Sunday, January 17, 2010

Grandma's Roses

The snow lies thick on the ground in January. Melting in spots where the sun strikes, yet still leaving spots where the sun cannot find it. My mind wonders to the days when that same patch of earth, not so many months ago was a riot of color. The prickly branches rising from the snow covered with rose blooms. My mother's roses opening every morning to meet that same sunlight in glorious abandon. A walk through my garden to me is a walk down memory lane. Many plants lovingly donated by people that have touched our lives through the years. The peonies were planted on my father in law's grave by my mother in law many years ago. A tribute to their 50 year devotion and in his favorite color no less. She lovingly tended them until her death. They are now fertilized and thinned yearly by me. The thinnings planted in my garden to remember him and their devotion to each other. They bloom every year around Memorial Day and I know it is time to go to the cemetery and decorate the graves.
The Hosta ringing the old maple tree came from O Wise One's Grandmother's house. Before the house was sold, I took a clump and started it almost 11 years ago now. It has settled in nicely and completely rings the old tree. Growing happily to hide the puppies as they wait for the squirrels to appear.

  The Flowering Almond Shrubs, I found growing along the fence where the old farmhouse stood that my husband grew up in.

 The daffodils left behind by the family that once called this old farm home. The Spirea or bridal wreath was given to me by an old friend and moved over 3 states to remember our yearly outings to the garden centers together and our mutual love of flowers. But perhaps the most special of all are my mother's roses.
Transplanted from the South and traveling over 3 states in the front of a U Haul truck. Along with O Wise One, a pregnant dog and 2 baby geese. They have been with me for over 20 years to remember my mother and the home of my childhood. The name of the Rose long since forgotten by my mother. I know it is a Rugosa with it's wrinkled leaves and abundance of thorns. But the smell of the blossoms covers the whole garden and the rose hips are loved by the birds. I have rooted several now and have not one but four bushes growing happily in this alien northern soil, surviving snow, ice and dipping temperatures. Kind of like my mother to always endure and overcome. As I glance out the window on this snowy January morning and remember her and her love of the flowers. I wonder to myself if anyone will tend my flowers lovingly when I am gone. Will they bloom every year transplanted to some foreign place and cared for by my family. Or will they simply remain and endure for a new family someday.

Blessings from the Holler

The Canned Quilter

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