Violets for the Soul

The first sight of a robin is, for many, a harbinger of spring. But for me, it’s the first bloom on our Old Blush rose, the pride and joy of my garden.

Strategically planted where it can receive ample sunshine and be seen from any window at the back of our house, this rose is particularly special to me for a reason. It’s a volunteer of the Old Blush my mother nurtured for years in her garden in Groesbeck, Texas, where I was born and raised. When our childhood home was sold after her death in 1990, each of her three grown children was allowed to take one specimen from her well-tended rose garden. I chose Old Blush, knowing it to be a beloved antique rose that originated in China about a thousand years ago.

I believe it was one of Mother’s first purchases from the Antique Rose Emporium near Brenham, Texas, which supplied many of the specimens she loved so dearly. My husband and I have since gone there many times to seek out some of her favorites, such as the easy-maintenance Carefree Beauty that almost effortlessly lives up to its name.

The nursery’s website describes Old Blush as not only one of the “most common” of old roses but also one of the “most valuable, for it has passed on its incredible blooming prowess to countless cultivars during the history of hybridization in the West.” We are honored to have such a piece of horticultural — and family — history in our garden.

Over the years, Mother’s Old Blush moved with me from house to house, often surviving extended stays in a paint bucket with a little soil and water for sustenance until I could find the time to plant it in a suitable spot. As the tree canopy and sunny areas of our current back yard changed, Old Blush withstood a couple of moves around the garden until it wound up, unfazed, in what seemed to be the perfect place. Without asking for much in the way of pruning, fertilizer or pest control, it gave us blazes of pink to enjoy from season to season.  

One day I noticed a new branch emerging in Old Blush’s previous location, looking mysteriously like the 6-foot-wide rose holding court in the corner bed. A sprig of a root must have lingered beneath the surface of the soil after the transplant. Over time, the young stems began to produce the same leaves and roses of their former host.

Though I regarded it as a little miracle — a “violets for the soul,” if you will —we had no idea at the time how grateful we’d be to have this “cousin once-removed” of Mother’s rose. A few years later, for reasons we’ve yet to understand, the original Old Blush simply gave up the ghost. That spring the bright green leaves failed to reappear and the rosy pink buds were no more.

So imagine the joy and relief of spying that first bloom a couple of weeks ago and watching it gradually unfold. Dozens have followed, and our “new” Old Blush is in her glory as perennials all around wake up from their winter naps.

The cycle of life in our garden continues, as it will season after season. As comforting as that it is to know, nature suggests that the human species might also do some growing if we listen to the lessons spring offers free of charge — lessons of tradition, change, renewal and purpose. There will be fresh tendrils of possibility in the days ahead. May we embrace them with the resilience of an ancient, hardy rose that’s mastered the art of blooming, wherever it’s planted.