Pumpkin Patch

by | Jul 31, 2017

pumpkin patch flowerYesterday I walked out into the yard to discover my favorite rose bush awash in crimson. Her name is Pumpkin Patch, and she has a story to tell.

​In early October 2011, less than a week before she died, my mother stood at the bedroom window staring out at her beloved rose bushes. They were planted in whiskey barrels and, even so late in the season, were covered with blooms.

I wondered if the faraway look in her eyes belied sadness, or if she was lost in the mental fog caused by the cancer pressing on her brain. “What are you thinking, Ma?” I inquired.   “We need a rose for that empty barrel, don’t you think?” She said, pointing to one that had stood empty for many months; an indication of her decline.

By this time Mom was incredibly weak and unstable on her feet, even with the walker, so I was surprised when she yelled to my dad who was resting nearby in his easy chair, “Ole, get up! We’re taking Sis to the nursery to pick out a rose!”

Dad and I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded. Dad drove and I sat in the back with Mom, whose eyes scanned the landscape along her favorite county road. “Remember that nice farm stand, Deed?” I nodded, recalling many times we traveled that road together in search of an estate sale, or explore the antique stores in Coburg, or walk through the pioneer cemetery. I squeezed her hand as the memories washed over me, hoping she didn’t notice my tears.

At the first nursery they told us their rose crop had been wiped out by a pest. Dad and I exchanged worried glances through the rear-view mirror. “Drive to Bloomers, they’ll have what we want!” Mom directed. Dad had barely stopped the car in front of Bloomers Nursery when Mom flung her door open, heaved herself out of the car, and began pushing her walker across the gravel driveway. I ran ahead to clear a path. Dad followed behind, anxiously pushing his own walker over the unsteady ground and yelling, “Sis, stop her before she falls!”

But there was no stopping her. In what would be a final burst of energy my mother, with her signature tenacity, hoisted her walker over a railroad tie and came to a stop in front of a bush covered in gorgeous deep orange blooms. “This is it, don’t you think?” she said, grinning and glancing at me for approval.

She appeared to sleep on the ride home, but as soon as Dad pulled into the driveway Mom sprung back into action, barking orders from her perch on a rickety bench: “get my trowel from the wheelbarrow; bring that bag of garden mulch and there’s a box of bone meal in the shed; be careful as you remove her from the container, her roots are fragile; fill the hole with water and fertilizer before you put her in; take your time, don’t hurry, give her roots time to settle.

Everything I know about roses, I learned from my mother. She’d walked me through the steps of planting, transplanting, pruning and feeding many times before. This time she recited every detail as it if were the first time, though I imagine she took such care because she knew it would be the last.

Later, I came into the bedroom to find my mother once again standing at the window, peering out at the patio. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” she said, motioning to Pumpkin Patch. “She’s just perfect,” I replied.

Afterwards” she said,  “you’ll take her home with you, okay?”

And every time she blooms I’ll think of you, Mom.