The air was saturated from last night’s rain, and the morning sun was shining bright.
The short-lived whimsy of summertime shows in lucky moments, a function of nature, of plant life, and sunlight, and raindrops. And serendipity. Fleeting moments that rush along, quick as a hummingbird’s wings.
I was glad I decided to head out early that muggy morning.
The first lustrous light of dawn, Like the season’s first red rose to open, Like the downbeat in your favorite song. Worth the wait. A pulse born to modulate. A natural rhythm we seize upon for the solace of what’s constant.
“It’s here and it’s gone on a magnolia wind.” [ Guy Clark & Shawn Camp]
Magnolia Wind is a tender old ballad from Guy Clark, a country music songwriter and performer (November 6, 1941 – May 17, 2016). Magnolia Wind has been a favorite of mine for years, and I found the song and Guy Clark’s story by way of John Prine, one of a number who covered this classic. According to Guy Clark, Magnolia Wind is “a made-up song about some boy who’s in love with Sis [Draper]”, a fiddle-player who taught Shawn Camp, the song’s co-writer, to play fiddle. No wonder it’s become a cherished part of the legendary, story-telling culture of country music.
The magnolia is a large and ancient variety of aromatic flowering plants, a genus that’s been around for up to 20 million years. I don’t have any in my yard, but neighbors do, and I do my best to capture something of the magnolia’s brief but sumptuous blooming period in the spring. The blooms don’t last long. Much the same as the lyrics, “it’s here and it’s gone on a magnolia wind.”
It started in December with Secret Santa. Secret Santa gave me a plant stand, and the plant stand made me want an indoor herb garden. Granted, I’d thought about bringing my outside herbs inside in October or November. But the plants were big, too big for inside, and I only wanted the herbs, not any outdoor bugs that might come along for the ride. In any case, the end of December was too late to think about bringing my dried-up outdoor herb plants inside.
I thought you could just go on down to that store that sells lumber and paint and plants, and pick up some herbal plants. Seems like you should be able to do that, don’t you think? Not so. They had ferns and violets and philodendron, but no herbs. Not a single one. What they had was herb seeds. I’ve never done well with seeds. Outdoors, indoors…I haven’t had success with seeds. But I had a plan, and I had that Secret Santa plant stand, and the sense of resolution that comes to us all around January 1.
So now I have these seedlings. I doubt their timing is timely. But I’m still resolute, and the little plants give me hope and inspiration.
I watered them today. They’re struggling to grow green, but they’re alive and trying to reach for the sunlight…just like the rest of us.
If someone did a Top Ten list of plants that inspire, ferns would be there. Mayapples would be there. Giant oak trees would be there. Flowers that show up on their own, and bloom at the edge of a paved street, for sure would be there. I’m talking about plants with personality, plants that stir the imagination, plants that make you smile. Plants that make you write a story. It’s a short list.
A field of wildflowers, as far as the eye can see. That kind of imagination.
Ferns. A stegosaurus stomps the ‘earth’, the way we imagine the earth looked millions of years ago. With each step, the ground thuds as the dinosaur moves past vegetation…huge, prehistoric ferns. Yeah, that kind of imagination.
So, ferns. This is what I love about ferns. Well, for one thing, they hang around all year. They survive the winter. Like we do. They’re not fresh and robust when they meet the first light snowfall, or the last cold icy storm. But they don’t dry up and wither away, or lose all their leaves like some bigger, stronger, more impressive ‘plants’, otherwise known as trees. Buried under January’s coldest, iciest cover, the fern hunkers down, close to the ground. You scrape away the slush and snow and hardened icicles. And there’s a fern. I have respect for that.
Is there another plant that comes to life with the charm and charisma of a fern? I know, somebody’s gonna come up with some mushroom that pops up overnight in an interesting way. Nope, forget it, not good enough.
You can smell the scent of ‘earth’. And take in the filtered light shining from above through the branches of those tall awesome oak trees. Peculiar little mayapples cover the leafy-rich surface. And fancy green ferns unfold.
If someone did a Top Ten list of plants that inspire, ferns would be there. Mayapples would be there. Giant oak trees would be there. Flowers that show up on their own, and bloom at the edge of a paved street, for sure would be there. I’m talking about plants with personality, plants that stir the imagination, plants that make you smile. Plants that make you write a story. It’s a short list.
A field of wildflowers, as far as the eye can see. That kind of imagination.
Ferns. A stegosaurus stomps the ‘earth’, the way we imagine the earth looked millions of years ago. With each step, the ground thuds as the dinosaur moves past vegetation…huge, prehistoric ferns. Yeah, that kind of imagination.
So, ferns. This is what I love about ferns. Well, for one thing, they hang around all year. They survive the winter. Like we do. They’re not fresh and robust when they meet the first light snowfall, or the last cold icy storm. But they don’t dry up and wither away, or lose all their leaves like some bigger, stronger, more impressive ‘plants’, otherwise known as trees. Buried under January’s coldest, iciest cover, the fern hunkers down, close to the ground. You scrape away the slush and snow and hardened icicles. And there’s a fern. I have respect for that.
Is there another plant that comes to life with the charm and charisma of a fern? I know, somebody’s gonna come up with some mushroom that pops up overnight in an interesting way. Nope, forget it, not good enough.
You can smell the scent of ‘earth’. And take in the filtered light shining from above through the branches of those tall awesome oak trees. Peculiar little mayapples cover the leafy-rich surface. And fancy green ferns unfold.
All those delicate flowers we planted in May, or June, they’re strong and showy now. Or they’ve withered and died. The tomatoes are tall, healthy, nearly out of control, ready to pick. And tall blades of grass that used to be bright green are a shamble of bent, disheveled straw.
The last days of summer always feel a bit restless. Maybe bittersweet. Like we’re living in yesterday’s moment, and holding off tomorrow’s worry. We try to relax, but there’s a nagging feeling … it’s almost gone.
etikser 