Farewell, dear friend!

I suppose that I knew Mel's age—he was proud that the withering of his joints hadn't slowed his enthusiasm for life. To me he was twenty-something, always talking about next year, about the bud-wood to come and the roses to plant and the roses to prune and the gatherings and the roses next spring. He followed his passions, always embarking on life, always seeing the potential. Even the tortured hulk of a dying rose bush spoke life to Mel—surely one of those little growth buds holds the Phoenix of a glorious new plant!

And each of us to Mel was like that button of growth—full of glorious potential, full of roses that he admired, cared about, and wanted to cultivate. Each of us who knew him felt we had a gardener for life, and for a moment knew what it is to be a rose.

Farewell, dear friend. I won't give up on the Secret Garden Musk; you taught me to love it. I won't quit planting and pruning and rooting and sharing, and looking to see the potential in every face I meet; you've taught me to care. I won't be feeble in my passions or faint in my praises; you've shown me the path of life. And, though I know how busy you'll be, I'll always be waiting for your email from heaven.

I must recamp on my first comment. We did not receive Tina Marie, but from Barbara Worl, who was the original source for Grandmother's Hat. I do not know how Barbara came by this.
Gregg Lowery