My three Pink Dawn Viburnums (Viburnum x bodnantense 'Pink Dawn') started to bud on December 24, 2013, but didn't get around to letting a flower peak through until mid-February.
I
figured I'd write a blog about them as soon as I had a range of
photos, but what to write? I researched (Googled and went through
all my books) trying to find something odd or interesting or, at
least, oddly interesting, but no luck.
Early to flower, light
fragrance, zones 5-7, 8 or 9--depending on the source--nice fall
color, cross between V. farreri and V. grandiflorum,
etc. Fine, all fine, but why post photos and info when the info was
everywhere? This isn't what I wanted my blog to be.
As I was doing the dishes today, I
realized what I could say (this sort of thing always seems to happen
when I'm washing the dishes or in the shower. Something about water?
Difficulty in holding a pen and dousing a notepad suggests
inspiration?) And what I could say is the following:
I love to walk into mature gardens
filled with open flowers. All those shapes and all that color is
just one enormous, loud "Hi there!" All those "faces"
are like friends of-the-moment, made at an especially fun party. The kind of effortless, immediate camaraderie that feels like an unexpected gift.
Yeah. Well. I love those moments, I do. But there's something in me--as mostly a Macro photographer--that needs to plan, work ( and suffer ) for longer, perhaps deeper relationships. I like to take time, get as close as possible to individual
plants, destroy my knees, and photograph that conversation.
So these photos, taken from early bud to last sagging flowers, reflect my relationship with my Pink Dawns over these last few months.
So these photos, taken from early bud to last sagging flowers, reflect my relationship with my Pink Dawns over these last few months.
The
buds, with all their fuzzy bits and pink bits and green bits, intrigued and excited me at first. It was hard to tell what would unfold where. But the weeks went on and on and my impatience and frustration grew. Would they never open? Would they just dry up and just fall off in the cold?
Then one morning in February when I walked out into the garden for a bud-check, the fuzzy bits had peeled back and the pink bits had pushed out and open. Just a few, but enough to give me hope (and a few shots).
However, not longer after, we got slammed by 18 inches of snow (see my March 3rd post for what that looked like). I couldn't even locate the plants much less the fragile blooms.
But when the snow finally melted and the sun came back, the flowers quickly
multiplied, with the wind rarely letting them hold still long enough
for decent shots!
When the little trumpet blooms were so much paler
than the buds it all seemed pointless, until they multiplied and
scented the air (if you stuck your nose right into them--easy enough
to do when you're on your knees, inches from them). And lastly--at
this point--all the buds opened to a sigh and a sag. All that effort.
Surely it was worth it.
But don't get me wrong. In the
right mood, I can definitely enjoy a big, crazy party with lots of superficial relationships!
