The month has turned dreary; grey with a hint of wet, followed by an indication of inclement; swallowed up in uncertainty. Therefore, I am forever thankful for the promise of wild roses.
Driving along damp, bumbly and down lowly deserted western New York roads last summer, Eli looked at a slightly crumpled road sign upon passing and asked, ‘Have you ever driven down that road?’ A thousand winding roads upstate never taken; but there is one hidden back road I did travel one summer day with my Mother; when I was very young and the summers spread out long, hot, sweat filled and slow. A last minute lark; a deviation from the plan of groceries, blue moon ice cream and heading home and we landed upon a rutted and dusty lane. It curved behind plowed fields and streams and we watched sloppy farms roll by our windows and we lost our way suddenly and completely. The road on both sides of the vehicle was lined with towering, overflowing and unkempt bushes of wild roses. I was close to five years old at the time, sporting long braids and parading around in dirty bare feet. Dust flowed through the open windows and a bushel of corn sat on the front seat. We did not wear seat belts. We were surrounded by pink gems everywhere; hanging in sweet air.
We made it back home before dark but I will never find that road again; lying amongst miles of back paths and ruined hunter cabins; crumbling and lost amid rural wilderness and the civilized withdrawal from all things fast paced, loud, conflicted.
But I know as sure as I know the dust of those paths and the sound of ripened corn being shucked for dinner; certainly that somewhere out there lie a million rose bushes, waiting for me…requiring only a turn of the wheels and no plans…
690 Saint Paul 