Tuesday, May 26, 1998

Lucky with roses means lucky at love

By Sharon Randall

Thirty years ago when we bought our house, it had a Cecil Bruner rose bush that sprawled like a giant octopus along the fence between the front and back yards.

I loved that rose. It gave birth with abandon to hundreds of tiny pink fists that would open almost before your eyes into old-fashioned clusters with a faint, peppery scent.

Best of all, it was well established - planted probably when the house was built just after the turn of the century - so it asked next to nothing of me. I like that in plants. And pets. And people.

When the Cecil Bruner was in bloom, which seemed all year 'round, we were never without roses in the house.

My daughter was crazy about them. When she was 3, in her tea party phase, she'd strip the lowest branches - the only ones she could reach - to keep fresh roses on her tea table.

Once I found her lying on the lawn staring up at the Cecil Bruner. "What are you doing, Sissy?" I asked.

"I watchin' fer da dang roses to open," she said, testing her father's favorite cuss word. "Dey like to be sneaky and wait 'til I not lookin', but I gonna catch one fer sure pretty soon."

Next time I checked, she was curled up and sleeping with rose petals in her hair.

Two years and countless bouquets later, we sacrificed the Cecil Bruner to build an addition that provided needed space for our growing family, but no roses for our table.

I wrote a column about the Cecil Bruner once, mentioned it was my favorite. So some very dear and trusting friends brought me a replacement, healthy and lush in a bucket, and left it in my care.

"I'll kill it," I wailed, as they drove away smiling.

"Decide where you want it," they said, "and we'll come back to help plant it."

Swell. I'm useless at gardening, but hopeless at making decisions. A year has come and gone and the new Cecil Bruner is still in the bucket, alive, but barely. Thanks to El Nino, it's had water. Mucho. Otherwise, it has survived on neglect.

To be honest, I'd forgotten about it until recently when I looked out and saw a rose the size of a small cabbage. It was not the Cecil Bruner, but a different variety with long, thick stems and large ruffled buds in shades of peach and pink with a scent all its own.

My neighbors had brought it over after my husband died in January, a gift to honor his memory, they said. They called it "Unforgettable."

I wish you could see it.

It's still in the bucket waiting for me to decide where to put it. But it's thriving, thanks to my neighbors. They come over to give it the same care they give their own. Yes, that explains why it's alive.

I cut its very first bloom last week and counted a dozen buds. I keep watching to see them as they're opening. They like to be sneaky about it but I'm sure to catch one soon.

We can't all be good at gardening or decision-making. Some of us are good, or plain lucky, at picking husbands and neighbors and friends.

Maybe if I put Cecil Bruner next to Unforgettable, my neighbors will take pity on it and look after them both?

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service