The Rosebush

by

Bill MacWithey

He stood silent, staring at the rosebush, which covered half the sadly failing wood fence running across his back yard.  Most everything in his yard was undergoing a metamorphosis from summer to fall, which he had witnessed too many times.  The grass had begun to lose its summer green, the trees dropped their first leaves atop the browning grass, and what had been productive tomato plants in the small garden plot were now but shriveled gray-brown twigs, to be pulled and thrown into the empty lot behind his fence.

But, the rosebush, well, it continued as green and glorious as ever.  Large, leafy blossoms of bright gold continued to open each day among the seemingly endless supply of new buds.  The old man first smiled at the unexpected growth this late in the year, then tears filled his eyes, as he remembered the day the bush was planted.

It was spring, the long cold nights of winter once more just a memory of love or loathing, depending on how snuggly one was cradled within ones shelter.  It was the spring of the fiftieth wedding anniversary.  Grandchildren and great grandchildren filled the back yard with laughter and chatter that spring day.

The youngest grandson, but eight years old, came around the corner of the house with a paper bag in his hand and passed it to his grandmother.

"Grandma, I bought you a gift."

She took the bag in her rather fragile hand, withered from the ravages of old age and the inevitable arthritis.  "Well, my goodness, Gerry.  This is a big surprise.  What is it?"

Of course, she could well see that it was one of those rose bushes cut back to mostly nothing but root.  The kind nearly worn out by a nursery, cutting small limbs off to start new bushes.  The sort of rosebush sold at the nurseries for a bargain price.  But, to her, it was the sweetest gift anyone could have given her.  She loved her flower garden and, especially, the roses.

Her youngest daughter had already warned her that Gerry had swept driveways of snow, carried garbage out for neighbors and did various chores around home to earn the money to buy "Grandma" a rose bush with his own money.  But, grandma never let on that she had any inkling of what was in the bag until Gerry told her.

"Well, Gerry, where do you suppose we should plant it?  What do you say we put it back there in the middle of that old fence?  Maybe it’ll grow up big enough to hide that ugly old thing."

Gerry smiled at her, feeling extra good about having bought the rosebush all on his own and his grandma asking him to help plant it.  "Uh, yeah, Grandma.  That’d be a good place, I guess."

"Well, what are we waiting for?  Go tell Grandpa we need a spade, a bucket of manure and a bucket of water."

Gerry looked at her gnarled hands and asked, "Should I get dad to help us, Grandma?"

She smiled broadly, shook her head no and said, "I think it would be very special if just you and I planted this rosebush, Sweetheart.  That way, it’ll be just yours and mine.  It’s something special we’ll always share, even when I’m not around anymore."

As he helped her out of her chair, Gerry asked, "What do you mean Grandma?"

She chuckled, as she turned to face him, the damp brown paper bag in hand.   "Well, I’m an old lady, Gerry.  One of these days it’ll be my turn to go to heaven.  This rose bush will keep us together, though.  You understand?  Any time you look at this rose bush, I’ll be looking down from Heaven at you."

Gerry wasn’t real sure about this looking down from Heaven stuff, but if grandma believed it, that was good enough for him.  "I guess so, Grandma."

She once more chuckled in that sort of chicken cackling way of hers and started slowly up the slight incline across the back yard, carrying the bag in one hand and holding his hand in the other.  "Lets get your grandpa to haul out the tools and stuff."

The old man looked over to the tool shed, now, badly in need of paint, and remembered how she had struggled to help dig the hole for the rose bush.  He smiled through the tears and wondered if she was watching his silly crying at his age.

"Grandma, you better let me dig the hole."

"I’ll get it through the grass, then you can dig it the rest of the way.  A rosebush needs planting in a hole big enough for the roots to spread out, if you want it to grow well."

While everyone continued playing back yard games, laughing and talking to sisters, nephews, nieces, brother-in-laws, which they hadn’t seen for some time, Gerry and his grandma toiled at digging the hole for the rosebush.  After several breaks for iced tea, and an hour later, they stood back and looked at the hole, deciding it was sufficient. Gerry borrowed his grandpa’s pocketknife and cut the piece of string from around the rose.  Then, he peeled the brown paper off and carefully uncurled the roots, spreading them out in the bottom of the hole.

