Although the rose has always been my favorite flower, it is also the
flower of June, my birth month. Growing up on a farm in northeastern
Pennsylvania, I cherished the intoxicating fragrance of the antique rose
bushes growing around the stonewall foundations of old razed houses on
our property where early settlers lived, but later moved westward for
reasons unknown. Every June, like a birthday present from the earth and
heaven above, it was a delight to see the many bushes, growing wild,
bursting into riotous pink blossoms, and spreading over an entire knoll
of our pasture.
Old roses, also called “old-fashioned roses,” “heirloom roses,” “antique
roses” and “old garden roses” are those plants introduced in America
prior to 1867. Although there are hundreds of old rose varieties, they
are best known for their hardiness and fragrance.
The oldest rose planted today was in existence some 2,000 years before
the birth of Christ. It migrated from Persia (Iran) through Turkey to
France and finally into England Later, clippings of these old garden
roses were often hand-carried to America by early immigrants from
Europe.
In my novel, Four White Roses, I chose to have the heroine try to save
the last white Austrian rose that the hero’s great-grandmother brought
with her stateside just prior to World War I.
Sometimes writers don’t know where they get ideas for writing a novel.
Sometimes thoughts and ideas just pop into our heads. To be honest, only
when I started writing Four White Roses did mental sparks erupt—and I
was able to draw an eerie connection to my own life. I have actually
saved the last old roses bushes planted on my family farm and dating
back to the 1800s.
Luckily, I took cuttings after my husband and I were married. With the
passing of my parents, the rose bushes eventually died out, probably
succumbing to harsh winters, the elements and wildlife, and lack of
nourishment and care. Now, more than ever, I find it humbling when I
realize I possess the very same roses planted by the hands of our first
settlers. And, the lineage is still alive for over a hundred and fifty
years.
Ralph Waldo Emerson best reflects my feelings about these beautiful flowers with those prickly thorns:
“There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence
.”
BLURB:
When widower Rich Redman returns to
Pennsylvania with his young daughter to sell his deceased grandmother’s house,
he discovers Grandmother Gertie’s final request was for him to find a missing
relative and a stash of WWI jewels.
Torrie Larson,
single mom, is trying to make her landscape center and flower arranging
business succeed while attempting to save the lineage of a rare white rose
brought from Austria in the 1900s.
Together, the
rich Texas lawyer and poor landscape owner team up to rescue the last rose and
fulfill a dead woman’s wishes. But in their search to discover answers to the
mysteries plaguing them, will Rich and Torrie also discover love in each
other’s arms? Or will a meddling ghost, a pompous banker, and an elusive stray
cat get in their way?
With the incessant rains this year, Pennsylvania in May is a
beauty to behold if you squint between the raindrops. 
The ferns in my flower beds are unfurling and jumping
skyward. The Jack-in-the-pulpits have poked their heads up on the east side of
the house, thanks to the protective shade of a rhododendron, and the hosta
plants are so huge I fear they could join forces and overthrow all the plants
in our yard.
For me, May is a time of awakening with warmer nights with
golden moons. The bluebirds and hummingbirds return. The hawks soar. The robins
bob, bob, bob on the lawn. And the very vocal wrens scold everyone from atop a
cedar tree
