Halloween Thelma Style

I've got to make this quick, because it is already Halloween, and I was just talking to my oldest daughter about how my mother loved to celebrate Halloween. She said, "Mom, you should blog about that." Well, I'm running out of time, and I don't want to wait a year to share this with you!

My mom was a pretty funny character. She had this thing about Halloween. We five kids were allowed to Trick or Treat until we got to be teenagers. Once the word "teen" came after the number in our age, we were doomed to become the greeters and official candy-disher-outers to all the lucky little kids who came to our door.

Well, I say "lucky", but actually that was only if one was under the appropriate 13 years of age, or if one was short enough to easily pass for being 12 and under.

You must understand my mom's point of view; there were lots of kids in our predominantly Catholic neighborhood, and candy was expensive. Older kids had the advantage of speed over little treaters, and as far as my mother was concerned, she wasn't going to run out of candy for the little ones just because teenagers were beating them to the door. That wasn't right.

The original Halloween of Trick the Teenager fame was a holiday of extreme delight for my dear mom. The first teenagers to darken our doorway on that memorable night were clearly older than 12. As a matter of fact, Mama suspected that the vampire, Frankenstein and ghost were at least 16 years of age. And as I said, that was against the rules. In our house, anyway.

So the tall, lanky ghouls held out their bags and said in deep, crackling voices, "Trick or Treat!" Mama excused herself, and came back with her hands behind her back. She could not disguise her obvious delight as she swept her arms forward and dropped something heavy into each bag. Whatever it was, it hit the bottom of the bags like a lump of coal. Heavier than apples, but lighter than lead.

The ghouls, looking bewildered, peered into their bags. What the heck was that, anyway? Thanking Mama properly because they were yet young gentlemen, they quickly exited our yard.

Mama shut the door and had to sit down, she was laughing so hard. She was infinitely satisfied with her cleverness.

Now you're wondering what it was that gave my mom such delight to drop into those bags.Well, the night before, she had served the family Southern drop biscuits. I don't know if you've ever had such biscuits before, but I can assure you that after 30 or 40 minutes, drop biscuits are hard as rocks. Let alone, a day or two. Our dog wouldn't even eat them.


So began Mama's tradition of always baking a few extra drop biscuits the night before Halloween.

I just thought you'd enjoy it. And by the way, if you were one of the ghoulish recipients of my mother's Halloween prank, the answer is yes. It was my mom, and it was you...you don't think anybody else's mom gave out those things, do you?

Trick or Treat, ya'll!

It's Five O'Clock! Do You Know Where Your Camera Is?

This is a beautiful Autumn! I am in love with Autumn, too. Have I ever told you that? If not, then perhaps you will enjoy reading my post from my art blog, "Little Pink Spaceship Gazette" on http://www.deberklein.com. You'll find out how I love this colorful and mysterious season. You might even get a good laugh out of it.  It was later published in Fine Art Views, Clint Watson's art blog, and remains one of my favorites.

Posted below it are this year's photographic gleanings.

