming a carefully crafted green door, tucked into a nursery where the next generation of native bees would safely develop. Suddenly, those missing pieces of foliage no longer felt like imperfections. They became quiet evidence that the garden was supporting life exactly as nature intended.

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Today, those perfectly cut circles bring a smile to my face. If my Seven Sisters rose offers a few leaves in exchange for helping sustain one of our remarkable native pollinators, that feels less like a loss and more like a gift.

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Moments like these have reshaped the way I garden. They remind me that the healthiest gardens are not the ones where nothing happens, they are the ones where life is happening all around us. Sometimes, all it takes is slowing down long enough to notice.

 

And perhaps the greatest lesson roses have taught me has been learning to redefine perfection.

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I still admire exhibition blooms and the remarkable skill required to grow them. But in my own garden, I have become increasingly comfortable with a few blemishes and imperfect leaves. A touch of blackspot, a Japanese beetle, or a leafhopper no longer represents failure.

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Instead, they remind me that the garden is alive. Strong roots. Healthy growth. Fragrance. Recurrent bloom. Pollinators. Songbirds. These have become my measures of success.

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One of the greatest gifts I've received through the rose community has been learning that there is room for many philosophies. Early on, I asked several Master Rosarians what they recommended for mulch around roses. I expected one unanimous answer. Instead, I received several thoughtful, but different, responses. Pine bark, shredded leaves, compost, wood chips, and even None! All valid given their unique conditions; I smiled as I realized they were all answering from the perspective of their own gardens. That simple conversation taught me that gardening isn't about memorizing one perfect formula. It's about learning to understand your own. Climate, soil, exposure, available materials, marine layer access, and personal goals all influence what works best. In my own garden, just a few blocks from the Salem waterfront, I also pay attention to the cooling marine layer, prevailing winter winds, and the subtle microclimates that exist within a surprisingly small space. 

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The right answer often depends on asking the right question.

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Over time I've come to realize they were all correct within their respective contexts. Gardens are personal. Microclimates matter. Soil matters. Preferences matter. There is no single right answer for every gardener or every climate.

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For me, growing roses without routine spraying has never been about growing fewer roses. It has been about growing roses in harmony with the larger community of life around them and learning to appreciate beauty without demanding perfection. Along the way, I've discovered that this sense of community extends beyond pollinators, songbirds, and healthy soils. It includes the remarkable people who generously share their knowledge, encouragement, and friendship.

 

Looking back, it is remarkable to think that one lost rose ultimately led me to an entire rose family. What began as disappointment became an invitation into a community and a way of gardening that continues to bring joy, wonder, and gratitude. And perhaps that is one of the most beautiful lessons roses have to teach us—that beauty and resilience are not opposites, and that sometimes life's greatest gifts grow from places we never expected.

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