Jack Harkness, in his wonderful book, Roses, describes this rose as...

"With iron resolution I have cut out many old friends, in order that this list be confined to the main stepping stones which mark the descent of roses, either genetically or in man's awareness, decade by decade. But, I am only human, and cannot be unfaithful to 'Polly'.

This lovely thing is like a well-filled 'Ophelia', plump bottomed but comely, sea-shell pale and full of sweet odours. If this sounds like one writing of his mistress, I may add that her limbs are smooth, and she ought to be well fed and cared for, being a tender thing..."

After reading this, I HAD to grow Polly.

In 1989, my mother became paraplegic and we had to move her into an assisted living facility. It took a while for us all to get used to the dramatic changes which were happening daily. One of mom's neighbors was a very lively, "with it", 84 year old retired nurse. The only reasons she retired were her knees and hearing went out on her. But, she still had all of her marbles and they were arranged by size and color!

Polly and mom took to one another immediately. Shortly, if you wanted to find one or the other, you'd have to check both apartments as they were always together, getting into some mischief or another. I'd begun bringing mom buckets of roses to keep her environment cheery and prevent her from missing her old garden, which had contained over 350 of my roses by the time she could no longer live there. The ritual had become as I recut them under water to make them last longer, I would quiz her on which rose was which. It was not only fun, but helped to get her mind off her newly encountered infirmity.

I often selected the roses I took someone to reflect something interesting or honorable about that person. As Polly was a nurse and she had been so helpful and good to my mother, I deliberately cut blooms of Harkness' "Samaritan", Fryer's "Inner Wheel" and "Polly". I intended to send a vase of the roses I felt suited her and honored her profession and her heart home with her. She was a Good Samaritan. "Inner Wheel" was named to honor a charitable society in Britain, and "Polly" bore her name, though she had it first!

As expected, mom and Polly were laughing themselves silly when I arrived at mom's apartment. As I began sorting the special blooms I had for her, I started explaining why I'd chosen these to grace her apartment. She expressed delight with each bunch and explanation. When I got to "Polly", her eyes brightened, and, as mom described it, she became quite rather "coquette-ish". That wonderfully beautiful, intensely fragrant, feminine bloom touched her. I don't think I could have chosen anything in the world to thank and honor her that would have been as touching as those blossoms of "Polly". I hit a home run.

Mom lived down the hall from Polly for several years after that. I brought fresh roses twice a week, and every time I brought them, a vase made its way down the hall to Polly's. If I goofed and forgot to make sure "her rose" was in her vase, she made sure my omission was corrected! I don't think a flower of "Polly" remained in mom's apartment for very long before it disappeared, only to magically reappear at Polly's. She'd ask how "her rose" was doing in the garden, and looked forward to its fragrance and charm on the appointed days I normally refreshed their roses.

Neither mom nor Polly are here now, and "Polly" is also a memory. One of these days, when I can give her what she deserves, "Polly" will come back home.