Grandma smiled approvingly and dropped a shovel of dirt in the hole, then a shovel of manure with the spade, as Gerry tamped it down firmly with his foot, according to grandma’s instructions.

"Now, comes the important part, Gerry.  We water it really well.  That’s important."

It had been a three hour job for the old lady and the young boy to plant one rose bush, but, as they stood back and eyed their handiwork, both smiled in satisfaction at a job well done.

Grandma told him how important it was to water the bush every day for the first two weeks to make the roots take hold, so every day after school Gerry walked the nearly mile distance between his house and his grandparents’ to water the bush.  Each day, he inspected it carefully for a sign that it was alive.  And, each day, he grew more worried that the thick brown stubs of rosebush limbs were never going to grow.  He feared his gift to his grandma was going to turn out to be just a dead stub of a thing in the back yard.

It was nearly two weeks later, when he excitedly ran in the back door and yelled, "Grandma! It’s growing!  It’s getting little tiny leaves on it!"

Of course, grandma had to drop what she was doing to go out to inspect this miracle with her enthusiastic grandson.  Sure enough, there were small green leaves about the size of half a pea on the brown stubs. "Yes, Sir, Gerry, it looks as though we did a good job planting this rose.  I think it’s going to grow just fine."  Then, she laughed and asked, "Do you remember what color it was supposed to be?"

Gerry frowned, a worried look on his face.  "I don’t know, Grandma.  I forget."

"I’ll betcha it’s going to be yellow roses."

Gerry smiled and asked, "Why do you think that?"

"Shucks, sweetheart, that’s my favorite color rose.  Betcha that’s what it’ll be.  Your grandpa’s favorite, too."

As the spring turned into summer, Gerry watched for every tiny bit of new growth on the bush and, by June, there were a dozen little branches growing out in every direction, covered with small green leaves.  He was so proud that he and grandma planted this rosebush all by themselves and that it was growing so well.  Then, on one Sunday after Church, he and his mom and dad went to Grandma’s for lunch.

As soon as they walked in the door, grandma told him, "Gerry, come out to the yard.  Have to show you something."

Gerry was filled with dread, as they moved through the house at grandma’s slow pace toward the rear door.  He just knew the rosebush had probably died.  But, to his amazement, grandma showed him a dozen tiny buds on their rosebush.  Every day after school, he walked to grandma’s house and went directly to the back yard.  By Friday, there were a half dozen beautiful big yellow roses on the bush.

The old man looked around the yard and thought he was going to have to clean it all up.  He hadn’t taken much interest in yard work since his wife had passed away the year before.  She would be disappointed that he’d let it get into such shape.  But, she couldn’t complain about the rose bush.  If he did nothing else, he did everything right to keep it healthy and producing the beautiful yellow roses.  He had his own aches and pains that greatly limited his ability to work hard, but he knew he had to get things in order.  It would be his time to go to heaven one of these days.  A chuckle escaped his lips and he thought, "Or, wherever it is I’ll go to.  Whichever, I certainly don’t want folks to find my house or yard in a mess."

The old man made his way to the shed, retrieved a pair of small clippers and cut a bouquet of beautiful yellow roses.  With the clippers dutifully returned to the hook in the shed, he went inside to the kitchen, lay the roses in the sink and poured another cup of coffee, thinking about how his wife would be telling him he drank too much caffeine if she were still here.  It had taken him a long while to smile rather than cry, when he thought of his beloved Charlotte.

He rummaged around in the pantry and found Charlotte’s favorite crystal flower vase.  The one with the birds carved in its sides.  After trimming the leaves from the lower stems, he placed the roses in the vase, filled it with water, then dropped in an aspirin.  Charlotte always told him the aspirin kept the flowers fresh longer.  He wasn’t sure of that, but then, who was he to argue with the expert?

After placing the roses in the middle of the kitchen table, he carried his coffee to the rear porch and sat staring at the rose bush, thinking back over all the years it had survived.  Then he laughed aloud.  Grandma had been right all along.  It was a yellow rose bush.  And, she must have been watching over it from Heaven.  "That darned rose bush has be close to seventy-five years old. Guess they didn’t sell me a dead stump after all."