Camille packs the last of her belongings for her trip to North Carolina in the back of her fourteen-year-old Chevy van. She holds the checklist in her hand and checks off each item. The essential possessions in the van are the containers that will hold the cuttings that she hopes to collect during her journey.

Every winter evening, Camille sits in her favorite chair next to the crackling fireplace and plans her journey to a different part of the country. She hopes to visit every part of the United States before she passes from this life. This year’s destination is Wilson, North Carolina. She’ll be

traveling from her farm, outside of the little town of Dublin, Pennsylvania. She mapped out the stops along the route and programmed them into her GPS.

Before she pulls herself up into the front seat, she opens her purse and checks the contents, wallet, cell phone, checkbook, brush, and small sketchbook and drawing materials.

Her part-time employee Karen Nelson is going to be looking after the farm and house while she’s away. Karen is a  reliable woman. Camille knows she’ll take care of her property as if it’s her own. Karen has worked for Camille for almost ten years. Karen’s the closest thing to a friend that she has in her life.

Camille’s grandmother passed away fourteen years ago at eighty-five. Camille has lived a solitary life since then, but she never feels lonely. Time passes quickly for her. She enjoys working in the greenhouse and tending her garden. Her garden, she loves every inch of it as if it’s her child. The child she conceived and for which she has enduring love.

The garden is just beginning to shake off its wintery sleep. Soon the roses will sprout their leafy buds and begin their transition from thorny stems to glorious, fragrant, and delicate blooms. As she backs out of the driveway, she thinks about the journey ahead and the treasures she hopes to find.

As she climbs up into the van, she places her purse on the passenger seat and locks the doors. She gazes at her home and the surrounding property, takes a deep breath, and swallows hard. She feels tears welling up in her eyes. Although she looks forward to her journey each year, it’s hard for her to leave her roses and the only home she has ever known.

Last year Camille roamed her home state of Pennsylvania and visited all the abandoned cemeteries she knew about. She talked to the old folks in the neighboring towns. They reached back into their memories and told her about cemeteries they recalled from their long-ago childhoods. They related the tradition of visiting the graves of family members each year.

The whole family would pack a picnic lunch and head out to the cemetery for the day. They would remove debris and weeds and plant roses for their deceased loved ones. They would talk about the good times and how they missed them, knowing that they would all reunite once again in the hereafter.

Camille has come to love the visits to the cemeteries. Although most of the graveyards she visits have fallen into ruin, she feels almost a palatable sense that she’s taking a step back in time. She feels a connection to the past.

On her trip last year to Lycoming, Pennsylvania, she found that the woods had completely engulfed the cemetery. The headstones were worn down by years of rain, snow, and wind. The words were impossible to decipher. Lycoming had once been a booming coal-mining town, but is now deserted and has all but returned to wilderness.

Amongst the sixty-foot trees, she found a Cynthia Brook Rose. It had grown and flourished into a massive shrub despite being uncared for by any human hand. It had survived decades of harsh winters and summers that offered little respite from the high heat and little rain.

Camille took many cuttings and brought them home and had propagated over one hundred plants. The cabbagey flower was breathtaking, with warm orangey-yellow blooms. Its perfume had a sweet tea fragrance.

Camille begins her journey by the highway but will be traveling most of her way by dirt roads, studded with potholes. The early spring rains may make some of the country roads impassable. Her Chevy is old but sturdy and has spent most of its fourteen years on her own farm’s muddy and pitted dirt roads.

Her first stop is outside of Baltimore, Maryland, in Arbutus, an abandoned cemetery on Benson Avenue. It’s believed to contain the remains of the influenza victims of 1917. There was a long history of reported hauntings. Of course, this didn’t deter Camille from the past, and the present is all one to her.

Camille passes Baltimore and continues South along I 95, then takes the exit to Arbutus. As she enters the town limits, she stops at a one-pump gas station to get directions to the cemetery. She sees an elderly man sitting in a rusty metal chair, smoking a pipe. She walks over to him and quietly asks, “Sir, can you direct me to the Benson Avenue Cemetery?”

The old man looks at her with milky eyes and clears his throat as if he hasn’t spoken in many years. “Yes, I can tell you how to get there, but there isn’t anything there for you to see. It was overgrown when I was a boy. As you can see, that was a lifetime ago.

“I would appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Well, follow Herbert Run River south for about a quarter of a mile. On the left of the river, you’ll see rusted gates and a fence surrounding an overgrown field. Beyond those gates is the cemetery, what little is left of it. Do you have kin resting there?”

“Kin, no kin. I’m searching for vintage roses.  That’s what I do. I save roses. Thank you for your help. Have a good day, sir.”

“Did you say roses? Well, good luck with that, I would be surprised if you found anything living in that godforsaken place.”

