Roses Are Not Always Red

When I was in the third grade we moved into a new house. Dad said it was temporary. I didn't ask exactly why it was temporary, but trusted that he had a good reason for selling our house. I spent third grade in a new school, and since it was temporary, I never made any real friends. I do remember one girl that lived on my block; her name was Regina. She had an older sister, and maybe a brother or two. We mostly rode our bikes on the street between our houses. Our back yard was mostly dirt - and since it was temporary, dad only worked at getting more grass than weeds to grow. My grandmother lived with us, and we filled up the three bedroom, one bathroom house quickly. We moved during the summer, and come December we had our first Christmas without a tree.

The next spring, dad announced that we were looking at a new house - one that wasn't temporary.  "Get in the car, Peg, and we'll go look at it." When we pulled up in front of the house I thought my dad had gone crazy. There was no lawn. Dad was a lawn lover. "The lawn should be delivered this week," he told me. I looked at him, thinking, "He IS crazy! Lawns don't get delivered!" Then he said that the people selling the house were putting down sod, and a company that grows grass into sod will be bringing it. I was relieved, because I knew dad would not go one week without a lawn.

Soon we were in our new house, and the lawn was beautiful. The back yard was still in progress, and more sod would be delivered. Dad was also having the driveway widened, and told me I could write my name in the concrete when they were finished. I imagine my handprint is still there at the end of the driveway by the fire hydrant. Mom asked my brother to build a brick flowerbed across the front of the porch, and she made that her own garden spot, planting petunias each year. Grandma's job was to deadhead the petunias each morning, and after that she was free to sit in her rocker and watch the cars go by until lunch, which is exactly what she did.     

Next to the driveway was a slope that was nothing but dirt. Dad set to planning and designing his landscape project that would take several years to complete. He chose tall bushes and conifers, and some he just called "uprights." He planted holly, lilacs, dwarf pines, and Aspens. He brought back rocks from our camping trips and placed them around to create a beautiful space. But my favorite, his favorite, and the favorite of everyone who drove by was the rose garden. If I was telling someone where I lived I only had to mention the rose garden - it was well known around the neighborhood.

Prominently displayed at the front edge of the driveway, fully in view of our front porch for maximum enjoyment, the rose garden became his pride and joy. Each spring he would head to Paulino Gardens to pick out a few new rosebushes. He started with reds and pinks, and a beautiful yellow that bloomed non-stop all summer. That one was for mom - her favorite color. One year he found a soft lavender colored rose, and it was finicky but always produced at least a dozen blooms each summer. There were some with giant peach blooms, distinct orange, and brilliant white. Some were two-toned, some had frilly edges. He was a master at choosing a variety that complimented each other. He used the Reader's Digest Garden Book like a bible, marking pages and saving articles from the Rocky Mountain News about lawns and such. I still have it, and have found some great ideas in there, just as he did.

He put a lot of time into the vegetable garden in our back yard, but Saturday mornings were set aside for roses. Each week he would grab his pruner and bucket, and head out to inspect his "girls." He was meticulous in trimming dead blooms and checking for bugs. Aphids had no chance at all. He had a specific watering system, and each rosebush received a generous drink of water. There were roses that had long stems meant for cutting, and mom would bring a vase out so he could fill it with some buds. Some roses were tea varieties, and had small, soft petals and blooms that would only last a day or so, but they also found their way into a vase to be delivered to a neighbor or friend. Dad often joked about how he always had a dozen roses for mom right outside her door. I spent my high school photography years in the rose garden, trying different angles and lighting, photographing the interesting varieties right there in my yard. 

When Dad passed away, the rose garden showed it the most. Mom struggled to water them weekly, and in truth it was too much of a reminder of him. I would go every few weeks and try to prune and care for them, but I also felt Dad's absence more when I was standing amidst his creation. The garden that was once magazine cover quality had become a neglected tangle of weeds and overgrown roses. And when Mom passed away and we sold the house, I cried for the loss of the roses too. The new owners could do whatever they wished, but I didn't want to see them torn out. In my mind they always will be there, blooming and beautiful.