Women and potatoes gave Texas the gift of such roses. As they left homes in the Southeast to bounce west in wagons, they stuck cuttings into spuds to keep them moist during the trip. A hard life awaited those females and flowers. To paraphrase an old saying, Texas was hell on women and roses. "The pioneer women didn't have time to baby the roses," Shannon says. "They usually planted them at the back door and threw the dishwater on them."

We're at Mount Herman Cemetery now, admiring the dark red roses that grow at the grave of Tempie Koonce, Shannon's great-grandmother. "I call it 'Great-Grandma Tempie's' rose," he says. "These flowers are like the Texas women who grew them--they're tough as a boot, but they're all sweet. The only shade this rose gets is when a bird flies over it." Shannon smiles and adds, "The only fertilizer it gets is when a bird flies over it."

These old roses endured potatoes, droughts, and dishwater but faded in the early 20th century when the new hybrid varieties debuted like pretty-in-pink belles and turned gardeners' heads. The old teas, Chinas, Noisettes, and Bourbons shrank into the corners of gardens like wallflowers in the dance of breezes.

The tough old girls survived, however, thanks to partners such as the Texas Rose Rustlers.