The Rose Bush

When I was in seventh grade, my dad and I planted a rose bush. We watered it faithfully and watched it grow, admiring it with delight when it first began to bloom—vibrant pink popping out amidst emerald leaves.

Ever since, I have wanted a rose bush. But, for whatever reason, I have never ventured beyond the “wanted one” to the “purchased one” phase.

Until this past Friday.

On the side of the garage, we had a beautiful rose of sharon bush. However, since we’ve moved in, it has been declining. A few days ago, Roy grabbed its trunk and gently tugged upwards, pulling the entire bush up by its roots.

Deader than a doornail.

Darian flew home Thursday morning. When she’s around, I have a “partner in crime” for all of my projects, and so…the two of us headed to the Garden Center to pick up some plants for the front flower bed. It’s been sorely bare since we moved in but my goal for this spring is to bring some life to it. 

As we perused the selection of bushes, we happened upon the roses - all kinds of available colors. Together Darian and I chose a pink and white hybrid rose bush. And as I stood in line to purchase it (along with a few other flowering bushes), I couldn’t help but picture my seventh grade self, hair pulled back into a ponytail, posing in front of our beloved rose bush.

When I was in high school, I fell in love with an author named June Strong. She wrote a few books (I devoured each one) and wrote faithfully for a small magazine that was published monthly. I eagerly awaited each month’s article - though I doubt I read much more of the material in the magazine. Her writings, simple in nature, inspired me, and I longed to write like her. One time, she was the featured speaker at a series of meetings I attended and my mom set up a meeting for me with her. I well-remember the butterflies I had in my stomach as I sat in that small room, June across from me, and asked her questions about her life story and such. She encouraged me to keep writing, to make it a daily habit. Her calm, soothing presence will forever be etched in my memory.

Anyway, one of the things that June Strong often wrote about was her flower beds. She loved working in the garden, her hands buried in the moist dirt. And though I’ve never been much of a success as a gardener (tragically), I, too, love the feel of dirt on my hands, the wonder of life buried within each seed. Each spring when I plant flowers, I think of June and I am grateful for her tender, encouraging words to a teenage girl struggling to find her way. 

This past weekend, Roy and I worked together to plant the hydrangeas, the peonies, and the rose bush. We dug up the soil, laid down black plastic to keep the weeds at bay, covered the plastic with more dirt, then dug a hole for each bush. I carefully planted each one, reading the instructions with fierce determination. And then we stood back, admiring our handiwork.

The rose bush stands by itself in the corner of the driveway. And though it’s really just a rose bush, it reminds me of a time…

…when life was simple

…when I was on the cusp of teenage-hood

…when Dad and I forged a special bond

…when I discovered the wonder of life, sprouting up from clods of red dirt