Roses Are Red - Pourquoi Tale

One balmy summer long, long ago, there lived a princess named Mideu.  She was the fairest lady in all the land and princes came from far and near to claim her.  But the King was a just king and wanted only the best prince for his daughter so he decreed that the man who brought Mideu the most wonderful gift would be allowed to become her husband.

            Some princes (most actually) brought gold and some brought diamonds.  The King would look in his own treasury and see its abundance of riches and say, “If you loved her, you would bring something special; something she does not already have.  You would bring a gift of the earth to show your true affection.”

            Now in this time, warriors and rulers were not the only nobles looked fondly upon.  Those who tended to the fine, white rose bushes were seen as the most courageous of the land.  The thorns on the bushes were so sharp and dangerous that special techniques had to be practiced to prune and tend the flowering plants.  Many years of training and a clever mind were needed for this important job.

            There was a rose-bush gardener who served the king and he loved Princess Mideu, more perhaps than all the other princes who offered her their hallow gifts.  He would watch her glide down to the lakeside for her morning walk on her angel-like feet.  She would dance amongst the cattails and rushes and would whisper to the frogs and dragon flies that frolicked around and over the water.  Her flowing hair reminded the Gardener of the smooth honey from the distant lands of Clitheroe.  Her speech was so eloquent and enchanting that the frogs to whom she spoke would often grow to be the most beautiful creatures in the land. 

            The Gardener witnessed yet another prince leave the castle and the company of the King and Princess, still with his gold and jewels, having not gained the King’s favour.  Overwhelmed with love for the Princess the Gardener wondered if such a noble woman would accept a gardener as a partner.  His position was highly esteemed, and he was known for his valorous approach to the spinous charges so he decided to make a very bold move.

            The summer and been warm and humid and now, in Caesar Augustus’ month, the Gardener knew his white roses would be most presentable.  Their virgin, white glow represented Mideu’s beauty and grace.  The delicate fragrance that had been so carefully cultivated in the roses could only be matched to the fair maiden’s sweet elegance.  Soft petals reminded the Gardener of her sublime skin and, most of all, her pure heart.

            The Gardener was sure to win the King over, but one issue remained.  The thorns of a bush would protest any reason for picking them other than for a marriage procession or a virgin’s death.  The love-sick man knew that a curse would lie upon whoever cut a precious flower off the bush on any occasion other than the two special times. Regardless, he was willing to risk the severe consequences and reasoned that if his plan was successful, the rose would be for marriage.

            With a watchful eye, the Gardener selected the most full, delicate and perfumed rose of all the bushes.  He warily noted that thorns on the branch of this particular flower were even more menacing than any he’d seen but he could not fathom the thought of gifting to Mideu anything but the best.

            Without a second thought, the Gardener methodically reached in towards the stem to sever it smoothly and swiftly.  The thorns cried out for they knew the precious rose was taken not for marriage or death but for young love.  The thorns dug themselves into the gardener’s skin as he extracted the flower.  Blood poured out from his torn hand and arm as he held the delicate beauty away from the contaminating red fluid.  His blood covered all of the roses that remained on the bushes, the redness of his love staining the once flawless petals.  In panic, the gardener ran to the castle, bleeding and distressed, and found the king in his chambers.  Princess Mideu was playing harpoline for her father when the Gardener burst in.  Holding the perfect rose high, he fell to the floor because his blood was – by a mysterious, magical curse – still draining into the last of the white roses.   Before the royalties’ eyes, the flower in his remaining clean hand turned red to the very tip.

            “Mideu, I bring you a token of my love.  I desire your hand in marriage so I’ve brought you the only thing in the kingdom comparable to your beauty.” The Gardener did not realize he was dying. 

            He struggled to smile and look up at the troubled woman.  As he took his final breath, she approached the dry body to take hold of the rose.  It was now a deep, ruby red.  The Princess wept for she had loved the Gardener.  Her tears fell upon the rose, washing away the blood and returning it to its prior purity.  Only her tears could destroy the awful stain that unquenched love left on the roses.  The King crossed the room to comfort his daughter and they ventured out to the garden to find how the dear worker had met his death.  With wide eyes and yet more tears, they beheld the vast acres of red roses, no longer pure and white.

