Grand Lady

The final bud on our magnolia tree is opening.  It signifies the culmination of a long and delightful season of magnolia blossoms.  I feel a little bit like I do while I'm watching a good film -- conscious that it's about to end, and perhaps a bit sad that it will, but satisfied with the experience.

Magnolia trees are extraordinarily exotic to me.   They are, after all, among the most primitive of plant forms.  (Unsurprisingly, I've always imagined the Garden of Eden with magnolia trees.)  I grew up in a forest, surrounded by pine and birch trees.  I loved it -- the trees provided a protective playground, giving us shelter from the sun, wind, or rain showers.  Their branches showed off winter's snowy delights, and, ultimately, they gave us firewood and warmth.   None of them, however, held the power to dramatically unfold such a huge, showy flower.  For years, I wanted a magnolia tree.  As soon as I lived in a climate that could sustain a magnolia tree, I couldn't wait to get one.  Three years ago, when my husband and I became homeowners, my parents bought us a magnolia tree as a house-warming gift.

She was perfect.  We settled on a slightly smaller variety, rather than the stately and towering Southern Magnolia.  We chose the "Kay Parris" variety, instead, which is more compact than its larger relative, but produces blooms at an earlier age.  We placed her in a prominent location in the front corner of our lawn, replacing two scrubby, half-dead barberry bushes and a misshaped sand cherry tree, which we moved to separate locations. (The sand cherry tree sprang to life and recovered its shape and dignity; the barberry bushes, unfortunately, did not.)  Instantly, she added a little class to the place.

When she begins to bloom, typically in mid-May, it is with such dramatic movement that it's almost as though she is aware of my anticipation.  She holds each bud out from her branches like a delicate white fist teasingly folded around a treat.  For weeks, I slow down each day as I back out of the driveway on the way to work, checking to see if that might be the day that I will arrive home to a brilliant, white, open bloom.  If I miss it, it'll be too late; the peak only lasts a day at the most -- if I find the bloom too late, the edges will have browned, and ants, bees and beetles will have already begun their clean-up work.    

A bud opens slowly at first, as though hesitant to reveal its full splendor. However, after they've begun to separate, the petals (and sepals) rapidly unfurl, like long white fingers stretching out in the sun after a long winter chill.  The seeds are released, the insects gather for their nectar feast, and the flower's beauty ends quickly.  

She is still young, but each year, including this spring, this tree has never opened more than one bud at a time.  She seems to deliberately deliver her performance with maximum effect, allowing each flower to receive the audience's full attention and admiration before moving to the next.

Therefore, as I take a last look at this year's final magnificent blossom, I give the grand lady her moment in the spotlight.  I am already looking forward to next year's event.