Roses. The queen of flowering plants in this part of the world, at least by my estimation. We moved around so much when I was a child, that I have no memory of, nor interest in them then.
We may have had roses on Windsor Street in Salt Lake City, since we lived at 923 on that street for three years. For me it was grades 1-3 at Hamilton School, since razed. Kindergarten was in Washington State, where I went to Sakajaweah (spelling is questionable) School, and the outstanding school memory was mistakenly riding to the end of the line as a scared little four-year-old.
That and running (always running) through a pile of hot stove ashes. The ashes caused a burn on my left ankle that sent me to the hospital. My ward was just across the way from my mother’s ward, after she gave birth to my youngest sister. We sang to each other. In those days, they kept new mothers for ten days. In my day, they kept us four days. Now it’s just overnight, and maybe not even that.
Among my earliest memories is running from a dog (being chased, I thought). Now, well over 70 years later, I still have a scar on my forehead from the fall to the sidewalk that ensued. Among the positive things that age brings is the appreciation of the past. The mostly lovely past. Which has nothing to do with roses.
From Washington State, we moved back to Utah and the terrible winter of 1949 in Vernal. We girls still had to wear skirts to school, and Mama knitted us leggings for the walk to and from. I now knit socks, and have just finished one. I’m just disciplined enough to finish the other sock, if Cathy next door at Desert Thread will turn the heel, as she did on the first sock. Can’t have two different gauges of knitting on the pair, can we? I knit looser than Cathy, and prefer to turn the heel differently that this pattern shows, so I’m going to take the easy way out, and ask Cathy this favor.
Roses? Oh, yes. I don’t remember having them in Los Angeles, but who knows? My sisters, for sure. I’ll hear from them. Mr. Somebody, next door, can’t remember his name, had a glorious garden. Although roses prefer a cold season, some people in Southern California use ice cubes to make them bloom nicely. The sisters, and probably my brother, will respond about L.A. and Mr. Somebody. I do remember that the Endo family lived on the other side of us.
From Los Angeles, the move was to Moab, where Daddy was Moab’s first city manager. His brother Uzel (known here as Jack Foote), was on the city council at the time (1955). Brothers stick to brothers, and there being no other suggestions put forth, Daddy was hired, and we moved to Moab. I got my first job at Riley Drug (later named Family Drug). It was there that I later met Sam, on his return from the service in Japan. He used to tell the kids that he got his wife at the drugstore.
I really digress this time. Daddy’s favorites were yellow roses. Sam and I were partial to the Peace family. The original Peace is pink and yellow, and all of the family have honky leaves and stems. We planted a number of bushes at the old house on Fifth West, and then more at the new house on Second South.
Peace are floribundas, as opposed to grandifloras. Ask a nursery person. They’ll tell you the difference. We loved the original Peace, and then we loved the Pink Peace, and so on. But when I visited my sister in Northglenn near Denver, she took the cake by bringing in some blossoms from Mr. Lincoln. Sturdy stems and lovely buds and flowers, and very fragrant to boot. I’m undone. I need to have one.