In late summer on an exquisite, sun-drenched day, I took my octogenarian parents, Mary and Clint on a country drive, from their Northern Delaware home toward the Amish country of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Along the way, we stopped at a famous rose nursery. Among the displays were towering hedges of red roses. We walked among the hedges, savoring the aroma and ogling the bountiful blooms left au natural.
Mary, then in her early 80s, was examining a burst of blooms that were particularly alluring. “Which is the most beautiful rose?” I asked.
She didn’t hesitate but touched a succession of roses from the tiniest bud through one far beyond full bloom, with withered petals. “Each one is beautiful in its own way,” she said simply and without the least affectation.
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