Blooming Roses

I started my own wish book of a bedroom filled with pillows, bookshelves and poster-covered walls.

When I was a child, our family moved from one military base to another every year or two. On my first day at a new school, my mother would say, “Don’t worry, you’re a rose. You’ll bloom wherever you’re planted.”

As the years passed and the time grew closer for my father to retire from the nomadic lifestyle of the Air Force, we all became excited about owning a home for the first time. Instead of having to take whatever unit was available on the base housing list, soon, we would be looking for a permanent place to live. Each of us (kids) would have our own bedroom painted in our favorite color instead of the standard issue white or beige.

Mom made lists and cut pictures from magazines that she pasted into notebooks. I started my own wish book of a bedroom filled with pillows, bookshelves and poster-covered walls.

Mom said the kitchen was the hub of the house. Ours would be an enormous gathering room. She imagined it with an old farmhouse sink, electrified cast iron stove and red and white gingham curtains. The house, itself, would be sprawling with good bones and fertile roots that would sprout daffodils in the spring and roses in the summer. She would look for growth marks of children on closet doors, evidence a caring family had lived there. Our new house would have already earned the name “home.” It was up to us to make it ours.

A big front porch with a wooden swing attached to the ceiling joist – Mom and I both agreed about that. I pictured us sitting there every evening with a tall glass of sweet tea finished with a garden sprig of crushed mint clinging to the rim. It was sappy and idyllic, but then, who fantasizes in reality?

While we waited for that day to come, we collected items that represented each place we’d lived: a piece of pottery from California, an antique bedroom set from Texas, a hand-carved cabinet from Japan, and (my contribution) a bag of rocks labeled by state. We were gathering memories to take home.

Dad finally retired after twenty-five years of service. Our last move was almost ceremonial. We wouldn’t have to pack our belongings into boxes ever again. I could paint my bedroom walls purple, if I wanted to. I could make friends and keep them!

My father decided we would retire to Connecticut. My very southern mother directed her disappointment and energy into finding our new home. For weeks my parents looked at houses with realtors, leaving me and my siblings with relatives. Every day, they returned disillusioned. It seemed there was nothing that resembled Mom’s checklist, or aligned with their checkbook.

I sensed my mother’s resignation. Time was running short. Our furniture would be arriving soon and three extra kids in any relative’s household was a sure way to alienate the best of families. My mother had waited twenty-five years for her dream, and I feared it was not going to materialize.

A week later, our parents cryptically announced they would not be house hunting that day; we were all going on a picnic. After a twenty minute drive into the country, they pulled into a driveway. I eyed the house in front of us critically; there was no front porch. I was angry and stayed in the car while my brother and sister ran to the back yard to check out the pond.

The two story white Dutch colonial was fronted by a trellis covered with tiny wild roses. It was pretty, but there was no place for a swing to sit on while I read my book or spent time with company.

The summer heat finally forced me out of our station wagon. Reluctantly, I walked under the trellis and into the house. The walls were different–textured and sponged a unique design. To the right, framed glass doors led to a large living room with a brick fireplace. Floor to ceiling windows dressed in sheer white curtains fluttered a welcome. It was . . . nice.

I followed Mom and Dad’s voices to the kitchen, almost walking into the side of a big white refrigerator. The stove was equally old and bulky; they would need to be replaced but, the white apron of a porcelain sink shone against wood counter tops and glass cabinet doors. I wanted to hate this house, but there were sparks of possibility. I could see Mom thought so, too.

Upstairs, there were three bedrooms – not the four that we had planned. My sister and I would have to share. Again. Mom walked in as I checked out the solitary closet.

“What do you think?” she asked. “I know you wanted your own room, but we’ll paint it your favorite color.”

“There’s no front porch,” I said, watching her face closely.

“It’ll do for now.” She forced a smile. “Maybe we can add one later.”

***

I grew to adulthood in that house. We painted it barn red and planted big, hardy roses. There was a place for all of our transplanted memories, including my bag of rocks that decorated the flower garden. The coveted front porch was never added. Instead, I happily spent my free time in the not-so-enormous kitchen, reading a book, my feet propped up on a chair, drinking iced tea from plastic cups.

I had grown to love that house that hadn’t met my first expectations. It hadn’t changed much over the years. The paint had faded and the trellis sagged under its abundant foliage. It had served us well. It had become ours while we were forging divergent roots and creating new aspirations.

The day I left, I dug up one of those rose bushes, carefully placed it in a bucket and put it in the back of my car. It was a rose – a piece of home – it would bloom wherever we were planted.