Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Big in Essence


When we purchased our home in Tallahassee the most prominent features around the house were the pine trees. Dozens of loblolly pines (pinus taeda) stretched toward the clouds, each vying with its neighbor to carry its needles another foot closer to the sun. I had to tip my head back as far as it would go to see the crowns of the trees seventy and eighty feet above the ground. Back at eye level, the bark hung on the trunks as if troweled on in irregular plates of reddish brown hue. One pine, a sentinel at the front entrance, had a large dead branch dangling over the pathway. I shuddered to think what would happen if that branch dropped from that height onto an unsuspecting head.

The pines weren't alone on the property, many had magnolias standing parallel to their towering trunks. Crowding up against their neighbors, they exuded an air of dependency, as if they didn't know how to grow without encouragement from a taller tree. The magnolia trunks gave the appearance of being stretched out like taffy with each branch well separated from its fellows. I soon learned that it's a rare blossom that graces the broad leaves of these magnolias.

At the back of the property, a respectful distance from the parking pad, an enormous, spreading tree allowed its branches to wander, almost aimlessly, toward open spaces. I hoped it was a southern live oak, but, had to acknowledge that it wasn't quite as alive as it might have been at one time. Huge scars scored the base, and some of the limbs were not more than stubs. The broken crossbars of a neighbor's fence attested the propensity of the ancient branches to seek relief from holding themselves aloft at odd angles by plummeting to the ground.

Invasive Chinese Camphor trees studded the property as well. Introduced to Florida in the late nineteenth century, plantation owners hoped to distill the oil used as a remedy for many ailments, including rashes and joint pain. The tree is not only invasive but persistent. Cut down a sapling and it grows from the roots. Dig up the roots, and if you've succeeded in thwarting that member of the family, new cousins will grow from the wildly abundant seeds encapsulated in black berries.

There was plenty to see when we first surveyed the property.  It was almost easy to ignore the shrubs that dotted the open areas. There was a broad leafed shrub that had grown to cover the bedroom window, and one that matched it by the front drive, and a third struggling to survive on the shady side of the house, a fourth and fifth close to the property line; and a sixth and largest identical type of shrub by the corner of the house. In June, those round and quiet shrubs laugh at the definition that claims they are in any way "smaller than a tree." 

The grandest of the sextet, keeps watch over a bit of sunny yard and is filled with gardenia blossoms at the tip of every branch. How many hundreds of gardenia blossoms grace this ten by fifteen foot shrub? How many on the other shrubs? I don't have time to count them. All six sister shrubs scent the air around our house, pleasantly assaulting the senses. 


More subtle than any failed attempt to bottle it as perfume, more pervasive than any invasive species, one can't escape the delightful essence captured in the arching folds of pure, white flowers. A gardenia blossom carried inside and coddled in a bit of water quickly fades, turning brown overnight, but leaving behind an aura that will not be denied.


Shrubs like these gardenias may be labelled "small" but they have the power to broadcast their presence.  They proclaim, "Notice this!" and I do.  With gratitude, I do.

                                                                                                                                          - Robin Gray