When I was 15, I had my first real girlfriend. You know how it is at that age, I thought I loved her. This isn’t about her though.
I lived in Northern Utah at the time, and it was a beautiful Saturday in September, 1998. My best friend and I were riding our bikes through a residential area. Houses built in the 1950’s, classic LDS suburbia. Brick homes with basements and 5 bedrooms, with perfectly manicured yards. Mainly older people who had lived there since they were built, raised their large families, and retired in peaceful quiet after a job well done.
I stopped as I noticed a particularly well kept house with beautiful rose bushes, the roses in full bloom. I told my friend, “I bet my girlfriend would like one of those roses.” So we parked our bikes to get a closer look. He said, “Go take one, no one will notice or care. There’s 100’s of roses.” I thought about it then shook my head. I walked to the front door and knocked instead.
This elderly woman, probably 90, answered the door and asked, “Can I help you?” I praised her beautiful roses, then explained the situation. She chuckled, shaking her head amused, and said, “Let me grab my scissors. You pick a rose, and I’ll cut it for you.” She came back out, and carefully trimmed the rose I picked.
As she handed it to me she looked over at the bikes. She gave a sad smile, her expression growing distant. For a moment I could see the young girl she once was. She turned to me eyes misty, almost pleading, and said something I’ve carried with me for nearly 30 years:
“Never stop riding that bicycle, young man.”