Mom and her brothers and sister all grow roses. Not just any old-fashioned easy-care roses either. But the kind that requires mounding with dirt and leaves every autumn to even have a chance of making it through our harsh winters.
That love of roses came from Grandpa, who always grew them bigger and better than any of his children.
Though Grandma is no longer here to gather them and Grandpa lives in a nursing home, his roses are still blessing us. My aunts pick them to decorate Sundays at the lake - just as Grandma did.
And though Grandpa's eyesight doesn't allow him to see more than a spot of color anymore, his neighbors at the nursing home were awed by the huge bouquet that made its way in to their dining room for all to enjoy.
On the Fourth of July as I showed Grandpa some of his colorful and fragrant blossoms on the picnic tables, I asked where he got his love of roses. He got a far-away look as he tried to recall the color of the old-fashioned rose bush his mother had outside their farm-house door.
"Yellow... I think."
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