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Bud Grossmann's
Words of the Week
Week of June 12, 2005
Family History first published
as a Gramma Letter, May 14, 1994
© 1994 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Rose #6 (& Bowl), 2005
© 2005 by Bud Grossmann
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A CAT AND A ROSE
Tuesday, May 10, 1994
Dear Gramma,
I hope you enjoyed my shouting at you on the phone on Mother’s Day. What’s the story on your hearing aid? Do you have one that does you any good?
One day about a month ago, when I went grocery shopping at our supermarket, I passed by a table with a display of little potted rose bushes. One bush in particular caught my eye. It had deep green leaves, tiny, closely-spaced thorns, one perfectly formed blossom, and two nice buds of a color like the skin of a pink grapefruit.
“Amber Queen,” said the tag. When I bent down to smell the rose, well, Gramma, it was love at first sniff!
I bought the bush, but I did not immediately put it in the ground. I left it in the pot, in the shade of our mango tree. I watered it each day, but within a week the blossoms had disappeared.
Now, excuse me a moment, if you will. I shall come back to the rose bush, but first let me tell you about a dead cat.
For the past several years my family has had a pet—a beautiful domestic shorthair cat. She was mostly black, but her chest and boots, her whiskers and eyebrows, were wonderfully white. You don’t much care for cats, do you, Gram? Well, I generally don’t, either. But I did like this one. Your great-grandson David named our cat “Strawberry.” I do not know why.
Around the time I bought my rose bush, Strawberry became ill. We took her to the vet and put her in the hospital, but she died.
Dave and I drove down to the veterinary clinic to retrieve our pet’s body. I had talked with my kids about death (David is twelve, you know; and Elizabeth is six), so they took the news in stride, but I surprised myself when I cried. And the receptionist at the pet hospital, she cried, too.
We paid our bill, and the hospital people handed us a shallow cardboard box about the size of the flywheel on your old John Deere, but square, not round like the flywheel. And cardboard color, not yellow-rust-&-green like the flywheel. It was heavier than I expected, this box. A cat in the lap is not much weight at all, but a cat takes on a new density, I guess, when she goes to the Great Beyond.
On the box, I noticed, were the words, “All-Natural Gourmet Dog Biscuits.” I hope Strawberry had a sense of humor.
I didn’t have time to dig the grave that day, so I placed the box in a thick plastic bag and put it in our freezer.
That was, as I say, about a month ago. Just this past week I finally got out the pick and shovel to plant our cat and our rose. When we opened the “coffin” for a last farewell, we found that Strawberry had taken the shape of the box, so we set her up beside her grave, like a big frosty, furry bookend, and she sat politely through her own funeral.
Then, into the earth she went, and we placed over her the “Amber Queen” with its shiny leaves, its thorny stems, and the three brown buttons of blooms gone by.
Three days later was Mother’s Day. Before church, I went out to water my bush, and lo and behold ... Gramma, I had a rose! I hadn’t seen a bud! As I knelt down to inhale this precious flower’s fragrance, I thought first of my mother, who loves roses so very dearly.
I thought, next, of my Grandpa Grossmann, who nurtured all sorts of plants on your farm, including many wonderful roses out by the old well, west of your house.
And then, Gramma, I thought of you. I thought of you, because you, more than anyone else, have taught me so much about life and death. And so much, also, about the fresh surprise of sweet new blossoms in springtime.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Love,
Buddy
♦
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