Yesterday we spent Easter at my Grandma’s old house. Really it belonged to my Great-Grandparents, and the house itself is nearing it’s 100th birthday. It’s architecture style, the way the front and backyard is lined out, tell a story of long ago; it’s both mysterious and inviting. Many family memories have been made there, my own mother’s memories, my Grandfather’s memories of being raised as a boy there with 3 sisters, not to mention my memories of being there with my own Grandparents! It’s a generational house, passed down again and again.
In the backyard there is a secret place, a concrete slab that is easily hidden by grass and leaves that reveals the little handprints of my Grandpa and his sisters’ when they were young. So much history is there.
My Great Grandmother had a beautiful rose garden, she was English and they love their roses. When she passed away, my Grandma took it over and made it her own. I’m just not a rose bush girl… the thorns always seem to get me one way or another, no matter if I’m careful and wearing gloves, there always seems to be one thorn that is skilled in cutting through. My favorite flowers (that look like roses) are Gardenias – the beautiful white, satiny petals, the rose-like shape, but the gentleness and friendliness of being thornless.
They are the “perfect rose” to me, perfumed with a heavenly scent, equipped with an ethereal beauty, and no danger of drawing blood.
But my family has loved roses, and they are so beautiful.
In the midst of a bustling city, very close to the heart of our downtown, it is still a strange oasis – time stops when you’re wandering in their garden.