My knockout roses had gotten the dreaded broomstick disease, and it was spreading amongst the bushes. I fought tears as I watched my rose bushes resisting the ropes that held each tightly onto the tow ball while the truck driver inched forward. With quick acceleration, each yielded, its root ball exposed, the rose bush toppled. Their former places now sunken, I asked workers to fill the holes with loose dirt. Sullen, I ambled across the garden, thanking God that at least not all needed to be removed and that the plague would stop. …