Daddy Tom's Roses

Sometimes things happen that just fill you with wonder. This little running rose was first planted by my mother's father, known as Daddy Tom, back in the 40's at the old homeplace. When the property was sold in the late 70's, my uncle moved the rosebush up the hill to his house. It flourished on his fence for the next few years until he and my aunt moved to Wren's Nest Cottage in 1985. The rose moved with them, and continued to bloom faithfully every year. We bought the Wren's Nest from them in 1997, and the rose became our responsibility. Last year, we suffered through the worst drought in over 100 years, and the rose suffered as well. In spite of being watered illegally (we were on a strict watering ban) the rose suddenly seemed to just disappear. It was literally there one day, gone the next, except for a few forlorn thorny twigs poking up from the dead grass. I was struck with the same feeling that one must experience when realizing they have let the family fortune slip from their grasp - we're not a wealthy family, so our inheritances consist of things like rose bushes, cats, and pocket watches. I hid my guilt behind the drought situation and hoped nobody would notice the rose was gone...

This spring, we were delivered from the drought with a vengence. We had rain, hail, storms, more rain, snow, hail the size of baseballs - no kidding - and the lakes refilled, and spring roared in like a pride of lions. The greening didn't creep in either - it burgeoned. I cannot recall a spring so intensely green and flowering as this one. The trees seemed to leaf out overnight, and the hackberry branches almost touched the ground from the weight of the new leaves. And then, a few weeks ago, we noticed shoots coming up from Daddy Tom's rosebush. Then buds coming on. The rose was waking up. I realized that it had only been doing what it needed to do to survive the drought. It went underground. This week, it bloomed like it never has before. We are rejoicing.