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.
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