Writing is like being able to put life into a snow globe. It takes the things that are too big and scary and reduces them into a form that I can put away when I want and look at from a distance. It also takes all that’s good in life and captures it into something I can take out when I want and look at close up and keep forever. It makes the bad things into something I can hold…and the good things into something I can hold onto. Both help so much that I need that little souvenir of life.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Stop and Smile at the Roses

He was probably in his seventies when he moved into the house on the corner. I passed by every day, so I watched the way he dug into his south-facing front yard and planted roses—lots and lots of roses. He joined the garden club for a time and was the resident rose expert, shyly answering our questions.

He was quiet, but if you asked and listened, he’d tell. A WWII vet, he said. Casablanca. What a shock that had been to a boy like him, he once told me.

He was almost always out there, tending his roses. We both did the farmer-wave when I drove past. Those roses were pouty pinup beauties in every lipstick shade imaginable, kissing every season but the most cold. Every fall I’d watch to see how he gently tucked them in for winter. Every spring I watched to see how he coaxed them out again. They brightened so many drives for a good twenty years.

 I never once saw his wife, but he had one. When I heard she died, I sent him a sympathy note and mentioned in it how much I enjoyed his roses. I ran into him at the gas station shortly after that, and his voice broke when he thanked me.

He never slowed down and he never seemed to age. He only seemed to shrink, as if age had to diminish him that way because he simply refused to weaken.

Then one day I saw some slow-moving people in his yard. Younger people. Funny how you can see grief in a person’s movements from half a block away. I knew then that it was too late and I’d already missed the funeral. They dug up the roses and left only lawn where the For Sale sign went. It broke my heart. Now it’s a normal house again. No—not normal. To me it will always be missing something.

I still look for those roses. Of all the things that man accomplished in his long life, some were great gifts for me. He planted the ideas that it’s never too late to create bright spots in peoples’ lives, and we can do it in even the smallest ways.

Thank you, Mr. Donald Gemeinhart. You are most definitely missed.


He who dies with the least toys wins. Because the more you know, the less you need. ~Yvon Chouinard Patagonia 

12 comments:

  1. ..."in every lipstick shade, kissing every season..." HOW do you do it? That phrase is the icing on this post, which is poignant and is a reminder that little things matter.

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    1. Thanks, Linda. I'm grateful he taught me that lesson.

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  2. Oh, Tammy. What a lovely and heart-felt tribute to your neighbor.

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    1. Thank you so much, Donna! And thanks for stopping by.

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  3. He must have requested that his family take care of his roses. They were everything to him.

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    1. I was surprised when he once told me he would've planted lilies, but his wife didn't like them. But yes - I do think a hobby like that has to represent something very dear!

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  4. Beautiful story, Tammy. Very poignant.

    Pat
    Critter Alley

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  5. This is a beautiful post, Tammy, a loving and inspiring tribute. Mr. Gemeinhart may not ever have realized the small impact he had on your life, but this is a wonderful demonstration of how even the most ordinary of gestures can make extraordinary differences.

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  6. Thank you, Theresa! I like to think he realized it a little bit. ;)

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