What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
Our number three daughter Heather is home from her first year of college and has been lobstering with me for her summer job. This morning, before she came down onto the dock, she picked a wild rose and put it in her hair. If you’ve never smelled rosa rugosa along the seashore you may not understand the sweet smell that Juliet referred to (although she wasn’t really talking about roses) because much of the scent has been bred out of the commercial varieties.
The rose lasted most of the day in Heather’s hair, and I could smell it from time to time, even over the smell of herring in the bait box, or the diesel fumes when we were stern-to the wind. Pungent, innocent, sweet, yet independent and cutting through all else with an authority of its own. A smell that we enjoy only seasonally along the beaches of Maine as the bushes open up in pinks, reds and whites before the flowers fall and give way to fruit.