Watering the Roses

Earlier this morning, I watered some newly planted flowers. It's a glorious June day. The temp is perfectly comfortable, humidity low enough, the sun is shining and the sky blue. Not to overdue it, but the birds and butterflies, squirrels and chipmunks also added to nature's symphony. I didn't want to be anywhere other than where I was. 

Except for my concern about water usage, I find watering the flowers to be a peaceful, reflective gift. One of the flowers I watered was a rose bush my father had grown at my childhood home. I'm fairly certain it's a Queen Elizabeth rose. For a time he planted each year's new "Rose of the Year" in our small front yard rose garden. The house was sold more than 15 years ago. Then sold again. Each new owner has put a new set of marks on the property. I like many of the changes. Yet, I'm glad to have memories of those roses. They are gone now - except for the one we moved here.

While the flowers were beautiful and historic - and even gave us stories to tell, beauty to see, fragrances to enjoy and compare - the roses themselves aren't my main story. My story is my father's connection with the garden. Dad had musical talents, culinary ones (!), and a facility for languages. He enjoyed the arts, museums and the opera. He and my brother shared a deep connection to music. Yet, many of his other artistic pursuits were explored alone ("stay out of the kitchen"), or with my mother at an event or venue. Sure, I'm grateful that he introduced us to art when we were young. However, pure enjoyment for him usually occurred without kids at his side. I can understand it better now. 

That's another reason why the roses are so special. I got to see him tend to the roses. I think all three kids were tasked with picking the driveway's pebbles from the garden - especially after a stormy winter. I did some weeding. After many Sunday evenings we'd be told that the dishes would be washed and put away faster if we all did them together. The family joke became that "it was time to water the roses." His time. Out he'd go to what I realize now was one of his peaceful places.

Hey, especially back then, a guy serving as breadwinner for his family, commuting into NYC, living the work life of Don Draper in Mad Men, surely deserved a little more weekend quiet time. Rarely was I outside with him for this ritual. Yet, now I feel a deep connection to him when I'm watering our flowers and roses. 

If you asked me what my mother felt or thought at any point in time, I bet my answers had a high probably of accuracy. She was easy to tune into. Dad, well, not so much. A World War II veteran (and Navy reservist), kept his feelings mostly bottled up. That is, bottled up until that came spilling out in less than ideal ways. It's not a secret that he was difficult and complex. Giving him some grace now, it couldn't have been easy to have been a father of his age and generation during the 60s and 70s. (And 50s, 80s, and 90s.)  

Often when I'm watering our flowers I wonder what he felt, saw, experienced during his garden time. I'll never know. One thing I know is how I feel, and the beauty I observe. I see living art forms all around. Colors, shapes, sounds. I able to smell the earth, grass and flowers. Yes, even inhaling the veggie garden's leftover pungent fertilizer. As the sun kissed my shoulders this morning, I wondered if Dad's DNA and mine were so closely aligned that we experienced the same peace, awe and joy. I hope so.

So, when I see a rose, I see a few kinds of goodness: one a perfectly human being - complete with both imperfections and love; the other a gift to the world reminding us in a not-so-corny ways to stop and smell the roses. Moments alone with flowers are reward for the moments of work and other goodness we pour into our families, friends and world.

Thank you, Dad, for your love. Thanks for spending the morning with me and helping me to smell and see goodness. More goodness. Your goodness. 

Photo:

Watering the Roses

©2022 Connie Drapeau Kennedy

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