It began years ago, with the coming of April showers and of Lyn, a 74 year-old, hunched-over forget-me-knot of a woman who arrived unannounced to my starter garden with a chorus of crocus. Weeks later, she brought a hot-pink peony, some yellow-throated iris, and plenty of bluebells. All gifts—but for a price. Lyn took command of my garden.

She ripped my heirloom tea rose from its hundred-year domicile, and moved it to the back porch. “It will do much better here,” she swore. And she was right. It grew high and wide with a nightly perfume that bathed my home in a delicate bouquet, eliminating any need for essential oils. Soon it was hard to tell the difference between her work and God’s. 

“Want to become a Gardening Angel?” she asked.

“What’s that?”

“We rescue plants from gardens that look abandoned,” she continued. By rescue, Lyn meant steal. By look abandoned, she meant anyone’s un-weeded place off the road. And by “we”, she meant herself, Poppy, her elderly Cairn terrier, and now me.

On nights as dark as black velvet petunias, I followed Lyn, and Poppy through people’s personal prickly yards where plant life snagged our clothing and begged, “Take me! Take me!” But we were snobs. We harvested only the best including Dappled Willows, Gardenia Supremes and Blue Wisterias. At the end of the night, we divided the spoils. One day, while transplanting her take, Poppy at her side, spade in hand, Lyn keeled over and died. A loyal dog, Poppy followed soon after.

At Lyn’s memorial, I eyed a Rosa Rugosa. It was from Jackson and Perkins, incredibly expensive, and lush with three-inch-deep peachy-pink flowers. There was only one thing left to do: Become the gardening angel of Lyn’s field. 

Sweeping my flashlight left to right one hot summer night, I tiptoed past the elderberry, foxglove, and wild orchids that already populated my own garden, until I found Lyn’s Rosa Rugosa, Even by the light of the moon, when most blooms dimmed, she glowed.

I fought for 45-minutes just to get under her root, and then, like a colorectal surgeon, I severed her tap, carefully leaving enough for her to survive. Wary of her stalks, covered in thorns up and down, I grabbed her by the root-ball, and started dragging her. That’s when I heard voices and saw lights coming toward me. Hastily, I plunked Rosa in a place I thought she might look good, and then stood by her side, innocent of any wrongdoing.

“Hi. What’s going on?” said one of the strangers.

“Oh, hi. I’m a friend of Lyn’s. God rest her soul. Who are you?” The pounding in my heart was stronger than a seed coat about to rupture.

“We’re the neighbors.” 

“Oh. I’m just checking on her garden. Has anyone been around to water the plants?” I asked. They looked at each other, and shrugged.

“It’s been so dry lately,” I continued, “And I’m done now. It was nice to meet you. I won’t be back,” I lied. 

I drove around the block, sat for a while, and then came back with the headlights off. I slipped from the driver’s seat and opened the rear hatch. After finding Rosa in the dark, I shoved her with more than a bush bean of callous into my car.

She’s in my garden now. “Damn you, Rosa Rugosa. You’re a Medieval Morningstar, a puncturing torture device. If I’d known that you’d scratch and bleed me every time I pruned you, I’d have left you to die.” I hear Lyn’s clogged rasp (she succumbed to asthma) saying, “Nothing in life is free.”

Today, apart from the telltale blooms in my garden — Paperwhites, Midnight Marvels, Bleeding Hearts, and more — there’s no hard evidence that the Gardening Angels ever existed, and they’ve since gone dormant due to unlucky circumstances. Perhaps forever. Perhaps just for now. What endures is the sharing of seedlings and divisions with friends and neighbors, in order to reawaken the rescues everywhere.

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.