November 20, 2012
There is a tree on my old walk to the metro (now I go South instead of East). Well, actually, it's a bush, but tall and large, in the back corner if someone's garden. And every fall it flowers: bug, soft pink flowers with a golden center, looking more like spring than late, late fall. And the scent! Rich and sweet, but not heady, like a more robust jasmine.
I've been captivated by this bush for three years. I had no idea what it was, and was. It looked like a Camellia, and had Camellia's tight multi-layered buds, but only had one ring if petals. And anyway, Camellias bloom in February. Then this weekend, I saw another on, and as I bent over to smell it, a man came out the door, and finally I find out: they are fall flowering Camellias and they are enchanting.
I've always loved Camellias. Have I ever told you? It started before I was even born. Mom was so sick when she was pregnant with me, that she just lay on the couch and stared out the window. It was a very rainy february. And there were Camellias right outside the window, a bright, cheerful pink cutting through the gloom. Or so I've been told. I don't remember that house. But, as you can see, I am predisposed to love camellias. And now that I know I can have them in the fall and the spring, I'm pretty thrilled. Not that I have a place to grow them.