A rose is a rose is a rose

A Rose is a Rose is a Rose - so said Gertrude Stein.

This is the story of a rose.

When my Dad was a boy, just at the end of the First World War, he used to walk to school. It was about a 4 mile walk, from his home in Darley Green in Warwickshire to Hockley Heath School. Nothing unusual about that.  In those days, shanks’ pony was the only transport available to most of the population.

Just before he reached the school, my Dad passed a patch of land.  It was on the corner of School Road and the main road that ran between Stratford-upon-Avon and Birmingham.  On this patch of land was a rose bush.  My Dad remembered it because one of his school friends picked a bunch of the pink roses to take home to his mother.  The owner of the land contacted the police and my Dad’s friend was arrested.  I don’t think anything too serious happened to him – he wasn’t transported to the colonies or even sent to the nearest Borstal Institution.  Probably he got a clip round the ear from the local bobby or maybe a good hiding from his father. 

Of course, it has occurred to me that maybe my Dad modified the story and it was actually him rather than a “friend” who took the roses.  He’s not here for me to ask; but he was probably the most honest man I’ve ever known so I’ve long since dismissed the idea.

Anyway, we move forward now to the 1950s when my parents bought that same piece of land.  It was part of a larger parcel of land on which they built a house in which we all lived happily throughout the 1960s. The rose bush still grew there and every year when it flowered, it no doubt brought back childhood memories for my Dad.  When my parents retired and moved house, they took a cutting from the rose bush with them.  They moved several times and on each occasion took another cutting.  When they finally settled down in a bungalow in Hockley Heath just half a mile from the original rose bush, they planted another cutting that flourished up against the wall of their home.  Which reminds me of Eleanor Roosevelt once saying how flattered she was to have a rose named after her.  She was not so pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall

Let’s wind forward again, to the mid 1980s.  My mother gave a rose cutting each to me and my brother.  I planted mine in my garden and it flourished, growing to a good height in just a couple of years.  There was only one problem.  It didn’t produce any flowers – not a single one.

After three or four years, my wife and I agreed that we’d give the rose bush just one more chance.  If it didn’t flower that year (1989), we would dig it up and plant another bush.  Sure enough, it failed again.  Time to get out the spade. But sadly, that autumn, my mother passed away, a victim of leukaemia.  Somehow, digging up the rose she had given me didn’t seem the right thing to do so I left it in place.

Maybe you can guess the next bit of the story.  Yes, the next summer, the rose bush was absolutely covered in flowers; and the same happened just about every year after that until I, too, moved on about ten years ago.

When I did so, I took a cutting in a pot; and it stayed with me until I arrived in my present home and was able to plant it at the front of my house.  And I have continued to take cuttings.  My brother’s rose didn’t survive but he now has a cutting taken from mine.  Also, my next door neighbour has just taken a cutting to plant at her other house in France.  The next set of cuttings will go to each of my three children.  So the descendants of that humble Warwickshire rose bush live on and will continue their travels.

As for my rose, right now, it is in full bloom, reminding me of my parents – my Dad and his schooldays and my Mum who gave me the cutting. Maybe a rose is just a rose.  But I hope I can be forgiven for thinking that mine is special.