While magnolias are too big and messy for our little yard, I have always admired them from afar, and I still thrill at their blooming season when it rolls around – always too quickly, always torn asunder by 90-degree heat or wind-driven rain. When they are in bloom however, it is a glorious sight, one that restores a dwindling faith in the power of beauty.
When I was a kid, our neighbors two houses down had a magnificent magnolia tree in their backyard. I would sneak through the woods behind our houses and estimate how far I had to go to find their yard, then emerge on the edge of their property, spying the magnolia tree in full resplendent bloom. I would stay there, close to the ground, transfixed with wonder and amazement at this stately tree absolutely overflowing with rich blooms marbled and mottled with pink, along with a delicate fragrance delivered on the breeze. Sometimes the ground would be wet with spring, and my pants would be soaked by the time I got back home; I never cared because glimpsing the magnolia blooms fed my soul for the whole following winter.
