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| The gardener cut around 40 roses for the wedding years ago. |
Charlie Sue and I try to take a romp daily around the former cow pasture at the end of the cul-de-sac. The grass is low and the soil saturated with rain, giving it a waterbed feel. I do not romp but love the broad circles of attack that come toward and away from me.
We trudge our way home down the street - no traffic - and check out various stops from our local cats, dogs, and squirrels.
I was almost at our mailbox when I saw our Hispanic Grandmother coming toward me. But why? She caught up with me and pulled out a beautiful new hood jacket from her bag. She said "Merry Christmas" and talked about roses a bit. Then I got a hug as well.
The previous Mother's Day meant almost everyone got roses very early in the morning. I came toward her front door, and her daughter grew alarmed, sitting at the breakfast table, looking out at me. I set down the roses and headed back. Grandma came out and called to me. She brought something and thanked me. We laughed. Not every block was attacked with roses.
The first time I shared them, she stopped the car later that day and said, "I look at you. YOU had the roses."
Next month starts the serious rose plans. One person said, "You don't NEED another rose bush." On our Jackson family trip to Florida, around 1957, Grampa Jackson showed us his hybrid roses. My mother was the best flower preserver of flowers, hiding her secret from her fellow teachers. She did the same with rose growers in St. Louis.
There are never too many roses. Our Laotian neighbor across the street is always delighted to have fresh roses. My new neighbor, next door, has three daughters. When the oldest got her first bouquet, she held back the tears...almost.
