ROSE CITY, INDEED

For those who don’t live in town and can’t witness how vibrant this city looks right now and how much it lives up to its moniker, here you go.

And guess what — these photos aren’t from the Rose Garden. Every single one was taken within a mile or so of my house in Northeast Portland, and all these flowers were street-side for everyone to enjoy.

I just love that photo shoot-worthy roses are everywhere, and yet no one has come along and lopped them all off for personal use. That’s pretty amazing considering so many of these are right next to the curb and alongside such well-traveled sidewalks.

Believe me, I was tempted.

One of my favorite places to find them is growing around utility poles. I spied over thirty different ones the other day with ten or more blooms on them, and some had fifty or more.

Can you even begin to imagine how fragrant they are when a breeze comes along and shifts them ever so slightly?

This one below was polychromatic and stunning, and I got to talking with the guy whose home is right next to this. I commented on how much I loved this variety, and he offered to write down the name for me (I swear, Portland has the friendliest, most helpful people on the West Coast).

He also told me that every year, he gets a letter from the power company (or was it telephone?) telling him he has to cut half of it down so that the pole remains “maintenance-friendly”.

Every year he rips up the letter and doesn’t think about it again until the next year when the same letter arrives.

Way to go, Portland. If you have to send out a letter like that, be sure that you make it toothless so we all know it’s safe to ignore.

See you soon: same time, next year.

Some of the roses looked right off the couture rack.

Think Marchesa, Valentino, Badgley Mishcka, Carolina Herrera, and Dior.

And, of course, my favorite. Chanel.

One of the things I love about Portland is that everybody seems to have a passion, or a craft, or a hobby — and most people would rather talk about that than what they do for a living or the local sport franchise.

Here where there are so many gardeners, people love to share their blooms and their experiences — just give them an opportunity.

Case in point. I was admiring one spectacular garden in Dolph Park yesterday. A woman my age parked right in front of this great old house on a double lot and having noticed that I was taking pictures of the thirty-plus rose bushes in front, she stopped to say hello. We got to talking.

She said her parents had lived in this house since 1967 and this garden is her father’s crowning glory. It was getting harder each year for him to maintain it, but he couldn’t let it go and the idea of moving was abhorrent. I can see why; in addition to all the roses (about two hundred buds were in full bloom with that much again about to), there were over a hundred other plants alongside. It was an oasis a half century in the making.

This was also the location of possibly my favorite rose variety I’ve seen of late. It reminded me of a peony with its beautiful markings. Or possibly some kind of hand-pulled salt water taffy. Watermelon-vanilla, perhaps?

If possible, the color was even more extraordinary in person.

I thought of her father as I walked away.

Fifty years of backbreaking labor trying to tease growth out of rocky soil. Countless weekends and weeknights spent in pursuit of nurturing burgeoning plants and ridding your plot of undesirables.  Too many thorns to count and plenty of heartache when nature’s mercurial nature meant you didn’t always see the results you thought you might. Or had hoped for.

But I guess when you can look forward to an outcome like this, it’s all worth it.

Gardening? Surely, but the same description could apply to parenting, too.

Happy Mother’s Day.