Flower Story

I share the courtyard of my house with a family three of whom are under five years of age. Our yard has two-story mud walls, a burn barrel, the doorman’s pit latrine, a clothesline, cement channels for water drainage, a water tank, a sandbox, a combo swing set/grape trellis, unruly grass, strawberry plants, and five beautiful rose bushes.

M. the mom brought the rose cuttings from Kabul and grew them herself. These roses are far more fragrant than those bred to resist bugs or last long plane rides from South to North America.

Apparently our back-yard neighbor came banging at the door one day and demanded a rosebush, roots and all. M. is a woman of admirable strength and Swabian character, and she flatly refused. Even on pain of having her rain drain blocked upstream, M. would not hand over the rosebush. Though she did offer our neighbor to come take cuttings in the autumn and grow them herself.