A couple miles down the road from our house, near an old wooden fencepost at the corner of a field is a climbing rose. It’s not native, so I asked Harland who planted it there. He said he wasn’t sure of all the details, but it was his understanding that a local farm-wife long ago planted climbing roses at all her field corners.
What a great idea I thought. So I borrowed Harland’s pliers, and gathered a few cuttings to make rosebush starts. My plan is, if the cuttings survive, to plant rosebushes at the corners of the small pasture near our house.
And someday, maybe a hundred years from now, someone will stop to see a blooming rosebush in the middle of nowhere and wonder how it got there.
———-> Friday: Wide open, untouched, unspoiled, never been turned by a plow, verdant with native grasses and wildflowers: The Flint Hills.
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