Clara's Roses

Nobody on the island had as green a thumb or as a strong a love of growing things than Miss Clara. She had what the ladies called "the touch" when it came to vegetables and plants and flowers - especially flowers - and during the frozen winters, she mourned for the light and warmth and greenery.

Might oughta build a greenhouse, Uncle Len casually suggested one late January evening, Little lumber, little glass, mebbe some insulation, and you'd have roses year 'round.

Clara had never grown roses but the idea appealed to her.  

You ever build a greenhouse, Len?  she asked thoughtfully.

Cain't say as I ever have, the old man shrugged, but I don't 'spect it'd be much diff'rent than building' anythin' else.

Clara thought about all that winter, sent to Halifax for a "How To" book, paced out her little plot of land and planned how to clear it, studied roses til she knew every color and variety, learned about soil and cultivation. And one fine spring morning, she went to see Uncle Len.

Reckon I'd have you draw up some plans for that greenhouse, Len, she told him.  

Reckon I know'd you would, Clara, he said amiably, Come sit a spell and I'll fetch'em.

The lumber arrived not long after, two pick up trucks full all the way from Dartmouth and by the time the framing was up, The Prince John had docked at the breakwater with its cargo hold piled with layers of glass, each carefully sandwiched between layers of insulation and straw.  It took a caravan of young island men to haul the glass, one sheet at a time, over Cow Ledge and down the often treacherous, narrow path to Clara's but not a single piece was damaged.  She happily gave each a brand new dollar for every trip they made, two (and an icepack) to Johnny when he missed his footing and wrenched his ankle so badly but still managed to save the glass.  Len and Clara oversaw it all from the veranda, drinking lemonade and eating gingersnaps, examining and going over the blueprints, cheerfully bickering like two old crows.

The finished product was a marvel of simplicity and minimalism - a pristine structure of wood and glass, placed where the sun would reach it most of each day and encased in a tight wrap of clear, strong plastic.   A floor of flagstones had been meticulously laid to withstand the weather and provide drainage and the plastic as well as the glass panels on the slanted roof could be removed come summer.  Clara was delighted.  She set out to order potting soil and plant food, a new wheelbarrow and an extra pair of gardening gloves and went to work.
By summers end, she had African violets, lilies, hibiscus, ivy and ferns everywhere, a thriving pair of orchids and of course, her roses - red, white, yellow and pale pink - the little greenhouse was a blaze of color and so it stayed all that wretched winter.  Each Sunday, Clara would cut and wrap a bouquet of roses, climb on the painted pony and no matter the weather or the depth of the snow, deliver it to the Baptist church where James would place it on the altar for all to see.

Surely, Miss Clara, he would say with a smile, tis your labor but the good Lord's design.

And Clara, who had never put her faith in pridefulness or its evil sister, false modesty, looked at her roses and fairly shone.

A year or so afterward, Uncle Len took sick - powerful sick, his only daughter who had come from the mainland to care for him said - and to no one's surprise, he didn't last the winter.  His was not the only grave Clara tended in the old cemetery but it was the only one with year round roses.