Deena Epstein

My Great-Uncle Jack, the family patriarch who brought my parents and other family members to America from Europe during and after World War II, had a garden for as long as I can remember.

There was one particular rose bush that my mother admired—and often “borrowed” flowers from— and when his wife sold the house after his death in 1987, my mother moved the rose bush to an honored spot next to her front door just two blocks away.

The rose bush thrived, and when my mother moved into assisted living in the summer of 1998, she insisted that I dig it up and take it to my home in Cleveland. I protested, saying that it was too hot to transplant a rose bush, and that I knew nothing about caring for roses. There was no arguing with her, so I took the rose bush and basically threw it in a corner of my garden.

Lo and behold, the plant—with the stubbornness of both my mother and Uncle Jack—thrived. It bloomed prolifically every year, a beautiful salmon color.

Soon after I planted the bush, we were at an outdoor fair where the rose society had a booth and I asked for advice on how to care for the plant. When the rather snooty lady asked what type of rose it was, I said simply “Uncle Jack’s Rose.” She told me she had never heard of that cultivar before!

Fast forward to our move from our home in late 2020. A few weeks before the move—despite the cloudy weather and cold temperatures—I knew what I had to do. I dug up the rose bush and hurriedly planted it in the bed along the walk to our condo.

Just like Uncle Jack and my mother, the rose bush—despite being transplanted in less-than-ideal conditions as they both had been when they arrived from Europe—has proven to be a stubborn survivor and has thrived.

Now each summer, I take pictures of its first flowers and send them to Jack’s daughter.  The headline simply says “Uncle Jack’s Rose.” We both know all that stands for.