by deber klein on 11/7/2008 9:26:22 AM

"Mower in the Midst" or "Mowing Over the Speed Limit" It's Autumn and the fall colors are truely awesome this year. Three days ago as I headed toward the grocery store, I noticed a tree so red that I about ran off the road looking at it. Actually, I'm a safe driver (a very good driver, Rain Man!).  But it was tall tree, a little awkward in it's shape. It stood alone by the busy roadside flaunting it's vibrant red leaves much like old ladies who swagger about with those feathered red hats atop their heads. I was instantly inspired. I must paint that tree! But where was my handy dandy brand new fancy Canon camera, my friend? At home on the kitchen counter. Of course. And the afternoon light was changing so fast that I couldn't go back and grab it in time. I would have to wait for another late afternoon, hoping the rain or wind wouldn't come and knock off all the leaves before another opportunity arose. Thank goodness yesterday, only two days later, was a perfect fall day. So I grabbed my camera around 2:00 PM and headed out for my annual autumn photo fest. The tree would still be there in all its glory. It was a little early, so I saved my special red tree for last. I always do that anyway, save the best for last. Driving all over the neighborhood, I photographed other red trees and yellow trees, families walking hand in hand with their kids at the park or walking their best friends on leashes. Oh. And that one wildman mowing the park lawn at an obscene speed, dust flying up behind him obscuring everything in its wake. Nothing at all. Hmmm... At last I swung Bullet toward the grocery store. (Bullet is my trusty little red Subaru.) As I came around the corner where the tree had been or where I thought the tree had been, there was nothing.  Nothing at all. Hmmm... It was just a little strip of land between an old neighborhood and the main road, so I turned onto that road thinking that the leaves must have fallen or I'd mistaken the location and may miss the moment again. Well I missed the moment all right. I stopped and asked a man about the tree and he said, "That ol' red tree? The one 'at wuz right over there? They cut it down yesterday." I was like, "No they did not! Not yesterday? Were they crazy? It was gorgeous! They should have at least waited...'till the leaves fell off." I mean, just between you and me, I wouldn't have been able to do it to a tree who had such zest for life. It's like having your dog put down 'cause he's getting old and his eyes are a little hazy, but he's still running around playing tug of war with the cat. Then seeing the man's expression, I realized he figured he knew who the real crazy was, so I did my usual explanation of being an artist and blaa, blaa, blaaa. I mean, I like trees but I don't hug them, you know. He just turned his back on me and went into the house shaking his head. It was just a tree. It was a red tree, though. And now it's gone. All this is just to say that those of us who go around taking hundreds and thousands of photos of charming but insignificant things for the purpose of possibly wanting to paint them some day must realize our secondary roll in all this. When we take a photo, whether it is of a crooked old tree or a 150 year old dilapidated broken down two room shack with no doors on it, or some big wild fella' mowing the lawn at fifty miles an hour with the sun behind his back making his head glow like that of an angel's, we are recording a moment. A moment that will never be again. I often go through my photos, finding something wonderful in it's antiquity and charm that no longer exists. I pass by places and remember when the light was amazing and the shadows were long and mysterious and I missed it. Why? Well, maybe I was too busy to turn my car around or too shy to ask if I may take a picture. Maybe I was slow on the draw. Or maybe...I didn't have my camera with me at the time. So, my advice to you, my friend, and to moi self? Never leave home without your camera. Never! Unless you have one of those photographic memories that only liars and other fishermen have. As for me, I am getting a purse big enough to hold not just my wallet, but my camera as well. In the camera case of course, since I have been known to be little reckless. Me and that mower dude. And next time I see a rickety old tree showing off just for my eyes and mine alone, I'll do it the honor of recording its unique beauty. Right then and there. For eternity.

It's Fall and I'm Still Falling In Love!

 I'm always and eternally falling in love with Fall! Here is my annual sampling of one of the best wonders of  good ol' Planet Earth.

Just a pile of dry leaves...or a small fall pleasure? I especially love the sound they make as I walk among them, but alas, you'll have to take my word for that.

This big old show-off is one of those trees that deserves an annual photograph, just like the ones they give little kids in school. The squirrels seem to like it, too.

What would any fall photo series be without a picture of this classic Autumn show-off pretending to be a Karate Dude. But fear not, dear friend. It's just my Bill, and he's just your average, ordinary brilliant business executive, enjoying cooking out on the back deck with his best friend, Moi. (You should see the pics I didn't put in.)

The creek that runs through my yard is babbling this week; probably about how refreshing life is when you're a little creek sporting a carpet of mossy rocks and yellow leaves on this nice fall day.

My magnificent "Champney's Pink Cluster" rose, now climbing at least 12' high above "Lady Banks'" tall canes, can only be enjoyed through the close-up flower taking lens of my newest camera, my Nikon something-or-other, which is very handy-dandy, indeed. I just wish she'd bow down and let me get a little whiff of her wonderful fragrant perfume.