Camille returns to her van, buckles up her seatbelt, and pulls out of the gas station. She glances at the rearview mirror and sees the old man is back to puffing on his pipe. He’s staring into space. It almost feels to her as if the conversation with the old man had never taken place. She wonders how many years he has been sitting in that decrepit chair smoking on his pipe.

She follows his directions, and soon, she sees the rusted gates the old man described. She pulls over and parks next to the fence. As she steps out of the van, she realizes that the ground beneath her feet is soggy.

She walks up to the gate and peers beyond it. The field is a mud hole covered in dead vines and debris. She walks around to the back of the van and opens the doors. Then she reaches in and grabs her boots. She sits on the back bumper, takes off her shoes one at a time, and puts on her boots.

The appearance of the cemetery doesn’t deter or surprise her. She has visited many abandoned cemeteries over the years. She steps down onto the road, walks over to the gates, and pushes them open with some difficulty. Only the top hinges are attached to the gate. She has to lift the gate and shove it back. She looks around and sees some headstones lying on the ground and walks towards them.

The ground is strewn with broken beer bottles and trash of every kind. There’s graffiti on the headstones. Camille steps around the broken glass. Most of the trees within the cemetery look as if they have been dead for a very long time, not unlike the occupants. She learned from her experience that cemeteries this old are abandoned over time because all of the family members of those interred here have long since passed away as well.

Camille walks around looking for any sign of life, and there in the far corner, she spies a possible rose bush. She walks up to it, and sure enough, it is a rose shrub.

She examines the leaf buds and stems; the shrub is nearly five feet high and four feet wide. It’s difficult to identify accurately before it completes leafing out. But she believes that standing before her is Rosa Damascene Bifera, a rose whose ancestors date back to the early Romans.

Her heart is pounding hard as she treks back to the van to retrieve her tools and containers. She’s looked for this rose for years. It’s almost unbelievable that she has found it in this dank and deserted cemetery. But she has. As she starts taking her cuttings, her mind is going a million miles an hour. It’s quite a coup to obtain such a rare find.

She imagines how it will grace her gardens. She knows that her like-minded customers will be as enthralled as she is at this very moment. She returns to the van and replaces the container and tools in the back of the van.

She takes out her drawing pencils and pad and begins a sketch of the Damask Rose. It is a multi-stemmed rose with up to ten blooms. It has been known to bloom more than once a season. Its strong fragrance is entrancing. The rose itself is light to deep pink. She can barely contain her excitement. She feels it’s a celebratory moment. Camille decides to stay in the town overnight and have dinner. She begins a sketch of the rusted gates and fence; she snaps close the sketchbook when she is finished and heads toward the town.

She finds a local diner called Twenty-Two Burgers, and since it is the only restaurant in sight, she pulls into the parking lot. As she enters the restaurant, all eyes turn toward her; a waitress calls out, “Sit wherever you like.”

Camille chooses a booth in the back. She wants to be alone with her thoughts. The waitress appears next to the table in a stained pink polyester uniform circa 1950. The name embroidered on her uniform is Charlene. She hands Camille the menu and says, “Do you need a few minutes?”

Camille glances at the menu and says,” Yes, Charlene, I’ll have the house burger with a side salad and French and a cup of Earl Gray if you have any.”

“Gottcha, only my name isn’t Charlene. It was some waitress before me. My name is Dawn. Be back shortly with your meal.”

In ten minutes, Dawn returns with a burger and fries, salad, and a cup of Earl Grey. “Here you go, honey. Just let me know if you need anything else.”

Camille enjoys her dinner, entertained by her happy thoughts. Dawn comes back to the table, “Would you like a nice apple pie to top off that dinner, miss?”

“Yes, I believe I would, Dawn; thank you. Can you recommend a place to stay overnight in the area?”

“Well, you can get back on the interstate and stay at the Red Top Inn. It’s about two miles south of here, or there’s a little motel called Moe’s just down the road. Nothing fancy, but it’s warm and dry and quiet this time of year.

“Thanks, I believe I’ll do just that.”

Moe’s turned out to be as advertised dry and quiet. Camille writes in her journal for a while, then falls asleep and doesn’t wake up until seven AM. She gets a quick shower and is on her way to her next destination Sandston, Virginia.

She stops at Dupery’s Feed Store about five miles outside of Richmond to ask for directions to the cemetery. She notices a young man lifting fifty-pound sacks of seed as if they’re large sacks of feathers. He carries them over his shoulder from the back of a large flatbed truck into the Feed Store.

“Excuse me, do you know where Dry Bridge Court Cemetery is located?”

“No, Mam, I can’t say that I do, and I’ve lived my entire life here. I think if you follow Main Street down to the end of the Municipal Building, you’ll have better luck. Ask if you can speak to Emily in the Municipal Building. She’s forgotten more about everyone and everything in this town than anyone else ever knew.”

