A Rose by Any Other Name

The Chihuly rose

A few years ago I purchased a rose for my front garden. It was a stunner with red and yellow shading, big plump blooms that looked lit from within.

It was named for the glass artist Dale Chihuly, and was perfect for him with its multiple colors and play of light on the petals.

Once home, I dug a hole, prepared the soil and tucked this baby into the ground.

And for the entire season, it bloomed its little heart out.

This amazing rose greeted me each time I walked down the driveway.

I’m telling you, it was gorgeous and I felt pride having it in my garden.

The next season, something funky happened.

Green growth appeared in the spring, but it seemed as if part of the rose, a big part, had died. There were no showy, multi-colored blooms.

Then late in the season a cluster of small, deep red roses appeared. They were nothing like the Chuhuly rose I’d purchased.

At the nursery, a helpful plant person told me the Chihuly rose had been grafted onto a run of the mill, very ordinary shrub rose. “You’ll probably want to get rid of it,” he said. “It’s nothing now that the Chihuly’s gone.”

So I went home and stood beside this shrub rose with the blood red blossoms. By now the blooms were covering the plant.

The shrub rose a bit weary from recent rain

How could I rip this growing, living thing from the ground? It didn’t seem like “nothing” to me.

In fact, it seemed quite lovely. The leaves were green and strong, the stems healthy.

This was a bomb proof rose. It didn’t require coddling or special care. It had survived where the Chihuly had not. That counted for something in my book.

If you were to visit my home and walk up the driveway to the house, you’d see the shrub rose, right at the front of the garden.

If you come in the summer, you’re likely to be greeted by a profusion of deep red blooms with little dots of yellow in the center. I’ve decided this is a happy rose.

It makes me happy.

I have great respect for survivors.

The message I get (and you know from reading this blog for a while, this is somehow symbolic for me) is that each of us is our own kind of rose.

We may not all be the fancy-schmancy hybrid variety, but every one of us has our own kind of beauty. And the best and most honorable thing we can do is bloom our hearts out.

Like the saying goes: Bloom where you are planted.

What is This Thing in my Mouth?

There are so, so, so many things to learn about when you’re born and first experiencing the world.

Like what that fleshy thing is that dangles from your mouth.

And why it’s so darned hard to control.

Sometimes you can use it to help suckle milk from your mama.

And other times you can use it to lick everything in sight.

Those are good.

But then there are other times.

The frustrating times.

The embarrassing times when you can’t seem to get control of your tongue.

You stick it out to lick something and it won’t go back in your mouth!

It flops to one side of your mouth like it didn’t even belong there.

Sheesh!

So many things for a new colt to learn.

Elk on the Golf Course

Rick and I slipped out of town for a couple of days. It was great to get away and refuel.

One of the things I love about Estes Park, Colorado is the resident elk.

Now I know the locals don’t always share the fascination.

It’s hard to grow gardens. New trees are at huge risk of becoming a snack. Yards just aren’t the same with a herd of elk grazing on the petunias.

But for tourists, it’s a magnificent sight.

All those animals.

Up close and personal.

These pictures were taken on the golf course.

Golfers simply play through. The elk barely budge except perhaps to comment on someone’s slice.

There were numerous gawkers, us included.

There are times in life when gawking is a good thing!

 

Remembering Kate

This is my grandmother. My father’s mother.

Today is the fiftieth anniversary of her death.

I remember the day as if it were yesterday.

Certain important events get extra space in our brains – at least that’s my non-neuroscience theory.

I can still see my father’s grief, the way he leaned against the back of a chair in the dining room to steady himself when the hospital called with the news that she’d passed.

This woman was so very dear to us.

 

Hers was not an easy life.

Her husband died leaving her with a young son to raise by herself. There was no life insurance to fall back on. She was a woman alone in the early part of the twentieth century, which had to be scary as hell. From the vantage point of my rather entitled lifestyle in 2012, I am awed at how she survived.

And survive she did.

My sisters and I loved her beyond measure.

She made intricate, wonderful doll clothes for us.

She told stories that held our attention for hours.

She was an extraordinary cook. My recipe box still holds many recipes straight from her. One of her specialties was making candy at Christmas. She made divinity, penuche, fudge and something called “mocho cakes” which were like large versions of petit fours. Sort of.

She also made dinner rolls that could make a grown man cry with delight. I’ve never been able to replicate them.

But at the top of the list as far as I’m concerned is that she was the most unconditionally loving person I’ve ever known. She wrapped her heart around her family and friends and never stopped loving us.

No matter what we did.

She’s been my role model for strength in the face of adversity and love. I can’t think of a better example.

And now fifty years have passed since I’ve seen her, heard her stories, felt her loving touch.

And yet, she’s as alive as ever in my heart.

Guiding me, loving me, and urging me to give those dinner rolls another try.