How sweet is the color of this Japanese Maple with the sun at her back.

Below: My favorite geranium loves to sip from the spattering fountain when I'm not looking. Like me, she thrives in the Autumn weather.

What do you do when you plant a species rambler on a cute little arching metal arbor in your front yard? Well once you realize that that nice yellow rose gets to be 20' or more high, you prop the dang thing up until your dear gardener hubbie can build some sort of "arbor" for it to creep out on, to shade the parking area in your yard. This is what I call making the best of a situation...not a bad situation, but an unexpected one.
  

This is how the taller mountains looked two weekends ago. Yes, honey, that's snow and I love the stuff! Especially when it creeps up on me unexpectedly...

Who Needs Peace and Quiet, Anyway?

I crawled out of bed this morning at 9:04. Bill had been up just long enough to brew some coffee, so he brought me my first cup, as is his tradition. Then he disappeared, as is his tradition. I remembered him saying last night that the leaves are all in color out back, so I hobbled out in bare feet to the back deck with my coffee in hand to enjoy the beautiful Autumn leaves. That's why I live in North Carolina. So I can enjoy the change of the seasons. Right?

The two dogs followed me outside. They also wanted to sniff the fresh fall air and survey the back yard.

I crossed the deck to the table, barely (tip of toes) avoiding stepping full footal in a wet little plop of rained on doggie poop which evidently had gone undetected from a couple of days back. Great. Rinsing my toes off in a handy puddle of rain water, I thought, "Whew! At least I didn't step right on it! That would surely have distroyed my moment of peace and quiet." Nevertheless, I was headed back inside to bathe my five stinky little piggies in some of my sister's handmade soap when suddenly there was a terrible commotion.

The two dogs had cornered a poor little squirrel. Probably the one who's shadow had been dancing across the wall yesterday when I grabbed my camera only to find she'd already departed. Now she was running this way when one dog would grab her. Then she'd escape and go that way, and the other dog would nab her. I shouted frantically at the dogs as they and their prey skitterd hither and tither. I ran around flailing my arms wildly. "No, dogs! Bad! Bad!"

"We hunters," they proudly barked. "Squirrels bad!"

The door to my bedroom remained agape, and I realized the squirrel was eyeing it as a means of escape. She was headed that way, but the dogs were on the job. Still I screamed, "Stop! No! Stop! Bad dogs!"

Finally I got the dogs in and the door closed. The poor squirrel just lay there, breathing heavily. She was injured, but I couldn't tell how badly. At least no blood was evident. I thought I'd give her a moment to recover.

That's when the cat walked up. As is his habit, he wanted in so he could eat breakfast. Then he saw the squirrel and thought, "Oh! Breakfast Delivered!" He wouldn't go in, so I had to capture him, slamming the door behind him as I tossed him inside.

Then I let the dogs out front and the second of our three cats came in. Though Layla can jump the fence, she can't get onto the back deck because of a gate. Whew! Only one cat to go.

But alas, peace was not yet in my grasp. Somehow, clever and relentless Bo managed to escape the fence. He was determined to get that squirrel, yet. Both dogs ran barking to the back gate. Discovering it locked, they just ran amuck about the yard for a while, chosing to bark at neighbors and the mailman instead of the victim still recovering on the back porch.

Thank goodness that the one cat left outside was Little Kitty, who has FHDS...Feline Hunting Deficit Syndrome. I'm not too worried.

But an hour and a half later, I'm still concerned about the squirrel, because she hasn't gotten up and scampered off. What am I to do with her, poor thing? I'm thinking it would have been more merciful to let the dogs just do her in. It would have been swift, and thus more humane than letting her die out there, suffering for hours.

As I write, Bill just found Little Kitty locked accidently in my studio overnight. My hero. (That's what you get for sneaking in my studio and hiding, as is your tradition, you little...)

