In the mid eighties, I was a Jewelry Manager for a Southern California department store chain which no longer exists. Frances and Al Farmer were "regular" customers. For them, shopping several nights a week was entertainment. They'd regularly stop by the Jewelry Department for her to look at opals, as they were her favorite. Al seldom spoke, most likely because Frances seldom didn't speak. He was quiet, and mostly in the background. Frances, on the other hand, took talking to an art form. The only thing larger than her stature was her personality. She was the queen at the local donut shop, where she'd reigned for several decades. I often wondered how they had ever gotten together as they appeared to be so totally mismatched. She'd browse the opal jewelry, and he'd usually come back without her, within a few days, and count on me to remember what she'd expressed the greatest interest in.

This was early in my rose obsession, and I'd frequently bring in large buckets of blooms for the counter in the department. The "regulars" would often swing by to see what the latest odd roses were from my garden. I soon obtained the reputation for being the "rose expert", which literally means the one who knows one more thing about the subject than most others do.

By 1986, the chain had closed, and I lost contact with the people I'd regularly seen. I was moving on to other pastures. One day, my youngest sister called me saying there was an odd message on her answering machine. About the same time, my middle sister showed up with a scribbled note with the same message. Frances was trying to locate me. She knew my last name, but I was unlisted. My youngest sister was the only Rupert in the phone book, so she took the chance we were related. Frances had an idea where my mother lived, and she knew the yard would be over flowing with roses as there were roughly 350 of them in that first garden. She found what she felt sure must have been the right house and left the note, in hopes I'd receive it. My dad had passed away and mom was in the hospital for quite a while, so it took some time for my sister to discover the note.

A while after the store closed, Al died. Frances had medical problems of her own, and her only child lived in Washington State. She'd decided it was prudent to move in with her daughter, and wanted to find me before she left. I called the number. Frances told me I had always been "Al's favorite", and she wanted to see me before she moved. We set a date for me to come to her house.

Al had bought this little post WW II tract house in Van Nuys in the mid 1950s. Some years later, he and Frances got together. Each had been married a few times before finding they were the right ones for the other. Now, Frances had sold the place, lock, stock and barrel and was moving away. On the north side of the house, where you honestly wouldn't expect a rose to successfully grow, stood a very old Hybrid Tea. It had hung on for many, many years, receiving virtually no direct sun, and seldom any regular water. I doubt if it was ever fed, and never sprayed. As I said, Al was a man of very few words. Frances said he didn't often tell her he loved her, but every time that old, red, very fragrant rose bloomed, he picked it and presented it to her. She knew it was his way of telling her he loved her. She couldn't bear to leave that symbol of Al's love behind and wanted me to see if I could help her take some of it with her.

Old budded roses often take on an "atoll" type growth shape. The center of the bud union rots out, leaving a ring of basal breaks which root on their own. Trying to dig the plant out of its hole, the "ring" breaks up, and you have a few to many plants of the rose. I dug out the plant, and it broke into five or six pieces. I carefully bare rooted two of them, wrapped them carefully so they'd have as good a chance at making it alive, for Frances to take with her. She was pretty sure the house was to be demolished, so I didn't leave any of the rose in place to be bull dozed. I took the remainder of them home and potted them. They were dutifully labeled, "Al's Red".

My plants of "Al's Red" struggled along as it was definitely the wrong time of the year to bare root roses, but you do what you have to, when you have to do it. All of them survived and began producing their double, cupped, heavily fragrant red blooms on every stem they produced. They impressed me as being 'grateful', as they finally got the heat, light, food and water they'd struggled without all those years in Frances' and Al's side yard. A few weeks later, I received a letter from Frances saying in her haste, she forgot her two plants of "Al's Red", and, could I please send her one to plant in her daughter's garden. I wrote back that I would make sure of it. I had plants to spare. I thought the best time would have been late winter so she'd be able to get them into the ground when the weather was more agreeable. My "Al's Red" continued to bloom their heads off.

It didn't take many of the blooms to determine "Al's Red" was actually Red Radiance. It's such a distinctive rose, as are all of the Radiance clan. But, my plants remained labeled, "Al's Red".

Winter began turning to spring, and I wrote Frances to see when she'd like her roses. It took a while longer than I expected to hear back from her, only this letter came from Frances' daughter. Frances had told everyone the story of "Al's Red", and how touched she was that I was going to make it possible for her to always grow Al's love for her. Shortly after Christmas, Frances died in her sleep of a heart attack. Her daughter asked if I could please still send the plants as she wanted to have one in her garden, and take one to where Frances would be buried. The arrangements were made, the plants sent and received, and confirmation was sent to me they were settling in and should be fine.

For the remainder of the time I grew Red Radiance, it remained "officially" labeled, "Al's Red". I still run across them here and there, as well as regular Radiance, and every time I see one of them, Frances and Al come to mind. I think they always will.

I was married and honymooned in Maine an there were roses growing everywhere right by the water where we stayed. We now live on a lake and I want to line the shore with roses like we saw in Maine. The roses will have to be tolerant of a lot of water being at the edge of the water. Also I don't know if the roses we saw were wild or not? Thanks for any help you can give me.

Friends have magnificent Madame Gregoire Staechlin climbers which perform in profusion every spring depite benign neglect. BUT my (2) are prone to black spot, leggy and with rather sparse foliage - one over an arch, a second against an East wall. Any suggestions of what I should do to help them to find a bit more energy and health?

 the tag said Mother's Day and it's now lost...but there isn't anything that I can find that matches it on these pages...the unique cluster is huge and has the pinkish rose in the middle surrounded by yellow...any guesses?