 

I expect you have that special someone in your heart, your memory.

If they are still living, don’t waste another moment. Spend as much time with them as you possibly can.

And if they’re no longer living, be ever so grateful that they touched your life.

Your heart.

Your soul.

Waiting for the Vet

It was time for checkups for Bud and Pepper.

Shots, worming and an overall look-see at their condition.

We did our usual routine:

Go to the pasture ahead of the appointment time by at least thirty minutes.

Pull our two sweeties out and give them their daily grain.

Then wait.

Understandably, large animal vets aren’t ever able to nail appointment times exactly.

They often tack an “ish” on the end of the appointment time. As in, “I’ll be there about three-ish.”

Large animal vets drive all over the county to treat their patients. And frequently things come up. Things that take a whole lot more time than originally thought.

I get it.

Really, I get it.

But Bud and Pepper – not so much.

They don’t operate in the world of human time.

So once they finish their grain and have a few hay cubes for dessert, they’re ready to head back to the pasture and their pals.

That’s when we have to get creative.

We slip on halters and tie them to the fence.

And then, because we are who we are, we offer a little treat.

A flake of fresh hay.

The good stuff.

Alfalfa mix.

And they don’t have to share it with any other horses.

You can see from the photo that Pepper was thrilled and tucked right into it.

Bud, on the other hand, was a bit wary.

He has that look in his eye that says, “Something’s not right with this picture. We never get hay out here.”

I think Bud’s vet warning system is highly tuned.

He’s had more, shall we say, intimate interactions with our vet. Having someone cut on your private parts can make a guy cautious. Then there was the bad reaction he had to shots last year.

Yeah, he’s wary for good reason.

But this round was uneventful.

And pretty quick.

The best news was that in the vet’s estimation, both horses look darned good given their ages and the rough winter.

Whew!

Music to our ears.

Learning the Rules

Time for Tuesday Beauty

 

When you’re new to the planet, it’s important to inform yourself and know the rules.

A big old sign with the word “warning” in bold letters makes anyone curious. And this colt is very curious

Of course, knowing how to read might help!

 

We live in a beautiful world!

We Yearn to be Seen

One day last week when I was feeding my two old sweeties, it was chilly. I tucked myself between Bud and Pepper at the back edge of the car. Their body heat was like switching on a portable heater.

As they munched, I felt Bud lean into me. It was just a little pressure, but enough to make contact- to feel comforting to both of us.

Spending my days with the horses has been transformative.

As I soaked up the warmth of Bud’s Appaloosa body that chilly afternoon and waited for both horses to finish eating, I reflected on what contributes to the magic for me.

At the top of the list is the relationship I’ve built with the horses.

They know me and I know them.

Our daily contact has allowed me to observe them in a variety of situations. I can see when they are calm and content. I can also see when they are not. I’ve been privy to all sorts of horse politics and games. I’ve seen affectionate nuzzles and bared teeth and sharp kicks.

I’ve learned what food they like, and don’t like.

I know how they like to be approached. How they like to be brushed.

In other words our time together has afforded me the chance to map out their territory.

I’ve also made friends with other horses in the pasture. Certainly Amigo, Red and Chickadee know me and have allowed me into their confidence.

Then there’s Old Joe, who often stops by to say hello when we’re out feeding.

And Mama and Brio.

And a few of the barn horses that spend their days turned out in a paddock adjacent to the gate where we feed, recognize me as I do them. We’ve formed a relationship.

All this got me thinking about how important it is to be seen.

To be known.

Invisiblity is a terrible fate.

Certain cultures use shunning as a punishment. I imagine it’s quite effective, because as human beings we need to connect. We thrive when we feel seen, valued, appreciated, known, and accepted as who we are.

In this fast-paced world in which most of us live, it’s easy not to see people at that deep level.

We can ignore them and justify to ourselves that we’re simply too busy to take the time to connect.

“Tomorrow, or next week, or another time,” we tell ourselves.

A favorite author of mine, Patti Digh, writes a thank-you note to someone every day.

Every single day. She says it has changed her life. Her blog, 37 Days is about learning to live like you’re dying, because, as she says, we are. Every day is precious, as are the people who inhabit our lives. 37 Days is the amount of time her stepfather lived after receiving a cancer diagnosis. It prompted her to ask, “What would I do if I knew I only had thirty seven days to live?”

It’s not a new question, but one that I’m glad to remember. For me, my answer in part is to connect more with my people. To let them know they matter. To truly see them.

What about you?

Is there someone in your life yearning to be seen?

The Enforcer

Guardian angels come in a multitude of shapes and sizes. Lately, for the Herd of Oldsters, their guardian angel looks a lot like my husband.

Dark sunglasses, lead rope at the ready and a “don’t-mess-with-me-attitude.” He reminds me a little of Kevin Costner in The Body Guard.

