This wild rose along the bike trail burst into bloom last week, bringing memories of my mother. Mom loved wild roses. To be honest, I think Mom loved all wild flowers, but she seemed to have a special love for these. Part of her childhood was spent on a ranch in the Dakotas; perhaps running across them later in life brought back a treasured childhood memory? They certainly do for me.
Weekends were often spent out camping, or at least taking a Sunday drive. Mom and I would follow trails into the woods, where she would point out and share names of all the flowers. (To my chagrin, I've forgotten many of them.) The roses, however, were usually spotted along the roadside as we passed the time waiting for Dad to scramble back up the bank from a fishing hole. The joy on Mom's face at finding them went beyond mere pleasure of something beautiful. She must have been seeing into a pleasant past as well.