Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose by Mary Quattlebaum
Authors: Mary Quattlebaum
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Rooter's. Rooter's Rose. “A good name for a sturdy rose,” Mr. K. said approvingly.
The second thing I know: The day after we returned the twig, the skies sent rain. Not roaring thunder or lightning. Not slashing, smashing drops. Just a steady downpour that soaked the earth and brought green back to the garden.
A coincidence? Of course. Nothing supernatural about a drought.
The third thing? Blood quit being a BIG bully. Mind you, he was still a little bully. He'd let loose a “Rose Jones” or “Art Fart” every once in a while, but he laid off the punching, pounding, and stealing. And if a bee buzzed near—even a gentle bumble guy— Blood would leave
fast.
Maybe being haunted had given his mean self a feeling for the fear and pain of other kids. Or maybe, as Gaby said, the boy believed he was cursed. Forever.
One mystery remained, though. How had Mama, Reuben, and I escaped the curse? I had cut the graveyard twig. Reuben had touched it many times. It had lived with Mama and me. And yet we had remained unhurt. No poison ivy, no bee stings, no broken bones.
For weeks, Reuben and I tried to puzzle itout. And one July day, while we lollygagged at Rooter's, Reuben hit on a possible reason.
“Maybe the twig didn't hurt us,” he explained, “because we didn't try to hurt it.”
“Go on.” I plucked a grass blade from under my puddle of thorns.
“Think about it,” said Reuben. “The cleanup crew at the cemetery, the manager with the beard, Blood—everyone wanted to destroy it.”
“But I cut the twig and took it away.”
“You were going to plant it,” Reuben said. “You were helping that rose to live.”
I blew a nice, screechy whistle on the grass blade. “But Mr. K. wasn't doing any damage,” I pointed out. “And he sprained his ankle.”
Reuben smiled. “I bet Mr. K. got bossy. You know,
commanding
that twig to grow.”
Mama had said that plants can sense feelings. Maybe the outlaw rose had flat-out refused to live with that bossy man—and had taken action. Huh, that was one
spooky
twig.
Or was it?
“Reuben.” I fiddled with a thorn on my rose bush. “Do you
really
believe that twig washaunted? I mean, Mr. K. said those old-time roses could live a long time with no rain. And he said they could survive in shade, which explains why the graveyard roses could grow in a forest. Maybe everything that happened was, well,
normal.
No ghosts involved.”
My man took a looonnng, poke-turtle slow time pulling a weed.
I shivered. “But then I remember the feeling that sometimes came off that plant. That sad lonesomeness. How do you explain that?”
Maybe we would never know for sure. Pulling weeds, though, Reuben and I came to one important conclusion. “Haunted twig,” “outlaw rose”—that plant needed a less scary name.
From that day on, we called it the Cassoway Rose. Only to ourselves, though. We would never tell the rose judge, even though the Cassoway was probably rare. We wouldn't register it. We would leave it alone in the graveyard, watched over by the bee.
Who knew, though? Maybe the mama ghost bee (the pink-rose guardian) would visit Rooter's sometime. She'd want to checkon Mr. K.'s old-time yellow roses, after giving them so much care.
“Listen, Reuben.” I whistled another grass blade. “We need a good villain for the next Nemo strip. One with thorns, maybe.”
My man considered the idea. “Giant thorns,” he added.
“Filled with poison.”
As we planned the ultimate fight between Nemo and the evil Thorngruber, I realized a fourth thing I was starting to know. For the first time in my life, maybe roses had not been bad luck.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
If a house can be haunted, why not a garden? After all, many antique roses, dating to before 1867, are being found these days at abandoned houses and old cemeteries, the usual territory for ghosts. An article on rose rustling in
Smithsonian Magazine
first pricked my interest in finding and preserving old-fashioned roses.
The second thing I know: The day after we returned the twig, the skies sent rain. Not roaring thunder or lightning. Not slashing, smashing drops. Just a steady downpour that soaked the earth and brought green back to the garden.
A coincidence? Of course. Nothing supernatural about a drought.
The third thing? Blood quit being a BIG bully. Mind you, he was still a little bully. He'd let loose a “Rose Jones” or “Art Fart” every once in a while, but he laid off the punching, pounding, and stealing. And if a bee buzzed near—even a gentle bumble guy— Blood would leave
fast.
Maybe being haunted had given his mean self a feeling for the fear and pain of other kids. Or maybe, as Gaby said, the boy believed he was cursed. Forever.
One mystery remained, though. How had Mama, Reuben, and I escaped the curse? I had cut the graveyard twig. Reuben had touched it many times. It had lived with Mama and me. And yet we had remained unhurt. No poison ivy, no bee stings, no broken bones.
For weeks, Reuben and I tried to puzzle itout. And one July day, while we lollygagged at Rooter's, Reuben hit on a possible reason.
“Maybe the twig didn't hurt us,” he explained, “because we didn't try to hurt it.”
“Go on.” I plucked a grass blade from under my puddle of thorns.
“Think about it,” said Reuben. “The cleanup crew at the cemetery, the manager with the beard, Blood—everyone wanted to destroy it.”
“But I cut the twig and took it away.”
“You were going to plant it,” Reuben said. “You were helping that rose to live.”
I blew a nice, screechy whistle on the grass blade. “But Mr. K. wasn't doing any damage,” I pointed out. “And he sprained his ankle.”
Reuben smiled. “I bet Mr. K. got bossy. You know,
commanding
that twig to grow.”
Mama had said that plants can sense feelings. Maybe the outlaw rose had flat-out refused to live with that bossy man—and had taken action. Huh, that was one
spooky
twig.
Or was it?
“Reuben.” I fiddled with a thorn on my rose bush. “Do you
really
believe that twig washaunted? I mean, Mr. K. said those old-time roses could live a long time with no rain. And he said they could survive in shade, which explains why the graveyard roses could grow in a forest. Maybe everything that happened was, well,
normal.
No ghosts involved.”
My man took a looonnng, poke-turtle slow time pulling a weed.
I shivered. “But then I remember the feeling that sometimes came off that plant. That sad lonesomeness. How do you explain that?”
Maybe we would never know for sure. Pulling weeds, though, Reuben and I came to one important conclusion. “Haunted twig,” “outlaw rose”—that plant needed a less scary name.
From that day on, we called it the Cassoway Rose. Only to ourselves, though. We would never tell the rose judge, even though the Cassoway was probably rare. We wouldn't register it. We would leave it alone in the graveyard, watched over by the bee.
Who knew, though? Maybe the mama ghost bee (the pink-rose guardian) would visit Rooter's sometime. She'd want to checkon Mr. K.'s old-time yellow roses, after giving them so much care.
“Listen, Reuben.” I whistled another grass blade. “We need a good villain for the next Nemo strip. One with thorns, maybe.”
My man considered the idea. “Giant thorns,” he added.
“Filled with poison.”
As we planned the ultimate fight between Nemo and the evil Thorngruber, I realized a fourth thing I was starting to know. For the first time in my life, maybe roses had not been bad luck.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
If a house can be haunted, why not a garden? After all, many antique roses, dating to before 1867, are being found these days at abandoned houses and old cemeteries, the usual territory for ghosts. An article on rose rustling in
Smithsonian Magazine
first pricked my interest in finding and preserving old-fashioned roses.
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