Camille’s face registers a look of confusion. “Oh, right, I’ll do that. Thanks so much, have a good day. The young man goes about his task of moving the sacks from the truck to inside the store.

Camille drives down the street to a building with a sign stating Sandston Police Station and Municipal Building. As she enters, she sees a mailbox with the legend Water and Sewer bill across its shiny brass surface. Camille makes her way inside to a counter, where she sees several middle-aged women sitting at desks.

They’re typing on outdated computers and answering phones that never cease ringing the whole time she stands there. She waits for one of them to acknowledge her, but no one does. “Excuse me, does anyone know how to get to Dry Bridge Court Cemetery?” She waits a couple of beats.

“Yes, I do.” says a voice from the back of the room.

“Would you be Miss Emily?”

“I would. You’ll find the cemetery across the street from Calvary Church that’s just over the bridge. Follow Main Street until it forks off into two roads and bears to the left. Once you cross the bridge, drive about a quarter-mile down the road, and you’ll see the cemetery on the right, across the road from the church. The church isn’t there anymore. There’s a house there. The church burnt down long before I was born.” Miss Emily disappears once more behind her desk.

Camille registers yet another look of confusion. But says, “Well, thank you very much for your help.” She returns to her van and drives down the road. “Well, I’ll be.” She says out loud.

She finds the cemetery without any difficulty, just as Miss Emily instructed her. Across from Calvary Church, that no longer stands there. She steps down from the truck and retrieves her boots, and puts them on.  She walks into what must have been the church’s cemetery. There’s a broken-down wall made of fieldstones surrounding the cemetery. Just as she’s walking through the entrance, she hears a voice.

“Hey you, what are you doing in there? What do you want?”

She looks in the direction of the voice and sees a middle-aged man wearing an old felt hat walking towards her. As he steps closer, she sees he’s older than she thought at first. His blue eyes radiate intelligence. He looks directly at her. “What are you doing? We’ve had a lot of trouble with people vandalizing the churchyard. Are you from this area?”

“Hello, no, I’m not from this area. I’m a collector of sorts. I spend my life preserving remnants of the past. I do this by visiting deserted cemeteries and taking cuttings from Heritage Rose bushes. I take them back home with me to my farm in Dublin, Pennsylvania, and propagate them. I make a living doing this. But my main purpose is to save these roses that would otherwise be lost.”

“Do you? Well, that’s an unusual way of making a living. Saving the past for the future, that’s wonderful. My grandmother was a gardener as well. She loved her roses and watching the changing of the seasons. Watching things grow, the cycle of life she called it. She said it was life-affirming. “I do. It’s a pleasure to meet someone so like-minded. Do you mind if I have a look around the cemetery for any rose shrubs that might still be there?”

“Of course, you can look, but I’m sorry to say that you won’t find any. Last year some kids came into the cemetery and desecrated the graves. They pulled out all the plants that were growing there.  I’m afraid they were all destroyed. It’s hard to fathom why anyone would do such a thing. It’s a strange world we live in these days.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s terrible, did the police find the kids that committed the crime?”

“Well, we had a good idea who was responsible, but no proof. I’ve tried to keep my eye on the cemetery ever since. Where will you be headed now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My last stop is Wilson, North Carolina, and then I’ll be returning home. I plan on visiting the Wilson Botanical Rose Garden. There’s a small cemetery located in Wilson that’s been there for over one hundred years. I’ll be stopping there as well.  Well, thank you so much for your time. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Drive safely.”

Camille walks back to her truck, disappointed about the loss of the roses. If only she had come here last year. Oh, there’s no point in dwelling on things that can’t be undone. You have to keep moving forward. If anything, it just makes her more resolute in her commitment to saving other roses. She drives back onto the road. She beeps and waves at the farmer as she drives away.

As she arrives at the outskirts of Wilson in the late afternoon, Camille decides to stop for lunch at a little restaurant called Jake’s Place. As she walks through the door of the restaurant, it feels and looks like she’s taking a step back in time to the early 1950s. There are pink and black linoleum tiles on the floor. The tables and chairs are Formica banded by chrome. It’s not a recreation of a 1950’s diner. It’s the real thing, unchanged by time. The customers are talking animatedly to the people sitting next to them.

The waitress takes her to a booth in the back. Camille thanked her and asked for the lunch special and a cup of hot tea. After the waitress brings Camille her lunch, she thinks about her plans for the next couple of days. She decides to visit the cemetery first and visit the Botanical Gardens the next day. She pays her bill and heads out the door.

