For one thing, the heat screwed up my glasses. Both sets have the lenses semipopping out of frames. I'm just hoping they stay in long enough for it to get stupid hot again so I can snap them back into place.
Summer also jacked up the electric average. Mind you, not as high as I was afraid it would, but still more than I wanted by a long shot. The problem is, we tried as hard as we could to keep the AC usage down to a minimum. On days like the ones we experienced this summer, that just wasn't possible. This wasn't "let's chill down the house and sit under blankets" summer. This was "Yeah, turn on the AC so the cats don't die" summer.
The worst part though, the absolute worst part of all, is that summer probably killed my Juanita Rose.
Juanita Rose isn't like the technical name of the flower. My grandmother's best friend was Juanita and she gave Gran a cutting of the rose bush from her yard when Gran admired it one day. So Gran always called it "the Juanita Rose" and it stuck. I love this rose bush so much.
For one thing, and you can't tell from the picture, the color is the only shade of orange that I actually like. It looks pink in the shadows, but it's more this kind of pinkish orangeish yellowish color. Somehow, that ended up being beautiful.
The beauty was nothing compared to the scent of them. I love rose scent anyway, but Juanita blooms were the best. Gran would always bring in the first couple of roses and the scent would fill the house. It was the best part of Spring. I also loved the way the petals felt against my fingers. Insanely soft, so delicate. These roses were a delight.
No matter how hot it got this summer, we made sure the plants were watered. That rose was given as much as we thought it could handle without drowning. We tried. We really did. It's not looking good though. I know I have a while before we know for sure, but it's killing me. I mean, I'm literally crying as I type this.
The Juanita Rose was one of the best connections I had with my grandmother. Even after I moved out, she would always call me as soon as she spotted the first blooms. It's such a simple thing, but knowing that rose was in bloom always made me happy.
When Gran died and we moved into the house, it was Spring. It rained for almost a solid month after she was gone, in fact, it started at her funeral and didn't stop until well after we'd moved in. A few days after we'd been here, I walked out onto the porch and saw a couple of roses from the Juanita waiting for me, like Gran's ghost cut them and brought them to where I would notice. Practically, rationally, I can pass it off as the wind.
In this case though, deep down I know I don't accept the rational.
So yeah, I hope my rose comes back. I'll be really sad if it doesn't. It's like losing another part of my grandmother . . . and another part of my childhood.
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