Military Housing Never Plants Roses

A commander’s spouse, three rose bushes, and the quiet kind of impact that lasts after you leave.

Outside my house, I have three rose bushes.

Two of them are lovely in the expected way, with polite white and pretty pink blooms. But the third one? The third one is an overachiever with a flair for drama.

It blooms yellow. Bright, unapologetic, sunshine-yellow blooms. And as if that wasn’t enough, it’s still blooming into January, like it hasn’t yet figured out it’s about to snow and decided to keep showing up anyway.

One of the quirky perks of living in “the commander’s house” on a military base is that the house comes with a story. Sometimes, in older houses on older bases, there’s literally a plaque in the entryway with a historic photo of the home and a growing list of commander family names on small brass squares tacked below - a literal list of everyone who lived, worked, laughed, cried and called those four walls home, some stretching back to the 1800’s. 

My house on White Sands Missile Range isn’t historic enough for a plaque. It was built in 2008. But the chain of residents before us isn’t hard to trace, because in military life, everyone knows everyone, and also Google exists.

Here’s another thing you should know about military housing: the housing office never plants roses. Never. Roses are temperamental, expensive, and require a level of attention that no one in charge of standardized landscaping wants to sign up for. The housing office is more of a “hardy shrubs that won’t die if the sprinkler system goes rogue” kind of office.

So when I first noticed these blooms in my yard, I knew immediately: a spouse planted them.

Not just any spouse—almost certainly a commander’s spouse, like me. Someone who looked at this high desert landscape and thought, You know what this place needs? Beauty. Fragrance. A little softness right in the front where everyone can see it.

Every week since July, I’ve wandered outside and clipped a handful of roses from bushes that are now six feet tall and five feet wide - wild and unruly because the landscapers mostly ignore them. And every time I plop those flowers into a vase, set them on my desk, and catch that faint, sweet perfume, I think about the woman who planted them.

Does she ever wonder if they’re still alive? If I told her I’ve been enjoying fresh-cut roses for months - all the way into cold January - would she be surprised? Delighted? Would she say, “Oh good, they made it,” like a mother who sent her kid off to college and is relieved they’re eating something besides cereal?

Did she plant roses at her next duty station? Did she keep trying to grow difficult, beautiful things, even when life kept moving?

Because that’s the thing about military life: you’re always holding things loosely. And it looks like we will live here in New Mexico for only a year, maybe twelve or thirteen months total, before the next set of orders drops in, issued by decision-makers far above my pay grade. It’s bittersweet. I like it here. I’ve found a rhythm. I’ve met people who feel like keepers. And yes, I hate the hour drive to the airport and the thirty-minute drive to my girls’ high school and Walmart. But even when you complain about the logistics, leaving is still hard.

Which brings me to legacy.

We tend to think of legacy as something you build after years or decades of steady investment. The scientist in the lab. The teacher whose former students fly home for her retirement. The author who writes the great American novel and changes the conversation. In our collective imagination, legacy requires a long runway.

But what if you don’t have time?

What if all you have is a one-year assignment on a base where you barely finish unpacking before it’s time to pack again?

The roses tell me you can create legacy. You just might not be around to see it bloom.

When time is short, the temptation is to stay small. Keep your head down. Don’t get involved. Why invest in people or projects when you’re leaving soon? Why try to improve things or create change? 

But legacy isn’t always built with giant gestures and impressive results. Sometimes it’s built with soft touches: kind words, a welcoming spirit, community-building, making it easier for the next person to step into the role without feeling like they’re starting from scratch.

If you’ve ever grown roses, you know they don’t explode into abundance overnight. The original planter probably saw mostly scrawny thorny branches, fighting to survive the New Mexico heat. She may not have gotten the payoff I’m getting now.

And yet, here I am, years later, enjoying the fruit of her labor. Her legacy is sitting in a vase on my desk.

So if you’re in a short season - new job, temporary town, brief assignment, shifting chapter - I want to gently suggest a new way to think about your impact. Your legacy might not look like applause or overnight transformation. It might look like planting something you won’t get to enjoy.

And on the days I get frustrated because change feels slow, or because a naysayer pops up in a Facebook group (as they do, like clockwork, with the confidence of someone who has never planted a rose in their life), I look at those yellow blooms and remember this:

“Blessed is she who plants trees under whose shade she will never sit.” — Indian proverb

Sometimes legacy gains you a plaque.
Sometimes it leads to a promotion.
Sometimes it results in a room full of people saying thank you.

And sometimes… it’s a yellow rose blooming in January, quietly reminding the woman who lives here now: Someone loved this place enough to plant beauty for the person who came next.

Maybe that’s the kind of legacy we all can leave, no matter how short the season.