Written by K V White, Executive Editor
Benny and I enjoy getting up at daylight and walking along the trail within our small allotment just as the shadows of the night are interrupted by the creeping of light rays, as the sun begins to rise. With hot coffee in hand in the same mug I’ve used for three years, we casually explore the culmination of all things new within the Perennial Garden.
It is mid fall, measured not only by the wall calendar, a delightful gift given by my insurance agent 15 years running, but by three football games in, and the drizzle of leaves as quiet as rain falling softly upon the ground.
Sometimes I stop to listen as I step out into the somewhat dark; somewhat day; a ritual whether rain or wind, and I am relieved in this season to find I was fooled, but glad, that what I had believed to be the sound of rain was rather the rustling of leaves loosening themselves from the branches of the White Oaks, Tulip Poplars and the Catalpa trees just before flight.
I’ve taken up a chair that poses the best view of the perennial landscape with the Eastern sun at my back. I observe that the sun still rises in the East, one of the few things that has not changed throughout my walk in the garden over many years AND in life. Of course, I have slathered sun protection factor 30 on the “etches” of time-lines on my face, in a feeble attempt at preventing any further damage of UVA/UVB. I’ve come to the conclusion, and believe more and more as years go by, that perhaps these are left behind remnants of frowns and smiles from years of seasons of both joy and sadness. Gaining wisdom and losing vanity, I now consider them a badge of honor instead of sun damage alone.
It is usually very quiet here, but today is Saturday, and I hear the whistles blowing and the fans cheering from the park closely adjacent to my parcel. They start at 7:00 o’clock sharp, ante meridiem, with the tiniest humans that eyes of man have ever seen, all clad with knee high socks covering bands of shin guards as they proudly, but awkwardly, gallop in not yet fully broken-in cleats. I don’t find it annoying at all- this break in peaceful silence, and as time allows, I sometimes mount the carrying strap of my fold up chair upon my shoulder, take a casual stroll, and whittle a place among the other fans and watch the back and forth motion of both victory and defeat.
Even without the calendar, the sporting season, nor the leaves falling as they sometimes do even before fall- during drought conditions, I sense in my being that colder precipitation is drawing near. There is a hushed rustling in the air that whispers the truth that winter will be arriving soon.
I am surprised at the blooms still hanging on in the perennial garden. A couple of re-blooming Azalea, Encore Autumn Bonfire and Encore Empress Pink, are cheerfully greeting me on my walk and surprising me with a great number of blooms in red and in pink, respectively, breaking up the tradition of orange and yellow and Maple reds, all hues of leaf shedding deciduous trees.
I grew up with the old style Azalea, blooming once in Spring and only for a short two weeks or so, but eye catching all the same to passersby. As I mentioned in previous articles, my first lack of love and lustre for the Azalea came upon me when at first, in my formitable years, I became aquainted with the short stubby stems of white and pink azaleas that curtained my grandmother’s front porch steps in Nashville Proper, Tennessee, USA. While they did produce a few blooms, lack of nutrition, and starved for shade, their lack lustre appeal dwelt deep in my heart. And not even when I purchased my home some 38 years ago, the same boring and stubly azaleas draped the front porch of my home with virgin white flowers that always seemed to brown prematurely as sneaky frosts and cold snaps in my zone 7 climate, with it’s unforgiving elements of the Locust Winter, and the Dogwood Winter, and as one last Surprise Winter in the South, when the Blackberry’s set blooms, the long lost blooms of the virgin white old time Azalea, always seemed to ruin the mood of Spring in my perennial garden. So, yes! I plowed them down. With a saw and mulching mower. Yes, of course, I felt much guilt. And with hindsight being 20/20, in reflection of my lack of wisdom and discernment in the matter, I probably should have moved them to a happier place. Or looked more closely into nutrients or some attention that would have made them happier where they were. But much like love and infatuation, comes on quick, last only a short while, and then too soon to really enjoy it, it is gone. I find myself with regret of my actions that, in haste, I mowed down what could have been a striking member of the Perennial Garden. And like all lost loves, the regret of it haunts me when I see her within her happy space elsewhere.
AZALEA CARE:
- Light: Azaleas thrive in partial shade with a few hours of morning sun.
- Soil: They love acidic soil (pH 4.5 to 6.0), especially that produced by composted leaf mulch and tea.
- Water: Ensure consistent moisture.
- Temperature and Humidity: Be mindful of their preferred growing conditions. Most Azalea prefer USDA zones 5-9, and like their cousin, the Rhododendreun that grow wildly in Appalachia and in the Great Smoky Mountains, they prefer woodland settings that produce windbreaks to protect them.
- Bloom Time. Most Azalea are Spring Blooming but there are some delicious new varieties that bloom in Spring and then again in the Fall. (my new found love)