            The Gardener was laid to rest in the lordly burial grounds.  As a symbol of the Princess’ love, she replanted the very last white rose, the one for whom her gardener died.  It grew and grew and this new bush blossomed white roses for the rest of Princess Mideu’s life.  Their pure colour stood as a testament of her virginity, for she never did marry.  She died alone and in old age, never to receive a red rose which had become the symbol of marriage and love.  When the Princess’ last day came, the kingdom mourned and the very last white roses withered away.  But still, every year, in Augustus’ month, a small white rose blooms between Mideu and the gardener’s gravestones for they are buried beside each other.

            You now know why the roses bloom red.

Mutterliebe

Lying on my mother’s bed, snuggled up beside her, I couldn’t help that the tears flowed down onto her new woolen sweater.  Her chin trembled as soft words fell from her lips.  Her gentle hand stroked my head and shoulders lovingly as she related to me the stories of her past.  The pain of her experience coursed through my body, tingling up my spine and pulsing through my veins.  Her poor, afflicted soul whispered to me the horrors of the neglect she faced as a child.  I choked on my tears when I braved a glance up at her calm face.  Ringlets of golden-brown hair fell around her angelic face which was marred only by her doleful past.  Wrinkles from too much crying and not enough laughing creased her forehead and encircled her eyes.  How could someone not love her?

            All this last week, I’ve spent so much time with my dear mother.  She had been helping me redo my bedroom despite the huge list of projects she had been juggling.  She so willingly taught me the proper use of plaster and sanders; she showed me specific techniques to use the paint roller while she did the wearisome task of painting the edges and corners with a small brush.  At the end of the day, the smell of fresh paint still clinging to my clothes, I would crawl into bed with her and listen to her stories.  I loved to hear the quirky stories of my older brothers and I giggled when she told me of what I was like as a child.  Though I delight to hear her relate these happy times, a solemn respect settles over my mind as her words of dire trial touch my heart.

My mother: Age sixteen

            My childhood memories of this strong woman are bitter-sweet.  I recall the day I first learned to whistle.  She had driven away from our country home hours before I’d risen from bed.  After her divorce, she knew she’d have to support her family so she committed herself to drive for an hour or more every day to go to university.  Of course, her decision to become a nurse was both wise and courageous but for several years, my brothers cared for me while she was at school.  The boys had given me a bowl of breakfast cereal and, for whatever reason in my six-year-old mind, I decided to blow on the cold Cheerios.  This resulted in me whistling through my lips for the very first time.  I was so excited to’ve finally accomplished this that I ran out to the thick forest on our property and climbed the ladder to the tree fort my brothers had made from old deck boards.  I sat on the peeling paint and whistled to my heart’s content.  For just that moment, I’d forgotten my fear of heights.  Once the sensation of acquiring this new skill wore off I found myself stuck on the fort, too petrified to climb down.  My brothers offered to help me down but there was only one person whose assistance I would allow- my mother’s.  It was hours before she was due to return so I sat, crying in the tree even when the sun prepared to go to bed.  Finally, Mum came home.  She wrapped her arms around my trembling body and lifted me down to safety.  The softness of her sweater was a relief after hours of knowing only the cold, hard boards.  In a way, my experience that day can help me understand her childhood in a better way than any of her words could describe.  Cold, scared and alone after the innocence of my whistling excitement wore off, I was completely isolated to only pain and emptiness.  When would love finally reach me?  At last, I was set free by the warm grasp of my mother’s embrace.

            I know my mother raised me in a better way than she had ever been benefited to know.  Her consistent care and love will sustain me for the rest of my days, no matter how others may treat me. I cherish every moment of her soft touch and gentle words.  I’m storing away memories of her strength and independence and how she puts so much trust in others.  Her humility echoes her troublous past but reflects her pure heart, refined by trials.  What she has given me will last forever – hope.