By Mary Cristy
My dream house sits on a tree-lined street where Sally Holmes roses grow. My neighbor, Shelley, who elected me surrogate mother when her own parent died, raised three trellises of these magnificent blossoms in her memory.
Until yesterday I never saw a Sally Holmes rose. While I recuperate from a hospital stay Shelley keeps me company, encourages me to “keep up your walking,” and brings me Sally Holmes roses.
Embodied in these variegated petals and buds I find the qualities of a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. I wonder how many Pilcher readers are left. If they are still legion, are they like me? Hopelessly romantic, with “all will be well convictions” and an abiding faith in the goodwill of their fellows? We Pilcher fans dote on chintz-covered window seats and old wood paneling redolent of lemon furniture oil, and polished to a high gloss.
We love wood-burning fireplaces though these days regrettably forgo them in the interest of clean air.
There should be a long-haired dog and a calico cat who sleep companionably close and take meals together. And a large old-fashioned gas oven where scones are eternally baking to fill the air with aromatic cinnamon; plus a farmer who arrives with baskets of fresh comfrey for elderly bones; and bouquets of flowers with fresh mint, parsley and basil tucked among the blooms - sugar and spice, sweet and sour, the yin and the yang of rich, dark furrowed earth.
The farmer limps from an old war wound. He carries a black walking stick as gnarled as himself. Some say he belongs in a rest home, but he growls at the indignity of prescribed “safety” and stomps off grumbling.
He knows he belongs in the wind and the rain and, finally, in summer sun to thaw out. I picture him in my house, for it too is ancient and creaking. He could put his feet up on my glass-topped coffee table and drink hot tea with honey.
We would agree that we are a pair of pilgrims and this is not at all bad because only in knowing who we are and where we’ve been can we re-create ourselves and tap our way free of the chrysalis of time to emerge bright, shiny and new to move eagerly forward to further adventures.
In Pilcher’s world there would be “a house by the side of the road, where the race of men go by” (Sam Walter Foss), a house with a history and stories, where babies were born and elders died, where laughter and tears mingled and young lovers made their vows before a hand-hewn shrine beneath a statue of St. Francis of Assisi.
In truth, when we found such a house we would call posthaste for the wrecking bar, for the fact is royal standard luxuries and regal conventions hold us in thrall.
Hooked as we are on dazzling accoutrements, pride and pretensions, it would pale by comparison, for we are lusting to live like Renaissance princes.
But oh, how lovely and dear are the lace-trimmed valentines of Pilcher’s world, with its Sally Holmes roses; and how fine a hiatus there of weeks would be to renew us in body and soul, and a welling of gratitude for all that’s been given then and now; and all that will be forthcoming in the dawn of a new tomorrow.
