The roses are blooming and I stand amazed once more in my front yard looking at the answer to my temporary insanity. Eight years ago, faced with way too much leisure time on my hands after the death of my husband, as well as a rather steep front yard which was now all mine to maintain, I opted to do something different. Rather than mow, I started digging up grass – with a hand pick because my front yard is just one step above solid baked clay. I started small – only a six by four foot section, a handful of rose bushes, and a lot of prayer. The roses grew and bloomed and we shared them with friends and neighbors. Over the years, the neighbors have periodically seen me out in the yard tearing up grass, adding mulch and top soil and planting more roses – there over 50 in the garden now. I’m sure they’ve decided I’m just the neighborhood “crazy lady” -every one has to have one, right?

Roses are like life and the folks around us. Some roses can be rooted, some will root themselves and some just want to take over the garden. They do better with a little trimming and fertilizer. They like Starbucks, just like me. They can prick and prickle and sometimes they draw blood. Roses come in all colors – red, white, pink, yellow, blush, orange and even purple. Roses can look beautiful and have little or no scent, but the best are the simple old-fashioned roses – the ones never seen at a florist shop, the ones that can leave you in a drunken stupor from a scent caught three feet from the bush.

Best of all, over the years, roses have taught me it’s ok to do something different and to be different than I was before. That what seems crazy to others can be the perfect cure for insanity and depression. Stress relief comes in many different shades and for me it has the scent of roses.

Cathy Hardeman