The Seven Sisters Roses
Mr. A. and I sat on our country style front porch built by a friend, Richard Moore, who went home to be with the Lord seemingly far too soon, and a nephew, Joshua A., who, in time, walked away from the building business and into service to our country.
My husband of 35 years and I looked at each other in familiar, yet unknown territory. How we’ve loved this porch, built in 2008, an outdoor living space as porches are called in modern times, festooned with all manner of container plants for about nine or more months of the year in our temperate subtropical climate which we also love.
That morning, we were in a temporary phase of life when we were told by the government to stay home and watch television. As that bad news box often does, it presented the worst possible scenario to which Mr. A., as serenely calm as I’ve ever seen him, gave thanks to the Lord that this virus didn’t appear to be claiming the lives of healthy children, adding that he’d lived a good bit of his and if he was taken out, so be it. How much more humble could a person be—acknowledging that if life on earth was to continue, it was more necessary that the children live.
Until we learned if we were slated to live or die, we weren’t presently drawn to do exactly what we were told, lounge and watch Netflix. It was daylight, and as many daylight hours as possible are to be spent outside, at least by us. If two people had to isolate themselves from the world, we realized there were few better places to do that than our home place called The Ponderosa, acres of privacy where I would walk off miles of anxiety and Mr. A., a few pounds that had accumulated around his waist.
Mr. A. on a teakwood rocker and I on a swing, both isolated from the rest of the world, looked at each other not quite knowing what to do next. Anywhere we went outside of this country cocoon, a virus was lurking, lustful for our very breath.
We read each other’s thoughts well. Would the business which has supported us for decades survive this mandated shutdown? When would we see our children again? They live 1,600 miles away and air travel was not advisable. It was how this virus got all over the world to start with, though some numbskulls at the National Institute of Health originally said that wasn’t so.
I digress.
One thing my husband doesn’t do well until late evening is sit and watch television. He could only sit so long on the teakwood rocker before he was compelled to do something, even if he didn’t yet know what that was. My mind was churning to the point of distress, but what good was that?
An idea was conceived.
I’d once planted the heirloom tea rose cuttings, acquired from a great-aunt’s yard, along the southern fence of our abode, and they dutifully climbed up the lattice Mr. A. fastened to it, but through the years, vegetation from the neighboring property shaded the roses so well they opted not to bloom. During that time, Mr. A. would become very frustrated with delivery trucks whose drivers would lazily steer their vehicles to our front porch rather than get out and walk a package over. When one lives in the unorthodox way we do, outside of a subdivision, the driveway is a “fur piece” from the living quarters. I had long insisted nothing short of a barrier would stop them from doing so.
Now was as good a time as any to start that project and the split rail fence began development. Our government so generously permitted us to go to a hardware store, categorizing it as an “essential” business, so we did. A woman ahead of us in line wore gloves and a face covering, among the earliest few who could find a mask to wear. We dutifully tried to stay six feet away from other customers, a whole new consciousness when one was out and about.
Remembering the floundering roses, remembering two wagon wheels we got from the estate of an aunt, the Seven Sisters roses, as my Grannie called them, were given a chance to share their glory again. Spindly cuttings were placed in the dirt beneath the wagon wheels and tied with string in the direction of the fence. A discussion was had about placing pebbles around them. I won. No pebbles to inhibit their growth and I’d clear the inevitable weeds by hand Mr. A. was certain would come.
Fast forward two years, bypassing angst, wiping down and washing grocery items, staying home from church, only seeing family on that marvelous invention called FaceTime, family reunions with distant kin canceled, and losing a few people we knew personally…the spindly cuttings thickened into sturdy canes and dutifully ran down the split rail fence. This year we were gifted with this glorious display, a reward, it seemed, for simply surviving.
If you’ve read this, you’re a survivor as well, and I’m glad to know you made it through. Rest in peace to the more than million of us in this country who didn’t survive this pandemic. You will not be forgotten.
