At the house mom and dad had a welcome mat for the front door which read "One nice person and one old grouch live here". They both pointed at each other as the grouchy one. They picked at each other all the time and neither would concede to the other. Dad HAD to be right no matter what and mom, in her own mind, knew she was right but was never compelled to flaunt it. In turn dad felt like the winner in any battle of wills and mom felt victorious in that she 'let him think he's the winner'. It worked to keep the peace in the house - most of the time.
There was one point of contention between the two of them that had no boundaries - and that was gardening. My dad figured my mom wouldn't know how to garden if Mr. Green Jeans himself lived in her back pocket. He was "in charge" of the plants, the veggies, even the grass. She could have an opinion and he would listen to it - but consideration would be a stretch. Mom would suggest he "plant under the signs" - a phrase mentioned often in the Farmers Almanac. Dad would shrug it off and say "What sign? A Pepsi sign?" thinking there were plenty of ways to plant other than what some book written in the last century may have suggested. Mom would pick the 'suckers' off the tomato plants and dad would go behind her to make sure she did it right! I have to give dad his props - he grew lots of veggies in various types of back yard gardens. He had a green thumb. But there was one little plant that refused to do good for him though, and my mom lovingly gave him a hard time about it for EVER!
Beside the driveway there was a raised planter bed that, over the years, had been filled with many different plants and flowers. Daffodils, Marigolds, Irises, Candy Tuft, Verbena, Lantana, even Ivy has grown between the edges of the box. One Spring dad got a little rose bush from somewhere and decided to give it a growing chance in the middle of the planter. He put it in the ground, fussed over it and waited on it to produce big, beautiful roses. At first he figured it just needed more time, maybe more Miracle Grow, some Sevin Dust, more, more, more something - anything to help that little plant grow. But ... nothing. In fact, it sort of went backwards. It went from little bush bearing a few leaves to mostly a thick, thorny branch sort of awkwardly sticking out of the ground. It wasn't dead but it sure didn't look right. Just across the street the neighbor's award-winning rose bushes all full and reaching high, draped over the railings, and clung to the fence posts with giant blossoms exploding in colors of red, yellow, pink. Dad's plant was a prickly stick in the ground with the occasional aphid-chewed leaf clinging to life on the lone branch. Mom was compelled to point out the neighbor's roses any chance she got and she openly 'mocked' him (in good fun, of course) and his futile attempts to make that rose bush do something. Dad waited and worried over that little bush (well, bush is a stretch really - more like a rose "branch") all summer long and nothing ever came of it. Just a bunch of ribbing from mom - his gardening nemesis.
Evidently the little plant was a fighter. It lived through the winter to see another day. Springtime came and the little rose branch managed to spit out a leaf or two. Maybe this year would be the year mom would have to put a sock in it in regards to that rose bush. It would sprout out more branches and finally be able to call itself an actual bush. Dad would reign victorious, reaping its beautiful bounty of blossoms to rub in mom's face!! But dad was starting to feel bad, and gardening - although top of mind - was low on the list of things his weakening body could do. He could see the scraggly little plant from the kitchen windows but he didn't have the energy to get out in the yard. He would ask mom to go out and spray the poor thing for aphids. So that spring and summer she joined him on the project - do whatever it takes to give that thorny wannabe plant the satisfaction of bearing its fruits. But again the end of summer came - and, nothing. And the little rose branch slept for the winter.
My dad died the day before Christmas Eve that year. Mom, my brother and I spent what time we could together getting mom ready to live on her own for the first time in 50 years and 1 day. There was so much to do ... but gardening was never considered.
The next Spring came - and went - without fanfare. Mom didn't plant anything, we never even thought to plant anything. The Shasta Daisies came back all by themselves and so did the Black Eyed Susans. The Azaleas filled up with color and the Dogwoods quietly awakened from their winter slumber in petals of pink and white. And there in the middle of the mostly baron planter box beside the driveway was the little rose plant. Still a thorny stick in the ground with a few puny little leaves but this time at the top of the lone branch was a new shoot reaching out for some life. Not only was it alive but it was growing taller and a wee bit stronger. After a couple of days we started to notice new leaves, new baby thorns on its addition. Maybe, just maybe we thought we might get an actual rose this year. We left it mostly alone, only spraying it for aphids once or twice. We didn't need to do anything at all for that little plant - it seemed to have a mind of its own and it seemed as determined as any poor doing plant could be. Growing, it's leaves were bold and bright green and its one and only new shoot was strong and proud. And then one day it balled itself up at the end and became a bud! A perfectly shaped little rose bud perched at the top of the new, little stem and attached to what still looked like a jagged little stick poking out of the dirt.
It was mid June when we noticed that little bloom - few days before Father's day. It was such a hard time. I missed my dad so much and on top of the still very fresh grieving, mom had been going through some health problems and my brother had started developing some complications from his earlier battle with cancer. He was sick, mom was getting sicker and filled with worry and sadness and I was just so sad. We were all struggling while going through the motions. The reminder that was Father's Day was almost more than any of us could stand. I was wishing Father's Day would hurry up, get here and go already. When the day came I decided to stay home in bed.
That morning I got a call from mom. I figured she would call to check in on me, you know, to make sure I was ok. But she wasn't calling for that reason at all. She called to tell me that when she'd gone out that morning to sit on the steps and drink her coffee she looked down into the mostly empty flower box and right there in the middle of the dirt bloomed a single, yellow rose. All alone this little rose had burst open in all its glory, proudly displaying all of its leafy beauty! And I cried - not for sadness this time but for happiness; and I believed with all my heart that little flower was really my dad popping in to say HI and to let us know that he's still here all around us. And maybe getting the last word after all! A little vindication for all the abuse he got from mom over that silly little plant!
The next day my mom came to see me at work. She had a little vase in her hands filled with water and that precious little rose. It might as well have been a hand written note from dad himself. He sent me flowers on Father's Day and I cherished that little rose until the last petal fell from its stem. I even pressed the petals and kept them all - like little treasures or heirlooms. The next year we watched the much loved plant and waited for signs of life - but nothing. The little stick in the ground never woke up again - dying in the well fertilized ground dad had put it in a few years earlier. I didn't expect it to, really. It lived a perfect life and served its purpose, bringing a little reminder of love to a broken hearted family.
The next day my mom came to see me at work. She had a little vase in her hands filled with water and that precious little rose. It might as well have been a hand written note from dad himself. He sent me flowers on Father's Day and I cherished that little rose until the last petal fell from its stem. I even pressed the petals and kept them all - like little treasures or heirlooms. The next year we watched the much loved plant and waited for signs of life - but nothing. The little stick in the ground never woke up again - dying in the well fertilized ground dad had put it in a few years earlier. I didn't expect it to, really. It lived a perfect life and served its purpose, bringing a little reminder of love to a broken hearted family.
