Our much-maligned Bradford pear tree finally succumbed to the chainsaw yesterday – aided in her demise most recently by a culprit named Flo and, on a semi-regular basis over the years, by Duke Power’s wrecking crew. The former blew into town and hung around – splaying branches every which-a-way and dumping 8 trillion gallons of rainwater into the already mushy soil. The latter performed justified but poorly executed trimming of anything near a power line. Over time, the Bradford endured such indignities and continued to preside – tall and lopsided – over the front yard. (Pronounced frun chard for those wishing to have the full vernacular effect.) Undaunted, she offered up a profusion of blossoms each spring to be whipped around by the wind – thus providing the closest thing we had to snowfall most years.
In a valiant effort, dear friends raced to her aid after the storm – dodging flood washed roads from Raleigh to here and back – a six hour trek. They trimmed and cleared and cared. We were overwhelmed by their kindness. The Bradford must have been, too. For, with her final breath, she did something crazy. She bloomed. One. More. Time. In October. Snowy blooms drifting on the post-storm breeze.
This phenomenon has happened all over town. Bradfords and Camellias and Azaleas – putting on a show for our weary little hamlet. I read up on it a bit. The loss of bark and limbs sends the plants into survival mode and they bloom to repopulate – they bud as a defensive response to the shock. Let me get this right… brutalized, traumatized and near about drowned – and the response is to… bloom? Not lash out? Not shoot poison into the ground? Not withdraw and shrivel up? But bloom? That’s plain crazy. Or is it?
Dear One who has buried a husband, grandson, son and last week, a daughter. This is just too much. Yet, every day she’s posting on the Facebook about being thankful and blessed. Bloomin’ crazy.
NC Highway Patrol trooper on a traffic stop. Shot and left to die. Fellow down the road hears the shots and heads toward them. “Held onto him until the EMT’s arrived.” Bloomin’ crazy.
Still in a mess up here yet fervently weeping and praying for people down in Mexico Beach and Panama City. Bloomin’ crazy.
Guy in the Bible named Job hit a rough patch a few centuries back. Rough patch being a gross understatement. Lost it all – home, wealth, possessions, family, health. Adding insult to injury, he has some so-called friends all too willing to offer condemnation disguised as advice and a wife who suggests he “curse God and die.” And it is tempting. But Job eventually “blooms.” And leaves (hey, a pun!) this lovely thought: “For there is hope for a tree, if it is cut down, that it will sprout again, and that its shoots will not cease. Though its root grows old in the earth, and its stump dies in the ground, yet at the scent of water it will bud and put forth branches like a young plant.” (Job 14:7-9) Just a sniff of water and bam! Bloomin’ crazy.
Seems like we owe a debt of gratitude to ornamental trees. And brave people. And Bible guy. For the timely reminder that life, and even beauty, after destruction is possible and maybe not so bloomin’ crazy after all.
(Postscript: The Bradford was preceded in death by a lovely Holly – also irreparably damaged by the aforementioned wrecking crew. Holly is mourned every year at Christmas when the mantel is stuffed with leftover tree clippings instead of her fresh deep green leaves and jaunty red berries. Fa-la-la-la-la La-la-la-la.)
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