On Thursday, after Uncle Jack's funeral, we all went back to the house he shared with my Aunt Vicki, to eat and spend time with family and friends. As I was walking up to the house, I saw a rose growing beside the garage. It was a tall, red China rose with spotless foliage.
I asked Aunt Vicki about it, and she said, "That was my mother's rose. I dug it up and moved it here after she passed away."
"Do you know the name of it?" I asked.
"No, I don't."
"Would you like me to tell you?"
"You know what it is??" she asked, excitedly.
"I do. I'm pretty sure that it's 'Louis Philippe'."
You will not be surprised to when I tell you that I brought three cuttings of Aunt Vicki's rose home with me in my carry-on bag. They are now planted in a milk jug, covered with the top of a soda bottle, and are sitting in the north-facing window of my basement workshop ... where I hope at least one of them will root and grow into a new plant for MY garden.
