Gorgeous enough to make an angel’s heart run wild

This post originally appeared in Emily Stashower's always-interesting garden blog, Roots in Reality.

 

Growing up in Minnesota, azaleas were a rare treat generally limited to visits to my grandparents in the South.  Azaleas can be grown in Minnesota, if your level of commitment is high and your expectations are low.   I’d been spoiled during my childhood days in the Smoky Mountains, where azaleas grow wild.  The flame azaleas, the best known being the orange variety, are an extraordinary sight.   It seems hard to believe that they (along with their white and pink siblings) were never cultivated. They’ve along the Blue Ridge Parkway; you can see them across the mountains; it feels like God just put them there. Nobody else did.

 

Washington, DC is a lot closer to North Carolina than it is to Minnesota.  The official flower might be the American Beauty rose, but, in reality, it should be the azalea.  Washington is wild for azaleas; and surrounding Maryland and Virginia follow suit.  (Which leads me to wonder why Maryland picked the Black-Eyed Susan.  Colorful and native, yes, but they hardly leave me breathless.  Virginia chose the native dogwood, an area favorite, which looks lovely with azaleas.)    But there is trouble in paradise: the Washington Post’s garden columnist has actively campaigned against azaleas, saying “Florally, it's a binge banquet for three weeks followed by a diet of gruelish greenery the rest of the year.”  The word “nauseating” was also thrown around.  (Probably  directed toward the “Pucci color combination,” which I love.)
 

I suppose that to some extent that it is true.  My garden, in suburban Maryland, has more azaleas than any other shrubs.  The home’s original owners, enthusiastic and skilled gardeners, replanted a large slope covered with honeysuckles and poison ivy with over 100 varieties of azaleas. This wasn’t an arbitrary act of an ordinary azalea enthusiast; the previous owner was Head of USDA’s Soil Conservation Service (as it was known then) and took the selection of plants very seriously.  Although many shrubs were lost over the years, the variety astonishes me.

Not knowing their proper names, I’ve given them nicknames.   The soft red is the first to arrive.

 

The “orchid” is a delicate lavender number that lights up with sunshine from behind (and looks rather like a real orchid up close).
 

 The apple blossom azalea is consolation for my lost apple trees, chopped down by a subsequent owner (If only they’d been cherry trees, how poetic it would be!)

 

The pink-throated azalea has a very distinct look, carrying two shades.  Near the center of the bloom, the pink deepens.

 

The largest of our blooms is the giant magenta.

 The hot-pink bee azalea makes me wonder what azalea honey would taste like
 

 And there are the whites and the corals, the cherry red and the deep-purple…

 

So, yes, everything is in one basket.  We have a couple of glorious weeks in which I can hardly believe that all this beauty belongs to us.  Then, the azaleas fade away, as they are now, with a few remaining reds and pinks.  All will settle into “gruelish green” soon, but the memory of that smashing, unphotographical vista will stay with me. 

When I was child, I heard the term “Georgia Peach” from my aforementioned Southern family.  I assumed that it meant a sweet and pretty woman with a nice complexion.   That is, until I had a truly fabulous Southern peach bought from a roadside stand.  This was a rich, pure delight with a flavor that knocked my socks off.  All peaches before and all peaches since have paled in comparison.  I remember this peach like a soldier might remember a beautiful, charming, compelling woman.  He’d spend his three weeks of leave just trying to be in the same room with her, and she’d be worth it.