For those of you who don't recognize it, this is the screened-in porch on the back of our house on Watergate Lane, in Virginia Beach. The figure in the doorway appears to be Mary Beth, half dressed. I loved that door which, incidently, led to the den. It was what Mom called a "french door." It was two pieces and the top half could open while the bottom remained closed. Just like a stall door which was pretty magical to a horse-crazy little girl. The windows to the left are the living room. The flower bed, that was planted in the V formed by the screened-in porch and the living room wall, had a large hydrangea in the corner. I thought it was beautiful and, over the years, have tried many times to get one to grow in my yard, here in Texas. Last year, finally, it happened. I planted several and they all survived and even bloomed. Every time I saw them, I was amazed. But that botanical success is not the one I want to tell you about. Neither Mary, nor the porch, are the subject of this photograph. The rose, in the foreground, is one that was special to her. She grew it from a cutting off of a bush in her first-cousin (and a huge favorite of all of the Denton children) Marion's yard when Marion lived in Norfolk. Mom didn't know if the cutting would root but, after a slow start, it took hold, and eventually thrived. The very first rose bloomed on the very day she learned that Dad had been shot down. Mom believed the rose was a sign from God, a comfort, and a message that, even when a situation seemed impossible, there was always hope.
For those of you who don't recognize it, this is the screened-in porch on the back of our house on Watergate Lane, in Virginia Beach. The figure in the doorway appears to be Mary Beth, half dressed. I loved that door which, incidently, led to the den. It was what Mom called a "french door." It was two pieces and the top half could open while the bottom remained closed. Just like a stall door which was pretty magical to a horse-crazy little girl. The windows to the left are the living room. The flower bed, that was planted in the V formed by the screened-in porch and the living room wall, had a large hydrangea in the corner. I thought it was beautiful and, over the years, have tried many times to get one to grow in my yard, here in Texas. Last year, finally, it happened. I planted several and they all survived and even bloomed. Every time I saw them, I was amazed. But that botanical success is not the one I want to tell you about. Neither Mary, nor the porch, are the subject of this photograph. The rose, in the foreground, is one that was special to her. She grew it from a cutting off of a bush in her first-cousin (and a huge favorite of all of the Denton children) Marion's yard when Marion lived in Norfolk. Mom didn't know if the cutting would root but, after a slow start, it took hold, and eventually thrived. The very first rose bloomed on the very day she learned that Dad had been shot down. Mom believed the rose was a sign from God, a comfort, and a message that, even when a situation seemed impossible, there was always hope.
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