To her dismay, her truck refuses to start. She waits a few minutes and then tries again, but no luck. It seems as if the battery is dead. She heads back into the restaurant to the cashier’s counter. “Hello, my car won’t start, can you recommend a mechanic or garage that I can contact to have a look at it?”

“Well, yes, I can. As a matter of fact, he’s sitting right at the counter over there. Hold on.”

“Mat, hey Mat, can you give this young lady a hand? She’s having trouble with her car out in the parking lot?”

“What sure, I’m finishing my lunch. So perfect timing.”

As they walk out the door, Camille thinks well, this day has gotten off to a rocky start. “Hi, it’s the van right over here. It was running fine, and now it won’t start.”

“Well, that’s how things happen sometimes with a car. One minute it’s fine, and the next it’s not. Let’s see what’s happening. He turns the key, but nothing. Then he looks under the hood. ”

“The cables are corroded. Let me try to jump-start it.” He jump-starts it. It starts up, and he lets it charge for a few minutes.

“I think you should follow me over to my garage so I can test it. It may need a new alternator. If it does, I’ll have to order one because I don’t keep parts for cars this old. It’ll take a day or two.”

“Oh, no. Ok, I’ll follow you over to your garage.”

After they arrive, he drives Camille’s van into the garage and comes out about ten minutes later. I’m sorry, but it’s the alternator. I called my supplier, and he can have one here in about forty-eight hours.”

“What? Can you suggest a hotel or motel nearby for me to stay overnight?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there’s a motel down this road. Now don’t laugh, but it’s called the Robert E. Lee Inn. Tell them that Mat from the garage sent you over, and you’re waiting for your truck to be repaired.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that, and thanks for your help Mat.”

After Camille checks in at the motel, she brings her bag to the hotel room. She decides to take a look around town. She goes down to the lobby to talk to the desk clerk. “Hello again, I was wondering if you knew of any old graveyards that are within walking distance? That I could visit while my car is being serviced.”

“Cemeteries, I like to say that’s an unusual request, but it’s not. There’s one that’s old but is still occasionally being used by the local gentry. It’s called the Historic London Church. Just follow this road to the end. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks so much. I hope I have better luck than I have had so far today.”

Camille takes her time walking down the street. It’s quite charming in an old South kind of way. The homes have large pillared wrap-around porches. Camille imagines that in the summer, the neighbors gather round on them.  Passing the time of day with each other, drinking sweet tea. Their yards are beautifully landscaped with many old trees. One house has a Southern Magnolia that is over a hundred feet tall. It towers over the other trees nearby. She imagines how beautiful it will look in late spring. The magnificent cream-colored Magnolia flowers are in full bloom and spreading their heavy fragrance through the neighborhood with the evening breeze.

She sees an old church ahead and walks towards it.  She hopes for better luck in this cemetery. Then she remembers her tools and containers are in the van. Well, it can’t hurt to look around. She can come back later and retrieve cuttings if she finds any.

As she enters the grounds, she notices a dog lying on a recently dug gravesite near the entrance. As she walks near the dog, he looks up at her with large brown eyes. But he continues his vigil at the grave. Camille loves dogs but hasn’t had any pets since she was a young child. The dog is black and white with long, wavy fur. He has an unusual black diamond marking on the top of her head. He keeps his eyes on Camille. Against her better judgment, Camille leans down, pets his head, and scratches behind his ears.

Camille is startled when she hears a voice nearby call out, “You’re the first person that she’s responded to since Claire passed away two weeks ago. I’ve been bringing her food and water. Several people have wanted to take her in, but she wanted no part of them.”

“Oh, she’s a beautiful dog, is she a Cocker Spaniel?”

“Yes, she is, her name is Rosie. Claire loved roses more than anything in this world. That’s why she called her Rosie.”

“Rosie, she must have sensed a kindred spirit in me. I came here to see the roses. I collect and propagate old roses.”

“Really, well, that’s an amazing coincidence. Or perhaps it was meant to be, but I guess I’m old fashioned. I believe in kismet.  Perhaps you two were meant to meet.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’m not looking for a dog. I came here looking for roses to save.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly what you’re here to do, save Rosie. We all thought she would lie here and die from a broken heart.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Would it be alright if I just took a look around while I’m here?”

“Of course, look around. Many of the roses you see here were planted by Claire. She, too, collected cuttings from rose bushes of the family cemeteries in this area. I’m sure she would love it if you took some of them with you and propagated them.”

As Camille walks up and down the rows of graves, the sheer number and variety of rose bushes that are growing here amaze her. Roses she only dreamed of owning.

Camille has a feeling that she isn’t alone. She looks behind her and sees that Rosie has been keeping her company. Rosie is looking at her like a child who thought she lost her mother and then found her again.

Camille says, ” Rosie, I think that I have found a very rare rose indeed. I think you might be the rose I have been looking for all my life.”

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