Rose was my mother. In 1917 she was 7 years old. With her only close companion her dog, Rags, she lonely. At age 10 she was expected to take care of her “ailing” mother and to drive her mother to the doctor. Rose was an only child of wealthy parents, but she never had a birthday party nor a Christmas tree. She was a college graduate who married a West Texas cowboy, my father. He died when she was 51. All-in-all, Rose’s life was not much to her liking. She was a sad little girl, and, for the most part, an unhappy adult. But she was a rose.