Rosy Memories

Kentucky Angel Flies Again

For some unknown reason, as I was drifting off to sleep to the music of the Irish Tenors early this morning, I remembered the first thing I ever wrote — a poem called “My Rose”.  I was in the first grade at St. Martin’s School on Highway 81, the place I grew up.  The ladies in the Altar Society would put fresh flowers in the church on Fridays when they cleaned it, discarding all of the dead or wilted ones, and I found a wilting pink rose in the discarded pile one day.  It still looked pretty to me and the fragrance was so sweet I just had to take it home with me to give it to my mom.  She gave it the proper attention, then suggested that I plant it outside and see if it would grow, thinking, of course that it would be another of her “busy”…

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