Story of the Day
"The Rose
Babies"
Most
people press a flower in a book when they wish to keep it as a memento. My
mother doesn't believe in preserving a memory by hiding it. Her motto is,
"Don't press it! When will you look at it again tucked away in a
book? Make it grow! Enjoy its beauty as a living flower, not as a
withered keepsake."
That's my mother.
She can make anything grow.
Recently, Mom
received a mixed bouquet of flowers from her sister for her birthday. She
is especially fond of roses and was delighted to find two roses in the bouquet.
"Oh, look at the lovely roses. I've never seen such a beautiful shade
of peach in a rose. I must save it as a souvenir."
I have seen this
process many times, but I watch in awe each time. She takes one of the
roses and cuts the bottom at an angle with a pair of scissors, wraps the bottom
in a dampened paper towel and places the rose in a plastic bag to keep it moist.
Now I know it's my
turn. The magic is about to begin. I run to the pantry to get a
quart jar, once used for canning peaches.
"Here's the
enchanted glass jar," I announce, as I return with it.
We head for her
lilac bush. I carry the jar and the plastic bag that contains the rose.
She carries warm water in an old coffee can, bent so that it has a spout on each
side of it. My mother deliberately keeps her lilac bush overgrown.
She trims it in such a way that it becomes fat and dense. The soil beneath
it is damp and warm. She easily digs a hole with her hands and places the
rose cutting in the hole. I help her carefully pack the dirt around the
rose. She places the glass jar over the rose, and firmly twists it into
the ground.
Finally, she gives
the rose a drink, pointing the spout of the coffee can to the bottom of the
glass jar. She whispers, "Oh, little rose, let me warm your toes,
this'll keep you safe when the cold wind blows. See you in the spring,
little rose."
"Little rose
is all ready for her long winter's nap," she explains to me as we walk back
to the house.
My mother is
shameless when it comes to asking for a rose from someone's front yard or their
garden. But no one ever refuses her request. And one time, the giver
was especially glad she had shared her bounty.
It was a lovely
summer day. My mother and I were walking past our neighbor Dorothy working
in her garden. My mother stopped to admire one of Dorothy's roses.
"I've never
seen such a beautiful lavender rose, blending into silver at the edge of the
petals. Would you mind if I choose one to enjoy?" she asked Dorothy.
Proud of her special lavender rosebush, Dorothy was delighted to cut the rose
and graciously hand it to my mother. But the lavender rose did not go into
a vase, as Dorothy probably assumed. It joined the others under the lilac
bush, protected under its very own glass jar.
That Christmas
Dorothy told us that the beautiful lavender rosebush had been stricken by
disease in the fall, and it couldn't be saved. "It was my
favorite," she said sadly, "and I haven't been able to find another to
replace it."
Spring was delayed
that year, but finally the fear of frost was gone. My mother was eager to
uncover her rose cuttings, each protected under its miniature greenhouse.
"I wonder how
many of my rose babies will be ready to begin their new lives?" she mused.
As always, I
watched in amazement as my mother uncovered her rose babies. Carefully,
she twisted the first glass jar from the warm earth: It was the lavender rose
clipping. Would that beautiful rose be reborn? She spied a baby
shoot, a tiny leaf peeking its way through the stem. Indeed, the lavender
rose was alive.
Mom whispered to
me, "Wait until late summer, and I'll have a surprise for Dorothy.
I'll nourish our baby, and it'll thrive into a beautiful bush. She'll have
her lavender rosebush again. It'll be our secret until then."
And sure enough,
late that summer, Dorothy cried for joy as she received her surprise – a
healthy new lavender rosebush.
On the card was the
following:
Here's a small gift from my garden to you.
It began the day someone gave me a rose, too.
I planted that rose in the good, warm earth,
And I nurtured it – hence its happy rebirth.
After you've planted this gift and it grows,
To keep up the cycle, may I impose?
If I may be bold, do you suppose,
That I might request its very first rose?