Antique roses are in a class of their own and I have one. I don’t know it’s official name, but it has varied pale pink flowers and enormous thorns. If you recognize it from the photos please let me know.
When we bought our 1872 Victorian Gothic house, the house next door was empty. Our place needed extensive renovations and I didn’t have time to wonder about the lack of neighbors. I did notice an enormous rose bush on the boundary line.
It stood neglected over the winter. I kept a curious eye on it. Briars sprouted up amid the spring growth. I figured it was a total loss.
Then it exploded with blooms.
I cut roses for my house because they smelled so great. I could enjoy the aroma from my porch, half the yard away. I longed to go and dig up a piece. Who would notice? We’re the last house on a dead-end street. My conscience kept me honest.
Then one day a truck pulled up and a man started to dig up ‘my’ rose.
I gathered my courage and asked him what he was doing. Did the property owner know?
To my surprise, he was from the local Historical Society. The deceased owner had been a long-time member and donated her antique rose to be moved to the Society’s garden. She had been in her eighties and the bush was planted by her mother as a new bride.
I almost cried.
We chatted as he dug. He found the bush was actually four plants, more than enough to move to the garden. With a smile, he gave me one plant to keep in the neighborhood.
I put it at the corner of my porch where the delicious aroma fills the air. It blooms all summer and into the fall. A treasure that I’m glad to own.
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