The last rose of November

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)

Against the wooden fence in my back yard a rose that forgot to bloom all summer is now enthusiastically showing off on this, the 14th day of November. Its spunk in the face of cool nights and overcast days has to be admired. I could understand this last fling if the blooms had started earlier, but they only began in October. Maybe it is the botanical equivalent of those nonconformist people who simply march to a different drummer.

Or, maybe the rose is like the gardener, always intending to get itself together and flourish and bloom and accomplish something memorable, but always caught instead in the hurly-burly business of life. While other rosebushes proudly bloomed on time, this one concentrated on providing shade for birds; its roots anchored the soil of a slanting hillside, keeping erosion away—all worthwhile pursuits, but not substitutes for blossoms. Like the rose, maybe I, too, did worthwhile things, but then one day I, too, awoke and discovered it was the October of my life and time to get on with it.

Birthdays at first come with glacial slowness; then suddenly, in late middle age, they begin to tumble by one after another. By age 60 they verge on avalanche, sliding past faster and faster. Each one reminds the gardener to act on intended dreams and purpose. The seasons do not last forever either for the rose or the gardener.

The first 20 years of life are mostly about learning and growing. The 20 years following those are about establishing ourselves (career, family, mortgage—the days when store clerks called me “Miss”). The years between 20 and 40 are about taking care of important things (saving for college, making money for retirement, seeing the children launched—the days when promotion to “Ma’am” seems a desired confirmation of deserved status). But then, suddenly there is that November of life, the 60th birthday—to all waitresses and store clerks I am now a doddering “Sweetie” for whom even the buttons on the checkout’s debit machine must be pushed.

No time to waste. November in the garden, or in life, is not the time to give up. Keep believing in possibilities, I want to say to the rose each morning when I go out to check that it has made it through another night and to cheer when it has; just hang in there, baby, I think each day as more buds, still waiting to be unfurled, race against the inevitable frost. Some things really are that much sweeter from having been delayed so long.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used with prior permission and appropriate attribution.