So, in the last few hours of my visit home to say goodbye to Grandpa Joe last September, I hurriedly drove to their old white house at the end of their suburban cul-de-sac, let myself through the metal gate to their backyard, and walked over to grandpa's rose garden. He had started to grow roses as a hobby many years ago, and I remember stories about how he would take clippings from rose bushes to start new plants. I planned to do the same, only I wasn't a rose gardener, and growing roses from cuttings is not novice work. I had quickly done some research online before heading to their house, so I knew to take cuttings from stems that had recently finished blooming, and to be careful to not get too young (green) or too old (woody) of a stalk. Seeing over a dozen rose bushes and not knowing a thing about any of them (though many were labeled with "Crystallina", "Hybrid Tea", "Grandma", etc), I made a quick map on a scrap piece of paper and labeled every cutting I took. Since I had to fly home that day, these fragile cuttings would be traveling with me as carry-on, so I was limited on how many I could make. I took eight or so cuttings, which became ten in the end as some were too large and were divided into two. My research told me that a 10% success rate of getting a rose cutting to root was considered good, so I figured I would get one surviving rose bush, if I was lucky.
After pausing one last time to slowly take in the roses and yard and garden, the patio and garage workshop, the screen door to the kitchen that banged, the flower pots that sat empty, and everything in the yard that was following its natural cycle from summer, through fall, preparing for winter; after taking some deep breaths and acknowledging the feel of the ground beneath my feet and the presence of this place; after silently saying goodbye to everything, I placed my brand new garden shears on Grandpa's old workbench, closed the door to his workshop, and walked back through the gate to my mother's car and life after, the rose cuttings secure in my arms.
Back at my sister's house, I dipped the raw end of the rose cuttings in some rooting material that I had picked up at the hardware store at the same time that I bought the garden shears (a sharp cut helps the rose to survive as it minimizes the damage to the stem, and I wasn't sure that I would be able to find Grandpa's garden shears) two hours earlier. I wrapped the cuttings in wet paper towel, placed them all in a plastic ziploc bag, and added as much water as I thought I could without airport security objecting. Finally, I said goodbye to Grandpa. I think I told him I had made some cuttings of his roses to take home, but I don't remember. With everything I've been waiting and wanting to ask him on the tip of my tongue, with a lifetime of stories still ready to hear, I said what was most important, what I needed him to know: that I loved him. His eyes, full of the answers and stories and more, watched me cry. He told me that he loved me. I said goodbye. He passed away a few days later.
The roses were my link. Though they would never provide the missing words I longed for, they share a genetic link to the roses my aging grandfather labored over, hobbled outside to tend, planted and trimmed and understood. At home, I gave the cuttings a fresh cut and a new dip in the rooting material. I planted them in a large rectangular pot with fresh soil, and placed them in a south-facing sunny window. After a day or so, I decided to make a little greenhouse out of semi-opaque plastic shelf liner and wire hangers, partly to create a happier rose environment for them and partly to keep them from being plucked from their bed by a curious toddler. I also added a heating blanket beneath the pot to help keep them from getting too cold, which I turned on a couple of times every day.
To my amazement, most of the cuttings survived the first few weeks. Slowly, though, many stopped growing, rotted or dried up, and died. Maybe I had them too crowded in the planter, maybe they got too much or too little water, maybe they were the wrong cuttings in the first place. But after many months, I am happy to say I have four plants still growing and producing new leaves. I'm about to transplant them to their own pots, but I'm not sure exactly what kind of soil they need. I'll ask my local plant nursery and do some research online, but if anyone reading this blog has advice on growing roses, I'd appreciate the help.October 3, 2011: Evidence that many of the rose cuttings were developing roots can be seen in the new light-green leaves growing on the plants. 
2011 was a hard year in many ways, but it was also an important one. It was a year that marked many changes, the end of many chapters, and it was one that I was happy to move beyond. But it was also filled with love and support by family and friends, new and old, for which I am forever grateful. It was a year that saw the end to my PhD, a great new job for Bryan, and wonderful opportunities to watch Calvin grow. Hopefully we'll remember both the happy days and the sad ones and appreciate the words we did say, the things we did do, the love we felt and shared. And, with a little luck, 2012 will be a bit easier.
