This is the time of the year when I begin the weekly pilgrimages to the local greenhouse in an effort to get out from beneath the dreary weight of winter. It’s not a fix-all, but it helps, and in early January every little bit of help counts. Such is the cheer that these pretty little kalanchoe blooms bring. It’s a bit early to jump to spring colors, so I’ll keep the thought until later. 

The rose has come to signify many things throughout history, and in my exceedingly short history here on earth it has been a source of multiple memories and inspirations. My very first rose memory was of our neighbors across the street, and their magnificent rose garden. It sat formally behind a meticulously-manicured hedge of privet, hidden from the distant road, and backed by a tall row of arborvitae. One side was walled by the golden brick of their garage, and the other was more naturally bordered by shrubs and trees. Inside it felt like a little secluded garden room, and it was here where various roses bloomed, centered by a magnificent old-fashioned shrub rose, with single pink blooms that appeared in profuse fashion to make up for their gorgeous simplicity. 

From there, the memory shifts to when I was a little older, and I’d convinced my parents to purchase a collection of Jackson & Perkins roses, which arrived in frightening barefoot form, their bulky crowns still caked with a bit of mud, their branches thick and ready to swell with growth. I made the mistake of soaking them in my parents’ bathtub, which quickly lined itself with a thick coating of dirt and muddy water. No one was thrilled with that, but I was sure that the show I was planning for the front and side garden would make up for that. 

When only two red bushes deigned to bloom later that season, my heart sank. Having followed all the planting directions, I was dismayed to find them underperforming, a lesson in location as well as the whims of certain summer seasons in upstate New York. 

I’d veered away from them after that, until I met Andy, who grew roses in his backyard like some magical prince. His living room, where he would sit in quiet contemplation late at night, usually held a single rose in a bud vase beside his favored chair, brought me back to the magic of roses. His Mom grew them as well, and I watched and learned his tips for dealing with blackspot and less-than-prolific bloomers. 

When we moved into out current home, we hastened to put in a few roses where we had the space and sun, but lacking in regular circulation during hot and humid summers, our tea hybrids simply didn’t thrive. Instead, we found a climber and some shrub roses to make up for them. Roses will not grow where they don’t wish to grow, and there’s no coaxing them into it. I learned to appreciate that lesson after years of pretending it wasn’t so. 

These days, we mostly enjoy our roses from the florist’s shop, where we can pick and choose and guarantee a bold bouquet of blooms at any time of the year. The last few days I’ve also been favoring my rose-scented frags in an effort to conjure some notion of summer, even if it’s just in my head and through my nose. ‘Rose & Cuir’ by Frederic Malle is a happy reminder of one of the last winters we had with Dad – I wore it to their house while I spent a day with him, and it remains a giddy memory. 

‘Rose de Russie’ by Tom Ford is a slightly more sultry take on the rose, while his ‘Oud Fleur’ simply smolders. Speaking of smoldering, ‘Portrait of a Lady’, another exquisite offering from Frederic Malle, is one of the most gorgeous scents I own, and comes with its own memories and connotations. 

That a single flower should have such sway and influence is a happy thing indeed.