I grew up in the New Mexico desert. Mom always kept a beautiful flower bed, trailing honeysuckle, and gorgeous rose bushes in our yard. I never thought a thing about it growing up,that roses coming up out of that dry cracked soil might somehow be incongruous. It never occurred to me how hard she had to work.  We moved house several times in my childhood, but always the yard and flowers were a priority that were dealt with soon after getting settled into the new place. That is a slice of my childhood--freshly cut grass, groomed bushes and beautifully maintained flowerbeds. I can close my eyes and breathe in the smells and see it all over again.

I have actually tried to quit counting how many houses my husband and I have lived in, in 18 years of being a military spouse, because it depresses me if I think about it too much. (ok that made me stop and count--13 houses!!) Especially since having children, I am driven once we move in, to get unpacked and have things 'in their place'. To get curtains hung, and certain pictures put up, because I know it doesn't feel like 'home' to them without these familiar items. (Remember Ma Ingalls and her china sheperdess?) Part of making it 'home' is setting out the planters, trying our hand at annuals and even some perennials. Putting in bushes or ferns when we know it won't be us enjoying them in a few years, but going ahead anyhow.

We do it because without continuing these domestic, life-giving chores, hope for any shot at 'normal' life would die. Hope is what makes you put out a pot of petunias in the spring when you're not sure you'll see the autumn in the same location. It's what makes you sew curtains for one more odd-shaped window. It's what makes you plug into one more church, one more social group, one more neighborhood.

Hope is what makes you plant roses in the desert.  I get it now, Mom.