I'm going for more coffee. Maybe I'll get dressed, too, and hang out with my husband for a while...and check on the squirrel again and again and again. I should take her to the vet. Dang. Dangdangdang!

Well, I must away, my fellow squirrel lovers. (And to you squirrel haters? I know you're out there, and I don't even want to hear it.)

Autumn Blessings to all,

Deber

Squirrel update: Bill assisted the squirrel off the porch where she fell into an empty pool. (Again, My Hero.) Bill thought she'd broken her leg and was headed down there to check, but she was gone when he got down there. So I think Bo bruised her leg when he had her in his mouth but not so badly that she couldn't scale the walls of the pool. All I can do is sigh and shake my head. What a way to start the day.

Also, our friendly mailman caught Bad Bo and put his hiney back in the fence. He loves Bo. Thanks Mr. Mailman. You're my other hero of the day.

At last. Peace and Quiet. I shall enjoy!

I'm Still Here

Just a little note to let you know that I am still alive. Not that there is any reason I wouldn't be...that I am aware of, anyway. But I have been very busy with moving one of my daughters, keeping one to four of my grandkids, depending on the day, and getting the shutters designed and made on the front of my little house, plus buying fabric and unwrapping things from my dad's house. And visiting with my sister, Nancy, and her hubbie, Pete. This is the fate of a woman who came from a large family and then wanted her own large family. They grow up but they don't go away, and to further complicate things, they multiply. Thank God. I love it.

Updates: The weather is getting cooler, so my "old roses" which bloom once are actually getting ready for a fall bloom, and I can't wait to see them. Most of them are newly planted, but my noisette, Champney's Pink Cluster, has bloomed all summer. Alas, I can't get close enough to her to enjoy the sweet odor because she crept up through the middle of a very tall Lady Banks. She's happy, though.

The roadside rustled rose is doing alright. I am still watching and waiting. There still appear to be two different types of leaves on her. She's just a little shy while in recovery. Next year I hope to see her show off a bit.

Gotta go throw dinner together. Bill's probably coming down the street as we speak.

See you soon.

deber

Remembering September 11, 2001

In five days, it will have been eight years since my mother died. She was quite an extraordinary woman, and I miss her.

But the reason I remember her today is because 9/11 always reminds me of the day I was getting ready to go to Florida and stay with her for that last time. Sisters Ellen and Nancy were already down there, and sis Jeanie was on her way to my house. The plan was that she would leave her car here. I'd drive us down to Florida (because I always have to be the driver. I insist.). But as fate would have it, we didn't leave that day.

Because I was packing, I didn't turn on the television. Normally, I am obsessed with checking in with the morning news, but I was only concerned with Mama. Until that is, I got a phone call from a friend telling me to turn on the TV. An accident had happened and the World Trade Center had just been hit by a plane. I immediately tuned in and observed the horrors unfold, alone at first, but together in spirit with the rest of you. And you know what happened. As things unfolded,  we all came to the realization that that first plane was the beginning of an attack against the people of the United States and not an accident at all.

I don't remember the sequence of everything; it was incredibly traumatic even to those of us far from the attacks. My children were dismissed from school early that morning, and the grown ones who lived in town came to my house so we could all comfort and strengthen one another. Jeanie arrived, having heard about it when she was almost to my house. I met her in the driveway, and we held each other and cried for all those people.

To people like my husband who were at work with no access to television or radio during those awful first hours, the reality didn't set in until they reached home and saw the events played out again and again on television. But it did happen, and eventually it became very real to everyone here in the United States of America.

There are those who for whatever twisted political reasons, attempt to put the blame for this unprevolked act of war onto the shoulders of the people of the United States. I've seen the shows and read the accusations, and have concluded that in order to believe such things, one has to really want to believe. Such theories can only survive in a mind wide open to suggestion or one already poluted with anti-American sentiment. It requires both faith and fantasy to believe in something so foundationless.

