Over ten years ago when my Grandmother asked me if I'd like her to transplant one of her wild rose bushes to my yard, I said something like, "uh, sure. I guess so... Okay."
The little poky fellow grew some, got ran over by a truck, grew some more, sends out shoots like the Dickens that I'm constantly having to uproot so they don't take over my yard, attracts more bees than anyone could ever want in their back yard (something I'm a little proud of) and is now taller than me and at least ten feet wide.
I didn't know ten years ago that every time I glanced at one of its delicate pink blooms, smelled its honey sweet floral aroma, listened to the sound of the bumble bees buzzing their legs in it's pollen, and smiled at it's absolute beauty that I'd think of my Grandmother. What a gift!