Charleston Sunset Lingers in Our Minds

There will be other sunsets. But in my lifetime, this one will forever linger.

Like ripples on water, it seemed to expand, build, engulf the entire expanse in its path. There was no available air that did not reflect the vibrant descent of that day's sunset. Clouds in horizontal plains met whirling funnels, all simultaneously illuminated.

I was travelling from Broad to Lockwood. The sighting was not a solitary thing. People from all walks of life, with cars suddenly wrenched to the sidelines, looked to the expanse, black silhouettes. It was an amazing energy that together we all recognized as something greater than who we are or quite possibly, collectively who we are. The only melancholy thought was not being able to share this moment with all I hold dear. The device in my palm would never do justice to nature's momentary masterpiece before us now.

Days passed and conversations later, I continue to hear about this sighting. An exchange in our local coffee shop, a mention by friends at dinner. All experienced it in different locations, but all articulated the same feeling of sheer amazement at what we were all able to say, "Did you see that sunset?"

The Lady on Indian St.

I've driven back and forth for over two years admiring this garden. Never once have I seen the gardener. I imagine she opens the front door screen and wanders out sometime before nightfall. Her garden isn't so big, but requires the help of a grandson or neighbor to help cut the angel trumpets to the ground when they get frosted in early January.

This week was a special week for the garden, when the angel trumpets were at their crowning glory. And I couldn't drive by without finally pulling the truck over and admiring their beauty up close. I had hoped she might see me through the window, wander out to ask what I was doing. It didn't happen.

I can tell from up close, she collects whatever comes her way. Their is no "design" like we come think about with these spaces we call gardens. But common sense rules here and because of it, yellow tissue paper like blossoms seem to suggest perfect placement. I don't want to imagine this any differently than it is.

I just want to say hello to the gardener and tell her how much I enjoy the daily drive by.

Fragrant Ladies Showing Off

Gardeners are forever optimists, and as much as my pendulum swings the other direction, I am no different when it comes to grabbing just one to try.

The fragrant ladies'-tresses, Spilanthes odorata, just happens to be one of those jewels I'd have never expected to make it. But you know, I proved myself wrong again.

This October marks three years. Not much babying went on with these native orchids. They got a lot more sun than they probably appreciate. Moisture, plentiful at times, isn't always consistent. Although they get a generous scoop or two from the wheelbarrow when topdressing season rolls around each spring, they really don't get much the rest of the year.

I can help but feel giddy each time I pass them tucked away among their bedfellows. I feel as though a little bit of the pine Savannah habitat lives here. I am reminded of our rich flora and make a connection to more than this little plot of land I call a garden.

Peppered Remains

All that remains are leftovers hanging from yellowing branches. Like ornaments, they bob as if the cat brushed against the Christmas tree.

For some reason we just couldn't pick the last of summer's harvest. So they persist, turning shades, going beyond ripe.

Is it that we cannot bring ourselves to say goodbye to summer. Quite possibly we have reached the limit on eating peppers. Whatever it is, summer is over and all that remains are a few skeletons, remnants of a season that wasn't too hot, wasn't too dry and left me wishing I had taken a few more dips in the pool.

Blush and Bashful

Several years ago when wandering through the new Education complex garden at the JC Raulston Arboretum in Raleigh, NC, I gasped for air. Catapulting myself into the planting bed, dropping to my knees, I plundered, looking to find a name. Who would have ever imagined, a pink American beautyberry!

Shelby Eatenton Latcherie knew just what she was talking about, uttering the famous line in the 1989 movie, Steel Magnolias. It will always be Blush and Bashful to me.

Why, you ask? Because, it is two shades of pink, a chameleon depending on the light. At times it looks the color of unmixed Pepto Bismol, and at others, a fine bone china faded by time, giving the berries a ghost like presence.

Either way, it is a fantastic find. Over the last two years, I have been growing it within ear shy of its cousin, the native purple berried one, Calicarpa americana. I guessed it to be a weaker match, but this is not so. 'Welsh Pink", its real name, has been equally as vigorous and seems just as happy sitting out by the roadside baking in our summer heat.

With fall at our feet, the long arching branches filled with the pink berries are glowing in the evening sunset. A crowd is gathered around. Our glasses are raised. Pink Squirrel, Pink Lady and Pink Rose concoctions echo what will be one of our new friends for many years to come.

Care to join us..........

Alone in the Bushes

I sometimes wonder if this only looks pretty to me?

So here I am, down on my hands and knees, being bitten by fire ants and waiting patiently as cars zoom by at 40 miles per hour on a windy road heading to the beach. Taking a still shot seems almost impossible.

Every September for almost 10 years now, I've been watching this plant flower in the hottest, driest, most inhospitable places. Sand, like the kind that comes off your flip flops when you knock them on the floorboards on the way into the house, is where the horse mint, Monarda punctata, chooses to take root. Being our only native Mondarda, makes it special. Considering Monardas hate the Lowcountry makes this one even more tantalizing.

It does not scream, wave or curse as some plants do in our landscapes. And for that, I believe it has stayed undiscovered. Even in flower, the beauty must be discovered with several glances, each one providing subtle discoveries. The floral markings are intricate and rival even the most exotic orchid.

It is impossible to find but where it naturally grows. I've never seen it offered in mail order catalogs or local nurseries.

It continues to be disheartening that plants like these can't seem to find a niche market. They are bold reminders of how far we still have to go. You get someone interested, they can't find them in nurseries. You get a grower to produce it, not enough people know it, so it doesn't sell. Chicken, egg, chicken, egg.

Do you like it? Would you buy it for your garden?

Rotting Flesh on Rickety Bones

A swarm of gnats pay homage to the rotting fruit beneath their wings. They circle in adoration. Each new day brings them closer to the delicious ripeness they so desire. I could have altered the scene. I choose not to.

Under the voluptuous exterior lies a skeleton. It is revealed day by day. Green and hard, they mellow, sun drenched, slowly transforming into apricot orange. At that very moment, they are taken by gravity. Plummeting, each one in no random sequence finds itself crowded, covering every square inch. As they continue the melting together, the aroma is unlike any. Acidic sweetness let out too long. It comes in waves.

My shoes are covered with the remains. It is at this time when I ask myself why? It is too late. It now must finish.

Brown seeds will take the place of orange flesh. Summer will have passed. Within weeks, it will be my vivid memory.

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Butia capitata (Jelly Palm, Wine Palm, Pindo Palm) This common species in the Lowcountry of SC is native to Brazil and Uruguay. The solitary trunk has long arching feather-like fronds and is somewhat silver green in appearance. Drought tolerant and found in moderate to full sun, it grows in cool-temperate to tropical climates. The yellow-orange fruit is edible and used to make an alcoholic drink.