Don't think I'm just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road of Life, oblivious to lions lurking in the shadows. Like all countries, the United States is not a perfect nation. Surely we have made many mistakes. But we have also done many good things. Many good things. On September 11, we the citizens and lovers of the United States must remember those good things.

Americans have paid for the freedom of many with the blood of our people. Yes, it was for us (US); you, me, and our children. But it was also for strangers in faraway places whose lives were saved and their countries made free. 

Some are now insisting that it is time to move on. Let it go, they say. Time heals all wounds and its been time enough. But deep wounds leave scars to remind us of what happened. Every now and then we need to take our fingers and retrace the path of those scars so we can remind ourselves what we've been through, and be strengthened knowing how brave and united we became in a time of trouble.

God bless America. Pray for our nation, my friend.

Rose Rustlin' Update!

Pictured above, my mystery rose (she may be a wild Carolina Rose) which I grew from a cutting years ago. She got shuffled into a shady corner until last fall. She had her first bloom this spring.

You should see my mossy red-leaved foundling today (I blogged about her last week), happily planted outside the garden gate just in case she grows to be a big mamma-jama rose. Let me tell ya', she is one lucky girl. I was concerned about the weather being too hot for transplanting, since it is usually hotter than the dickins (whatever that is) here in NC this time of year. But this week has been marvelously cool. A fall week already. If I didn't know better, I'd think God had brought this weather just for her benefit. But she's only a rose...

So yesterday I went down to check on her (I'm thinking of her more as a pet than a plant...maybe a sick substitute for losing poor Charlie a couple of weeks ago...). She is growing already, her beautiful red leaves opening up as she stretches upwards toward the sun.

"Yep, doctor," said the rose rustler in his thick Southern accent to the...to the plant doctor. "Looks like she's gonna make it!"

I'm feelin' right happy about that.

How to Transplant a Rose

Above, Rose de Recht, planted "bare root" this spring, this one has been blooming continuously. The medium sized flowers have a wonderful fragrance. Though there is some virus in some of the leaves, she is still a beauty, and my favorite of the new "old" roses I planted this year.

How to transplant a rose bush:

It's best to do this in the fall or spring, but can be done other times, if you have no other choice. (If it's really hot, I might give it some relief from afternoon shade with a proped up piece of plywood or an old towel. Make sure it won't blow over onto the rose bush in a high wind. If it's really cold, what in the heck are you doing gardening now? You can put a heavy load of mulch around it which will generate some heat and help it survive the chill.)

1. When you dig the rose (check laws in your area if it's not from a place where you have permission) be sure to get as much of the root system as possible. You may prefer to divide the rose, taking only one side of the plant and roots. Also get a good amount of dirt from around the bush. You'll need it later. Being planted in familiar soil (with local bacteria, etc.) will help it to survive the transplant.
2. Trim away any large branches to about one foot above the soil line. This will allow the rose to put most of its energy into developing new roots instead of having to support large branches and leaves. Leave some leaves, if possible, and any new growth at the base.
3. Dig a large hole, easily big enough to accommodate the root system and some added soil. As you dig, you may want to put the dirt onto a garbage bag so it won't leave a mess around the plant. Bill and I, being reckless, never do that.
4. Once you've removed the soil from the hole, dump a couple of large scoops each of peat moss or root starter mix, manure (from the garden store or from the pasture, if you're lucky enough to have a farm) and rich top soil maybe with some leaf mold into the new hole along with the dirt you salvaged when you dug up the rose. If you have heavy clay soil, add a scoop or two of sand for drainage.
5. With a shovel, mix it all up well. Then remove enough so that the rose can be planted back up to the soil line it had when you dug it up. Pack the remaining soil into a mound within the hole so the roots will fit over the mound.
6. Set the roots on the mound. You are going to want the planted area to form a sort of "well", slightly lower than the surrounding earth, so that water will sit long enough to soak into the roots below. So make sure that the roots will be deep enough to where the old soil line at the base of the rose is slightly below the surrounding earth.
7. Place the soil mixture around your rose, distributing it evenly. Pack it down with your foot as you go so the soil will make contact with the roots of the rose. Don't forget to leave the well.
8. Top with a good layer of mulch, to hold in moisture and protect the roots from too much heat or cold.
9. Water your acquisition well. I water once so the water comes up to the edge of the well, and soaks in. Then I water at least two more times the same way. That way, I am sure that the water will go all the way down into the soil in the entire hole. For the first few weeks, I don't let it dry out too much. Water when the soil is dry on top, but still slightly moist an inch deep. Water in the morning to prevent black spot or other such ailments, but if you must water later in the day, try to avoid getting water on the leaves.
10. If you are really worried about root development, use a rooting hormone (such as Root Tone)  in your first or second watering. Follow the directions on the package for transplanting.

