I ran into Jon Singer at Denvention, and asked if he could recall the name of the rose he gave me, giving him the details: pink, striped, good scent, climberish in form. “Ah, Ferdinand Pichard!” he exclaimed, and so it is. He also promised me a cutting of another rose — my notes say Von Steinforth, but I can’t find a rose by that name, so I clearly have written it down wrong. I’ll pass along a cutting of Ferdinand Pichard to our mutual friend Amy Thomson, along with a chunk of root from the rhubarb, another Singer gift. Thus does vegetation make humans submit to its bidding.
More Denvention reporting later . . .