A Rose Study
Porcelain Painting by Anne Koch
On A Rose Study
By Paula Chinick
Oh revered red rose,
you evoke intensity.
Love, passion, romance
Oklahoma Clay
By Blake Heitzman
Old barefoot painter
Grandchild watches while you tell
Of glaze and hen eggs
Study
By Arleen Eagling
I read that
hope
is a thing with feathers.
I think
roses
teach us where to fly.
By Julaina Kleist-Corwin
Elegance and skill meet.
Immersed in petals and leaves
Artist and viewer bond
In precise strokes of color
As soft as the flowers.
By Sonia Geasa
Strains of “La Vie en Rose” march in and out of my brain like the catchy tune from the now defunct San Francisco toy store, FAO Swartz. The music evokes a parade of memories, each floats a scene from the past, filled with the sight, sound and smell of roses.
Memorial Day was called Decoration Day when I was a child. It was celebrated on May 30th. My grandmother grew roses in her backyard. Each year, we cut armloads of red, yellow, pink and white blossoms, carefully arranged them in Hills Brothers’ coffee cans saved throughout the year, and took them to the cemetery to place on the graves of grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts and uncles. The community band played patriotic songs and the VFW gave speeches honoring fallen soldiers from past wars. Children, unaware of the solemnity of the occasion, laughed and played tag around tombstones. I loved the lily pads on the fish pond. I can still taste the fried chicken and potato salad, served on tables made from old doors spanning saw horses. Many of those who participated in Decoration Day celebrations so long ago are buried in that same cemetery, but no one brings roses in salvaged coffee cans.
In 1959 when I was twenty-two, I sailed to Rotterdam on a ship called the Nieuw Amsterdam. Fourteen months earlier, I agreed to marry a young airman, whom I had dated briefly and barely knew. Daily letters reinforced our tenuous relationship. Still, I must admit that I had some misgivings about moving to a foreign country and marrying a man that I had not seen in over a year. When I disembarked, there he was, barely visible behind more than two dozen long-stemmed red roses. I kept one of the roses, dried and pressed, and I kept Frank, my husband for the last fifty-three years.
I selected a sterling silver pattern called Towle Rose Solitaire. I purchased, or was given, one place setting, three teaspoons, and a cranberry spoon. It was a simple and elegant pattern. I envisioned giving simple and elegant dinner parties. However, like a rose bush when spring becomes hot too soon, my life exploded. I had three babies in four years, each greeted by the scent of roses in bouquets purchased in the hospital gift shop. Later we had two more babies. Each of these children added chaos, noise, adventure, and love to a household with eight pieces of sterling silver, no money to buy more, and no interest in hosting elegant dinner parties.
Like a rose, life unfolds revealing colors, smells and complex patterns. The parade goes on. New generations add beauty, and I go on humming “La Vie en Rose”.