377 Days - Blog #9, the subject of roses

So I got to my house early this evening and found blossoms of this color.

Back in April, I ‘rescued’ this tree from the strangle of honeysuckle.  I felt very accomplished in that Saturday morning effort.  And even though several vines have managed to regain some growth in the vicinity, I’m happy to say this tree has done quite well for itself this season.

In truth, it was already a hearty survivor underneath those mangled twists of hardened vines.  Last summer it bloomed a nice veil of white… but this year I’ve been anxious to see what happens without those shackles.  This is just the beginning.  I’m curious to see what the weekend will bring.

I knew this wasn’t a wild tree.  I did a Google search last summer to see if I could identify the blossom.  I took a peculiar sort of glee upon discovering there is such a flower as Rose Alba.  In fact, Anthropologie sells a $50 bottle of perfume by that name.  I find that amusing, of course, because Rose Alba was the name of my great-grandmother.  A divorcee in the 20’s.  A poker player.  A woman who, according to my grandmother, had the same physical ticks as my mother. Not what I would call a delicate flower.

My mother planted that tree.  So eventually I got around to asking her about it.  It is a Rose of Sharon, not the white rose at which I wondered.  It was a gift, actually.  From a former co-worker/friend and her now deceased husband.  So there is another layer of poetry to that tree and its persistence through neglect and vine domination.

But even beyond the real life details, this tree is a validation of my own poetry.  My first novel featured white roses quite prominently (though not in the form of these blossoms).  They were a very useful device in my writing… which is curious because I never thought myself particularly fond of roses.  But I will confess during the typing up of those scenes, I did stop at Trader Joe’s or Russo's many a week and populate the coffee table of my Newton apartment with a bouquet of them.

Another random aside on the subject of white roses – and something that did cross my mind once or twice in the writing, but has nothing to do with the idea I have for this blog entry - I remember giving a white rose bush as a director’s gift once.  It was for a production of Anne of Green Gables – gah, twenty-one years ago.  The (assistant) director was Doug Ingalls, someone of whom I find myself thinking a lot as I revisit Barre Players.  Especially in the context of shows like Green Gables and the energy he brought to that theater of Central Mass.  Anyway… white roses… apparently they are a thing in my life.

Or roses full stop.  The original working title for this novel to which I keep alluding was Roses Under Water.  It doesn’t work any longer – because it worked for the 1998 version, but not this one.  At least the ‘under water’ part.  But the roses part is quite prevalent.  In Latin, even.  So after trying out another title (with a quote from Hamlet, but I think I’ve met the quota of using Shakespeare titles), I am back to naming the files “Roses” plus date.

Except, this time, the roses are red.  And, no, cards don’t paint them.

Well, that’s all really for today.  I don't really have a poetic end for this reflection on roses.

Except to say again, beauty.