On the west side of our garage, we have transplanted every rose we own. When we first moved in, nearly 26 years ago, there was a lovely pink rose already here and we included that with the others. At one time, Mom bought an assortment of five roses and planted them evenly spaced in our front flower bed. We have since taken that bed out and planted grass.
On Saturday Mom suggested I pick a bouquet of roses. Every time we back out of the garage she sees the multitude of flowers that decorate the brick garage wall. I have not watered them this dry, hot summer and I have only trimmed them once. They have been left to survive on their own.
And survive they have. The row of roses is alive with color, though, at the moment, the pinks dominate. Mom has an especial favorite - the Lincoln rose - which is blood red and quite striking. It has not much appreciated the weather.
Above you see the handful of roses I cut for a vase. Mom has placed them on the kitchen windowsill and as the rain fell from Tropical Depression Isaac the view was still alive with vivid color. On the outside the colors were muted and dark, grays and sombre browns. Inside we had striking summer-pink.
Last evening I walked behind the garage and enjoyed the roses, now wet with rain. Even though the sun wasn't shining, they were dripping with diamonds of light. These two young roses were newly opened and fresh as the day.
I understand why roses are popular. They pay back dearly and daily and with little care.
My father used to tell me a story about his own father's roses. These were also planted on the west side of his garage. Dad, annoyed with having to mow around them, once cut them all off. It was an act he didn't soon forget.
So on these early days of fall, we're still met with fantastic color. It will be short-lived. The first frost is but five weeks away and then the world of flowers will sink into rest. That is a season I love, too.