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My grandfather loved his roses. From the time when my memories go from toddling fragments, to well preserved scenes, I can remember how he cared for his little rose garden in his tiny West Virginia city backyard. In his garage that bordered the alley, were myriads of bags of fertilizer, aphid dust and a well oiled set of pruning shears that would be the envy of any barber. Of the many things I remember about my grandfather his roses were by far nearest the top of the list.

When I would visit in the summers, I remember how we would spend so much of our mornings among his roses. The big yellow "Freedoms", the tiny white flushed pink "Cinderellas", and of course his favorites, the crimson scarlet "Loving Memories." In the the spring he would prune his "other grandchildren" with tender care, and show me exactly where he would make the cuts that would develop his roses into strong bushes.

I grew up. I didn't spend as much time with him in the garden in later years, and eventually he and my grandmother made the decision to move nearer my mother for their declining years. My grandfather loved his roses, and tried to bring them, but his failing health didn't really allow him the luxury of time. His roses faded almost along side him. He passed on to where the Roses never fade, and my grandmother joined him shortly after.

Year after year went by, I married, and we started a family. I took a job as a manufacturing planner for a company in South Georgia, about as far away from my West Virgina roots as a fellow could get.

One April morning, while I was in my office, Kenny came to see me. Kenny was a maintenance worker in the plant, and could talk your ear off. He came in complaining how his wife had him spending all afternoon the previous day, cutting back his roses. He asked if I would like to have the cuttings. When he told me that he thought they were pink "Keepsakes," I thought, "What would my grandfather say?" I laughed and said, "Sure, why not?"

The next day, Kenny brought me a old drywall bucket filled with twelve cuttings from his roses. As they were in water, I took one out and inspected it, holding it about six inches from my nose. Kenny laughed, and said, "What are you doing?" Checking to see if you trimmed them properly..." I stopped in mid-sentence, for I realized that it wasn't my voice that I heard say this, but my GRANDFATHER!" Kenny laughed and left me.

That evening when I got home, I began making my trenches and planted my cuttings. I watered faithfully, and out of the twelve cuttings I had eleven that took good root. They now are proudly displayed through out my yard, and now on these summer mornings, I take my coffee and enjoy those moments again with my grandfather, complete with fertilizer, aphid dust, and a well oiled set of pruning shears that a barber would be proud to own.

My grandfather loved his roses...so does his grandson.

Learn more about this author, Darrell E Phillips.
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