And as every fancy-pants Rose Rustler says when she's all done plantin', "Voila!...pardner.  I'm gonna just mozie along to the sank and get this here dirt out from under my fangernails." (Do be sure to get your hands and fingernails cleaned thoroughly using soap and a nail brush.)

So long for now.

Today Empty Nest, Tomorrow the World!

Daughter JoAnna (Joie) is at last on her way to New York City, and naturally I have mixed emotions. On one hand, I do so enjoy her company. She's adorable and funny and sweet. I also love her cooking, and the fact that she helps clean house, walks the dogs (including the one we inherited from her), and picks up a loaf of bread when necessary. And sometimes we hang out and watch movies together in the middle of the day, which is especially nice. Quite a luxury, in fact, wallowing on the sofa with the dogs, beneath a blanket while sharing a bowl of popcorn.

But it always happens this way. Just as I was growing accustomed to being alone all day (after freshman Sydney had been home for the whole summer last year), Joie came home during that limbo time between acquiring her masters and finding a job. Now that I am used to having her around, she's moving out again.

If I look at my front door today, instead of seeing Joie's two feet through the crack under the door as she fumbles for the key, I see that familiar and unwelcome shadow. The empty nest.

The on-again-off-again relationship of parents and children at this juncture in life can be rather perplexing. First you're young, independent and fancy free. Then kids come along. You fall in love with them, they grow up, go off and you miss them. Then they come back, then they're gone again, and eventually you enjoy independence again (although this time you aren't exactly young anymore). As I always say, that's life. If Bill and I have done our job well, Joie will adjust quickly in New York. She will see it as an adventure, and she will enjoy her stay, however long it is. I hope she does. I pray that she does.

I know she will.

So I'm here talking to you, a total stranger, as I consider what to expect now that Joie is on her way again. Well, first, no more getting caught at the computer early in the morning, ("are you playing that game again?"). And no more having to wait to do my own laundry, no delicious high calorie meals that made me put on nine pounds since she's been home, no more "where are you going, Mom?" And could I forget, no more "What's-this-mess-on-the-kitchen-table-why-don't-you-do-art-in-your-studio-downstairs?"-stuff. (For those of you who haven't gotten there yet, children often attempt to switch roles once they've been away for a while.)

And when Bill gets home tonight, we're stuck with just each other. We'll eat dinner alone together, share a glass of wine, watch tv, and finally go to bed and talk back and forth peacefully while Bill reads and I do a crossword puzzle. Alone. Together. Old married people still crazy (about each other) after all these years.

Hmmm...well, that sounds pretty doggone nice. I can get used to that once more. Meanwhile, I'm not going to be sad and miserable. This is the way it should be. Thank God for our kids, and their kids. Thank God for today. Thank God for Bill, too.

Excuse me, please. I must go to the front door and inform Mr. Empty Nest that he's going to have to find another place to stay from now on. Bill and I want to be alone.

And tomorrow, my dear stranger...I am going to make art. On the kitchen table. And I'm not going to clean it up until I want to.

