A Rose TO REMEMBER
Rosemary "Rose" Wines was born in 1932, twin daughters of an English immigrant. She grew up in La Jolla, California, where her love for the ocean, beaches, and gardens flourished.The Rosebud Years
Rose told stories of her father keeping a victory garden and collecting odd animals—a rooster that crowed every day at 4 PM, a pet owl that lived in a tree in the front yard, and an old sow that he couldn't bear to part with.
When I came into the world, Grandmother Rose was the first to hold me, and that bond continues to this day. Through my Grandfather's military work, they had lived all over the world, including London and Guam. But at this point in their lives, they were close to retirement and had built a custom home in the countryside of Lorane Valley, Oregon.
I spent all my days with her in early childhood, a little rosebud under her care.
From the garage, you'd enter a small hallway that led directly into the galley-style kitchen and large dining area. The Formica bar counter was where I spent many afternoons as my siblings napped—Rose understood I needed quiet time instead. Conversation unnecessary, we crafted together—I’d iron my vintage Barbie clothes with a small travel iron or paint or color while she played big band music on the stereo in the background.
In the afternoon, we'd make a sugar syrup for her favorite hummingbird, "Big Red," and then go for walks in the forest. Leaving the house and cutting across the pasture full of wild daisies, we'd stop under two pine trees between which my Grandfather had hung a swing. Where Rose had placed her mother's ashes, wild croci and irises would grow.
We'd continue along a well-used deer path, listening for birds and watching for puff balls to stomp on—the oak tree galls that had fallen to the forest floor and dried to a crisp: Stomp, stomp, stomp. We'd march up to the hawk's nest and then return the way we came.
California poppies graced the south side of the house, cheerily blooming against the wood siding, orange heads swaying in the breeze. In front of the house, Grandfather built a large vegetable garden for Rose, with deer fencing that seemed to reach the sky. On sunny days, Grandmother would give me a watering can so I could make mud pies while she tended to her radishes.
Rose loved roses, of course, and her favorite color was a deep, ruby red. As they later moved on to different homes as they aged, she would uproot her favorite roses and take them with her.
The Bloom
I grew up, moved out, and lived in various places around the country. My relationship with Rose evolved into one of companionship and friendship; she was my mentor. A new ritual began where we'd talk every Sunday at 10 AM, no matter where I was in the world. Grandfather would jump on the phone in his "ham shack" (he was the oldest living ham radio operator in the United States at the time of his passing), and she would get on the other line. Inevitably, after the first hellos, she'd say, "Now, Marvin, it's time for Shannon and me to gossip," and he'd laugh and say goodbye.
Rose's conspiratorial giggle is one of my favorite sounds - she'd collect an actual list of all the week's happenings, news, family hearsay, and questions she had for me. I always knew I would be receiving constructive feedback or advice when she'd start with: "Now, Shannon Margaret..." - and instantly, I'd laugh.
When I lived in the States, my husband and I would plan special trips for the four of us, almost always to the beach. "Shannon, dear," she would say, "I just have to put my toes in the water." The California beach girl loved the smell of salt water, the feeling of sand under bare feet, and the icy, moody Pacific northwest waves crashing in the distance, regardless of the time of the year. We'd drink wine (Marv liked Merlot, Rose preferred Chardonnay) and play penny poker at night—the two were notorious card sharks and always won.
They never traveled to Paris or other European locations during their time in London. When I began to visit France, Grandmother was infinitely curious about my travels, experiences, and stories. I would bring back chocolates, tea, bookmarks, and pressed flowers.
When we were together, she always loved to pull me aside from the group so we could have our private time together, just like our days on Lorane Highway. One day, she patted the bed and had me sit down. Rose was unusually shy in this moment and said quietly, "I will understand if you don't want to, but..." she paused, “will you say something in French for me?" My French life was still new to me, and so were my language skills, but I carefully plucked a few sentences that I could utter with the correct accent. Her eyes welled up with tears, and as she patted my hand, she said, "Thank you." And that was that.
Dormancy
Rose exceedingly supported my French aspirations, and our Sunday chats continued when I moved to France. I created a YouTube account not for "This French Life,” but for my grandparents. I'd make little videos of the places I visited, gardens Grandmother would like to see, a special moment that would make them laugh. The pandemic arrived, and the frequency of our calls increased—if nothing but to stay comforted by hearing each other's voices. And then, one day, I received a different phone call. Rose had fallen in the shower.
Falling had long been a fear of hers. At this point, Grandmother regularly used a walking stick or cane to aid her balance. But somehow, it happened. And like the end of any bloom, she began to fade. Every time we talked, her voice was weaker; her vibrancy, giggle, the lists and gossip, were all wilting away.
One late afternoon, I had just stepped out onto the streets of Paris to walk Rose and Pearl, and my phone started to ring. I see it's from the States.
"This is the last time you'll be able to talk to your Grandmother," they said on the other end of the line.
I'm frozen. I am in public, and I am out in the middle of the streets of this city. I am unprepared and unaware, and I don't want this to be happening right now, not yet. 'Please no,' I scream in my head, 'I am not ready for any of this.'
"Hello, Shannon dear," her voice softly floats across the ocean to my ears.
"Grandmother..." I can't ask her how she's doing. I don't know what to say. I can't start crying in the middle of the street—I don't want my sobs to be the last thing she hears from me.
"It's a beautiful day here," I mutter, "I have been thinking about you constantly."
There's a pause, and then... "Well, that's not a very interesting thing to think about," she remarks. The witty, wise woman I love, her statement was so typical, poignant, and correct. In a quick and final lesson, she reminded me that life is too short to focus on the things you cannot control.
"Goodbye," she says softly. And that was the last time we spoke.
Two days later, on March 6, 2021, Rosemary Wines passed away. And two months later, my grandfather died from a broken heart.
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY GRANDMOTHER, ROSEMARY WINES.
An Itinerary for Rose
If my Grandmother had had the opportunity to come to France, she would have absolutely loved the architecture, the femininity of Paris, the artwork, and the gardens.
There wasn't a second while writing this book that I didn't think of her. And while I know it's far from perfect, she would have loved the effort, care, and thought that went into this edition. And Rose would be so proud to see my work published internationally.
So, on this final page of her story, I share the perfect itinerary for Rose in France.
Day one through four, Paris
The first day is always hardest with jet lag, so I would keep things easy for her. We'd start at Mariage Frères in the Marais for tea and lunch, go for a walk along the Seine, and rest among the flowers & birds in the Jardin des Plantes.
Day two, I'd take her to see Renoir, Degas, and Monet at the Musée d'Orsay and then lunch at Musée Jacquemart André. After touring the mansion, we'd visit the gardens at Palais Royal and for long talks in the sunshine.
The third day would be a day trip to Monet's house at Giverny. And the final day we'd shop the passages for the perfect outfit before seeing a ballet at the Palais Garnier.
Day five and forever
Taking a train out to Bretagne, Grandmother would have been itching to leave the city by this point, and to see my little French cottage. We'd spend the first day in the countryside at my home. She'd want to see all the plants, wander the gardens, and give me advice on my roses.
But of course, at some point, we would get in the car and head to the crystal blue beaches of the Côtes-d'Armor. And she'd look over and say to me, "Shannon Margaret, I just have to dip my toes in the water one more time."
