A Rose Among the Ruins

Sumtimes the universe gives me a gift I ill deserve.

2 1/2 years I've let Rose's Garden tend itself; so named January 6, 2001 in honor of my late next door neighbor who enjoyed from her front window the roses in my little garden when she felt too ill to sit outdoors for a closer look. She always wanted me to plant more; so, after her death I did just that and named it after her.

Rose's Garden was my salvation when Jim died in 2002. Midnight raids to pull weeds by lantern's light when I could not sleep. Railing...and wailing…to the heavens how unfair it all was. It did not mind the splash of salted tears as the weeds were pulled in vicious attempts to beat GM into submission.

As a final reward that year it gifted me with a single coral colored rose huddled next to the mulch on a chilled November afternoon long past bloom time on a day when I was heartsore and weary of the path I walked. It seemed a sign from Jim and Rose that I should, at least for that day, appreciate the gift of life.

It was beautiful then.

Not so now.

It is a wild tumble of weeds and interloping saplings from years of neglect. What seemed so hantingly extraordinary in the ice of December seemed suddenly shabby and sad in the brilliance of February’s sun.

This morning as warmth crept into this sunny day on my return mission from life in the fast lane, I could not bear to see that wildness and began tearing through the weeds and trimming the saplings till I can get a saw in there and hack them to the ground.

Suddenly….nestled deep in the weeds and saplings, I literally stumbled upon sprouts growing from beneath the dead canes of my once beautiful English and Old World roses. All gone natural, I reckon, back to the stock root.

Rosa rugosa’s…wild…rugged…tenacious…outlaws.

Even so...a rose is a rose is a rose.

And, there they are; evidence that life goes on even amid the ruins of death: The circle of life right in my front yard. How can I ignore the rebirth fighting to emerge from those dead canes? Just as we who are left behind battle to breathe, scrabble to find life among the ashes and at some point thrive again, I reckon I must answer the call to bring Rose’s Garden back to life.

After 2 ½ hours I've made bare a dent in the jungle and twill likely take me all spring and summer to tame Rose's now wild garden.

Still…begun I have.

To be continued…

Regarding Winter

Groundhog Day ain’t no big deal here in the South where winters can be as warm as spring in Florida and springs as cold as winter in Wisconsin.
Ol’ Puxatawny wouldn’t ‘a seen his shadow in these parts today.

Wouldn’t have mattered much anyway. Down here we have our own predictors of spring’s imminence.

One haunts the deep swamps and dark backwaters of our coastal low country.

I’m talkin’ alligators, here.

Gators to most of us who’ve been down south long enough for a bit of y’all to creep into our speech pattern.

See, gators are cold blooded…so, if it’s cold outside so is he and he’s gonna stay someplace warm. But, when the sun warms the breeze and knocks the chill out of the water he’ll be out lookin’ for a snack or two and maybe even some excitement to his otherwise boring love life.

What with the forsythia already bloomed and azaleas peeking color in places like Charleston, Summerville and Hilton Head, Mr. Gator is pretty sure spring has sprung and out sunning himself waiting for Mz. Right Now to come along.

Now, up here in mountainous country, we look to the trees and under dead leaves for Wooly Worms.Yup, wooly worms…fuzzy little caterpillars with alternating brown and black stripes. Legend says the black stripes represent cold wintry weather and the brown signify milder temps.

According to Mrs. Simmons’ kindergarten class, their little wooly worm, Walter, prophesied a cold start to mellow in the middle and then depart in a blast of icy fury. So far, Walter’s been right on target with November’s ice storm and temps recently so warm things are greening up way too soon. Folks are out tending gardens that are bound to freeze when that blast hits and farmers are hoping the peach buds stay tight for another month or so.

Now, what do you reckon does all that have to do with this old Outlaw?

Well…I look for turtles.

Yeah…turtles…more to the point Box Turtles. They’re none too smart about sunning in the road. Sadly, their lifespan is often cut short from bein’ run over by Bubba in his old pickup truck. But, they recognize a warm day when they feel it. But, today’s a glum, rainy day; hence, they’re tucked into their little waterproof shells burrowed down in their snug little dens dug into root hollows below the frost line.

In true terrapin fashion, I’ve done the same.

My friend Frances’ passing has touched memories I just didn’t expect and led me down a road where what WAS fogs what IS with what will no more BE.

I can be happy for her...she had a long, interesting, happy though widowed life.

Still…

I can't reconcile the same with Jim’s so suddenly and dramatically cut short before I was ready to even think about moving through the rest of my life without him beside me. (As if there is ever such a time.)

I don’t get me. I mean…he died…I shattered into a million pieces…I worked hard to put myself mostly back together once more…I’m at a place where I'm OK...most days excellent, even. Smiling, laughing and having a good life are all visible on my plate again.

Yet, the old nightmares began their replay robbing me of precious sleep and leaving me either cross or pensively silent. After nearly 4 years at this, I'm not knocked flat…this is a temporary state of mind…it WILL pass. I'm just blue and not cheerful company right now…could I escape my own presence I would…I have no patience with the woman staring back in the mirror.

(sigh)

Where’s them barn boots? Reckon it’s time to yank me head outta me arse and kick some sense into my ownself and live up to my nickname.