A statuesque magnolia graced the front lawn of Grandma's yellow house. I don't ever remember it being small... it always towered above us children, being more of a friend than I ever realized in those days. We weren't able to climb it; its first branch was so far above us, and no ladder was to be had. However, the magnolia offered us summertime shade, huge flowers to carry down the dirt-path aisles in the corner lot for our childhood weddings, the seed pods after blooming gave us grenades to play war, something we did in the aftermath of World War II, not yet understanding everything we heard in our parents' conversations.
Years later, a fiance's mother would go on her early morning walks and often come back with a magnolia bloom given to her by her long-time neighbor. She loved its huge petals and waxy green leaves, and she would immediately give it a floating home in her living room. This woman was a tiny, graceful lady with whom one would ordinarily associate pink sweetheart roses, not the flamboyant magnolia. Yet this former high school English teacher was never shy in sharing her passion for this magnificent flower.
Recently, a very tall friend proudly showed me the dwarf magnolia planted in the small patch of ground between his neighbor's house and his. He admitted to liking it so much that he planted another near the corner of his house to shade his late afternoon patio. He couldn't really explain his attraction to the tree, just that he admired the beautiful flowers in their exquisite, showy splendor.
I didn't really like the magnolia as a child, it seemed like its brown dust always irritated me, getting in my hair, on my skin and making me itch and sneeze. I had more fun watching the other kids have fun with it, while I lazed in its shade. As an adult, I now have a home in South Carolina, whose state flower is the magnolia. I've learned to go outside and hose the thing off vigorously, and then go get my clippers to search for the perfect specimen bloom to take inside. Always just one. |