Rustlin' Abandoned Roses

There it was, a rusty old crane at the end of an old dirt road dotted with a couple of worn tires, various common weeds, some interesting rocks, one frog and a wide assortment of buzzing, biting insects. The perfect subject for daughter Joie's boyfriend, Donavan's photography assignment. Grandson Nate immediately dove for the frog; Joie immediately dove for cover from mosquitoes in the car. Bill went exploring along the river bank, and Donavan started snapping photos.

At first, being an artist, I examined the composition possibilities for the crane. Then I spotted something from the corner of my eye. Delicate fresh red foliage in a ditch filled with rubbish and weeds. I carefully crept near enough to investigate. It was the foliage of a rose. Obviously an old rose. An abandoned and unloved rose who had once graced the garden of some now demolished old home. She must have been bulldozed to the side when the road was made, and now she was begging me to save her from certain extinction.

Seeing that this faded beauty had only brand new growth sprouting from a few large and long dead canes, I used my thumbnail as a knife to cut off a pair of those new red shoots. But there was a big problem. The fragile red canes were already wilting after just a couple of minutes. Because Bill likes a tidy vehicle, there was no left over bottle of water with which to refresh the canes. Luckily, we were all desperate for water ourselves, so we bought some at a gas station up the road. After a bit of pleeding with the storekeeper, I was allowed to take a styrofoam cup to put my new acquisition in, with some of my own bottled water.

I can't understand how none of my companions found my new friend as interesting as I did. As we headed to River Bend Park, I examined her intently. Her canes are reddish green, with mossy growth at the stem around each new leaf. The new leaves themselves, are thin and folded and curly at the tips. They open to be a deep red-brown. I worried that new shoots wouldn't root this time of year, and finding scissors and a hatchet in the back of Bill's car (the scissors were mine, and the need to have a hatchet handy at all times is a remnant from Bill's Boy Scout days) I told him that I'd like him to dig up a small section of the rose when we went back for the "later in the day" photos that Donavan needed.

Heading home, we returned to the abandoned lot. As Donavan went right for the crane, I grabbed my scissors and Bill, his trusty hatchet. He didn't question. He didn't complain. (He is the best husband a girl like me could ever have!) He just climbed into that ditch and started hacking at the roots. All of the roots. I refused to succomb to a sense of guilt for leaving nothing behind, and a fear of responsibility (now I must succeed in making her live!). Bill dug her up, dead canes and all. Then he got a full grocery bag of the soil she'd been growing in, and stuffed her right on top of it. Dousing her bare roots with a bit of H2O, we headed home.

After pouring over all of my rose books, I can't find any foliage like hers. And examining the growth on the root we dug, I suspect that she may be two roses. One that was planted there on purpose and the other, perhaps a sport of it or a return to some older rose.

It's funny how your brain can train your eyes to spot a jewel amongst a passle of weeds. My little brain has trained my eyes to spot plants; all kinds of plants. I identify Joe Pye Weed, Goat's Beard and May Apple in the woods and along the shore of creeks and rivers. I find old herbs like wild mustard, sorrel, cinquefoil and Angelica in meadows. Best of all, I can spot an old abandoned rose just about anywhere.

I have read about "rose rustlers" who rescue old roses from certain extinction. I suppose I am a bit of a rose rustler myself. (I blogged about one earlier this year, on my art blog Little Pink Spaceship Gazette at deberklein.com.) This old girl in the picture is right happy about it, too. She deserves to live; even a place in my garden. And later, if she turns out to be a newly discovered "old rose", a moss or perhaps a long lost damask, I'll see to it that she gets spread around to the right people. If it turns out that she is just a common wild Carolina rose, Shakespear's words come to mind. "A rose by any other name does smell as sweet." I will still enjoy her. The foliage already has made her worth the rescue.

See youn's later, as they say 'round these here parts!

deber

By the way, if any of you could help me identify this foliage before a flower comes about, please feel free to comment! I'll be ever-so-grateful.

(And added later) She is now planted in the yard, right outside the garden fence, where I can water her from the front porch. I know this isn't the best time to transplant, but I think she's going to make it.