His job has been to see to it that our little band of old horses gets their fair share of hay.

We’ve been giving flakes of the “good stuff,” better known as alfalfa mix, to our oldsters every time we go out to feed.

Not a one of them fared the winter in the best of shape, so they need the extra nutrition.

Somehow, the minute those delicious flakes hit the ground, other horses in the larger herd know it. And they make their way toward the Oldsters.

That’s where the guardian angel, or as I call him, “the enforcer,” comes in. He lets the interlopers know that they aren’t welcome here.

He’ll circle the rope in the air to encourage the others to head out. And if that doesn’t work he swings a little stronger and gives them the look, as he makes it absolutely clear that they are NOT going to win this one. To date, he’s been the victor.

From the Herd of Oldsters, I swear I can hear a huge sigh of relief as they continue to munch on the delicious strands of hay.

They simply don’t have the mojo anymore to fight for their food.

The rope-swinging and other machinations don’t affect them at all. It’s as if they know their bodyguard is at work for them.

How wonderful that must be.

My own personal guardian angel may not be wearing dark sunglasses and swinging a rope to protect me.

Then again ….

You Know It’s Time to do Yard Work When the Dandelions are Taller than the Cat

It seems to me that quite suddenly we are smack dab in the middle of May.

The landscape is greening up, perennials are starting to bud and bloom and baskets and beds of annuals adorn yards and businesses. Nursery parking lots are jam-packed, as are the garden departments in the big-box home improvement stores.

Here in northern Colorado, it’s time to get out in the yard and clean things up.

Time to organize and plant, spread new mulch, get the last of the dead leaves and winter detritus picked up, and clean up the lawn furniture.

In other words get ready for summer, because ready or not, it’s coming.

I’m a little behind on the getting- the- yard- ready- for- summer front.

Truthfully – I’m more than a little behind.

My first gardening experiences were in Wyoming where savvy gardeners didn’t even think about planting anything until after Memorial Day. That timetable is permanently etched in my brain.

And now that I live in Colorado, and have done so for decades, I’ve learned that it’s quite possible to inch that hard and fast planting deadline up a little. Get things in the ground after Mother’s Day became my Colorado mantra.

I’ve always felt nervous for those brave (or foolhardy depending on your point of view) souls who planted on Mother’s Day. As far as I was concerned they were tempting fate. Playing roulette with Mother Nature. The words from a long-ago television commercial for margarine echo in my head: “It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.”

I seriously took it to heart.

This year things are different. The calendar says May 10^th. We’re coming up on Mother’s Day this weekend and yet all over town, pots of annuals are sprouting up. Even the city has planted the beds in Old Town. I figure they have to know for sure that the frost date is past.

Right?

That puts me really behind.

We had dinner last night at one of our favorite local restaurants and while I enjoyed my meal, what I really noticed were the gorgeous hanging baskets on the patio and the huge pots of annuals at the entrance.

Inside my head, the little kid that follows all the rules is practically screaming, “It’s too early people! What’s the rush?”

The calmer, more rational part soothes me by reminding, “There’s still time. You can plant your garden on your own schedule.”

Mostly I believe that. Except when that little kid starts screaming and I start to panic.

You may wonder how a simple essay about gardening has morphed into something akin to The Three Faces of Eve.

Welcome to Jean’s World!

Happy Birthday Miss P.

Thirty years and looking good!

Some females have a thing about certain birthdays.

A thing called denial.

Or a fancy hybrid of denial mixed with fear.

We soothe our out-of-control-psyches with silly phrases like, “Thirty is the new twenty,” or “I’m only as old as I feel.”

Anything to look, act, be any age but the one we actually are.

We’re hard on ourselves.

Do I have value if I’m not young? Fit? Exciting? Desirable?

It’s a terribly self-destructive game we play.

And mile-marker birthdays just rub in our faces the fact that we are no longer as young as we once were.

Well, Pepper doesn’t concern herself with all that mental junk food, and in her own quiet way is teaching me a thing or two about aging with dignity and grace. (I need this because I’m facing one of those mile-marker birthdays this summer.)

Thirty years ago today a little brown filly made her way to this earth. I didn’t know her then, but I can only imagine how adorable she was. Nice markings, good conformation, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

I have known her for twenty of her thirty years.

And what a trip it’s been.

To celebrate this important birthday, here are ten things I’m learning from the birthday mare:

1. Be the star of your own life.
2. Show up every day, even if you have a few aches and pains.
3. Be loyal to your herd.
4. Chew your food. Take your time when you eat.
5. Be strong.
6. Face your fears.
7. Establish and maintain routines.
8. Find strength in being gentle.
9. Accept help when it’s offered.
10. Never pass up dessert.

Thanks Miss P. And Happy, Happy Birthday!

Leave a comment and tell us what you’re learning from Pepper. She’d love to know.