Spitting on a Rose

Today one of my daughters and I were talking on the phone about the influence grandparents have on grandchildren.  She commented that it was too bad all my grandparents had died by the time I was 13.  She wondered what would be different about me if I had had that on-going interaction into adulthood.  She wondered if Grandma Kratzat would have taught me to tat.

I told her one thing I was certain was that Grandpa Baumeister would have taught me how to grow roses.   He had a small backyard in the city of Buffalo, but he had many roses, and I was fascinated.  I particularly was curious about how he propagated new rose bushes by placing a rose with part of its stem attached in the ground under a mason jar.  To me, it seemed like a miracle that a new rose bush could be grown in this way.

When Grandpa B was in the hospital and seemed to be dying, I was taken to see him.  As I bent down to hug him, he held me close and with tears said, “I am so sorry.  I promised to show you how I grow my roses this summer, but I won’t be here to do that.”  I was not quite 12 years old and had no idea what to say.  I just continued to hug him.

Before talking with my daughter today, it had not occurred to me that the information on how to do this might now be available on the internet, so I went searching.  Sure enough, the technique is described.  It does say one should use a “rooting hormone” to stimulate the develop of the roots.  I am fairly certain this would not have been available commercially 65 years ago.  I wondered what naturally occurring rooting hormones might be available.  I found a list:  cinnamon, aloe, apple cider vinegar, honey, aspirin and saliva.  As I thought about each and what the likelihood of Grandpa using it might be, I thought, “Ha!  Saliva!”  I can picture him spitting on the cut bottom of the stem.  What’s more, I can picture that had he been able to show me his technique, he would have said, “OK, Ruthie, spit on this!”  And since, a young lady spitting was frowned on, it would have been a delicious secret between Grandpa and me as the rose bush grew, that it had required my saliva.

When I get to heaven and ask him about this, I might be disappointed if I find out he used cinnamon or vinegar from Grandma’s cupboard or aspirin from the medicine cabinet.  I prefer to think that something of himself went into those rose bushes.