NY missive no 196 - Deadheads, whip rounds and a rose called America

The "America" rose which has now died, and the surprise rose in front of it

The other evening I was vacuuming the living room after dinner and it reminded me of how Mum used to do what she called “whip rounds” with the vacuum, also in the evening. She would have said hoovering of course. She said that that little intervention each night made an outsized difference to how clean the house felt. I imagine there was also a dynamic whereby, tired from a long day at work, she wasn’t that good at unwinding on week nights. But I’m just realizing it now as I feel it myself, maybe there’s a hormonal shift at play too, a very practical shift, in that physically moving about helps rest an unquiet or disgruntled mind.

I’d love to be able to share these feelings with her as I get older. But the second best (by a long way) thing is having these spontaneous moments of understanding of her experience of aging in the past as I experience them myself in the present, bringing us closer.

I also remembered her today as I cut the browned flowers off a hydrangea shrub. The term she used for that was “dead-heading”. Which when you think about it is a pretty grim term. It feels ruthless chopping off the flowers - just recently a brilliant blue - at the point where the next pair of leaves is sprouting from the stem, but it’s a way to help the plant conserve its energy as Autumn approaches. 

Speaking of the garden, I had a feeling I was tempting fate when I bought a climbing rose plant called “America”. Once a year in Spring I go to Verni’s Garden Store on Astoria Boulevard: this year I was looking for a rose for the wall, and despite my reservations about the name this one drew my attention. Sure enough though, it has died. First one of its four young branches, then another, then another, as the leaves got black spot, turned yellow, and fell off with the lightest touch, despite my efforts at mulching and spraying with internet-recommended concoctions of water, vinegar and baking soda.

The amazing thing though is that a second, different rose must have come as a tiny sapling in the same pot so that I transferred it to the flower bed as well. And this rose is thriving, already sprouting four pink flowers this year. I could over-extend the analogy but it must be saying something about new life and ways of being that are emerging and will emerge as one long era of this country goes through painful death throws.