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Moving the Old Rose

Moving the Old Rose Paul Hicks Appalachian Heritage, Volume 31, Number 4, Fall 2003, p. 15 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.2003.0013 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/432779/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 18:35 GMT from JHU Libraries Moving the Old Rose The soil is not soft in Eastern Kentucky. Rocks bite at the blade of the shovel, limestone as hard as tempered steel refusing to give way, as hard-shale as my father who watched the root ball planted. It is an old flower we are moving, his mother's rose that lived through wars that shook the world, deaths that shook the house until the chimney toppled over and the cobbled rock foundation followed, a heap of broken stone spread out across the ground. Her slender fingers drew the dirt around the naked tendrils when he helped her plant it with the soiled hands of a boy. He has tended it for decades gone, a private religion, arriving every Sunday evening, offerings of manure and water. A stubborn old man now, he tells me how to cut back stems, how to swing the mattock, how deep he thinks the taproot runs. I won't tell him that http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Moving the Old Rose

Appalachian Review , Volume 31 (4) – Jan 8, 2014

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Paul Hicks Appalachian Heritage, Volume 31, Number 4, Fall 2003, p. 15 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.2003.0013 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/432779/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 18:35 GMT from JHU Libraries Moving the Old Rose The soil is not soft in Eastern Kentucky. Rocks bite at the blade of the shovel, limestone as hard as tempered steel refusing to give way, as hard-shale as my father who watched the root ball planted. It is an old flower we are moving, his mother's rose that lived through wars that shook the world, deaths that shook the house until the chimney toppled over and the cobbled rock foundation followed, a heap of broken stone spread out across the ground. Her slender fingers drew the dirt around the naked tendrils when he helped her plant it with the soiled hands of a boy. He has tended it for decades gone, a private religion, arriving every Sunday evening, offerings of manure and water. A stubborn old man now, he tells me how to cut back stems, how to swing the mattock, how deep he thinks the taproot runs. I won't tell him that

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

There are no references for this article.