When Roses Bloom

When I think of roses, two people instantaneously come to mind. The first is Eddie Weissblum---my next door neighbor when I was a little girl and lived on Bolmer Avenue. Eddie grew magnificent long stem yellow roses. He tended them daily—lovingly. The plants were fed and pruned and washed to prevent fungus and insects. They were trimmed back in the fall to allow voluminous blooms in the spring.

And like Eddie, we too had  beautiful rose bushes along the front walk of our house. Ours were red--my mother tended to them—although not as fastidiously as Eddie. But when I think of red roses I do not think of my mother; instead, I always think of my Grandmother Vespo---Nonny. Nonny’s birthday was in early June—when roses bloom.

And every year on Nonny’s birthday my mother would always cut as many stems of roses as were in bloom or were about to bloom and she would wrap the cut ends in wet paper towel and them wrap the wet paper towel in aluminum foil. I was in charge of carrying the bouquet when we drove to the Bronx to deliver them.

And upon arrival, Nonny’s heavy metal apartment door would open and I would say Happy Birthday! And she would giggle and hug and kiss me and say thank you! And I always felt so proud even though all I ever did was hand the bouquet over.

 Nonny had a way of making your feel that everything you did was special.

And nearly two years ago when my mother and I went back to Bolmer Avenue to pay a condolence call to Elaine Weissblum—Eddie’s newly widowed wife-- I was elated to see that all the rose bushes were still thriving. And I mentioned to Larry, Eddie’s son, how seeing the roses warmed my heart. I told him that my fondest memories of his father were of him caring for his beloved plants.

Larry was seemingly touched—he told me that Eddie’s greatest passion until the day he died was pruning and feeding and watering those yellow beauties. And he told me that he was certain that his father was surrounded by perfect roses in heaven.

And along the rear side of my house in front of the arborvitae that borders my house and my neighbor Andy, I have planted a hedge of pink Knock-Out roses. But unlike the heirloom varieties tended to by Eddie and my mother, my roses require little maintenance. The blooms are also much less dramatic.

When I sit down to write my blog this time of year and look out my window to my left, I can see my pink rose hedge. It gives me joy. The bright pink blooms against the dark green wall of evergreen showcase nature at its best. But even better, they remind me of Nonny and her giggle, and they remind me of a kind neighbor, who gave me an appreciation for the garden--- and how love and devotion produce magnificent blooms---and indelible memories.