Flowers in the South
Flowers in the South
Azaleas are a very big deal in the South. Don't ask me why; personally I don't care for them. Oh, they are gorgeous when they are all in bloom but when they are not in bloom they just look scraggledy. Compare a non-blooming azalea bush with a nice ordinary hedge, and it looks like a man who can't grow a decent beard standing next to an Amish community.
But you have to have azaleas if you live south of the Mason-Dixon Line, and it's a good bet there will be roses around somewhere too. Some people like to grow the stately long-stemmed roses that are coddled and coaxed into delivering a divine single rose per branch. Far too often I see rose bushes covered in cat's-butt roses. You know cat's-butt roses - they are roses left to grow at will on bushes and do not get trimmed back for long stems. Instead, all the buds crowd together and completely bloom out until they look the aft end of a forward-bound cat.
All along Greater Metropolitan Roopville's Rebel Street, azalea bushes line up along the sidewalks like tough little sentries, willing to endure the everyday onslaught of bored children and pissing dogs and visitors making shortcuts. In the springtime, their riotous offerings of red and white and pink burst forth upon the world. They make you forget all about how lousy they look the rest of the year, when their spindly branches and haphazard leaf coverage reminds me of a dog with the mange.
But that is just my take on the matter; it's no secret that I don't like azaleas. Maybe it's because I don't like the spindly branches or mangy leaves during the non-flowering seasons. Maybe it's because everybody and their cousin has azaleas in their yards and the South is just sick with them.
No. I must confess, it is for none of those reasons although they could stand up to scrutiny. It's because of Sally Dimity. It's all her fault I don't like azaleas.
When I first met Sally, she was hunkered down behind the row of blazing bright red flowering bushes along the sidewalk outside the Dimity home. I didn't notice her gardening there at first; my eyes were drawn to the flowers since that year they came in good and thick. Uncharacteristically for me I said, "Niiiice" out loud, whereby Sally lifted her head up sharply like a prairie dog watching for a coyote on the horizon. She looked like dewdrop on a leaf, so delicate and fragile at barely five feet four inches tall. She had high sharp cheekbones and big blue eyes and her blonde hair was styled in a short retro upturned flip. I looked forward to meeting this little pocket angel until she opened her mouth to speak.
"I'll thank you not to pass judgment on my butt," she told me sternly.
"I beg your pardon. I was passing judgment on your azaleas," I said with a slight polite bow.
"Well, of course you were. Everybody knows my mama has the best azaleas in town. And just who are you to judge azaleas?"
"It's my job down at the Feed and Seed," I said, and prepared to properly introduce myself.
"The Feed and Seed!" she interrupted in a voice just a shade under contemptuous. "The Mortons owned that place ever since I can remember, ever since my mama and daddy can remember, and then some damn Yankee or other just swoops in and buys them out! I'm not going to go down there and buy one seed more from them! I want the Mortons back."
"It is my understanding that Mr. and Mrs. Morton genuinely wanted to retire."
"Retire? Nobody believes that! You know what it was; it was that old Fable jerk who bought the place, that's what it was! He came in wavin' his Yankee dollars around and talked them out of something that's been a part of this community for the past - well, since the turn of the century."
"Have you ever met him? The Fable jerk?"
"No, and I hope I don't. I'm afraid of what I would say to him."
"Why, what would you say?"
"I'd tell him what swindler he is, and that he can take his fancy-assed out-of-towner ways and hit the road!" she fumed, stabbing at the dirt with her trowel. I was glad I was on the other side of the azalea bushes from her.
At that moment her brother Jim Dimity, whom I met at the Court Cafe earlier that week, waved at me from the front doorway. "Hey, Fable! Come on in, you're just in time!"
"I don't know that I should," I called back. "I might have my fancy-assed out-of-towner self run out of town."
"Huh?" He trotted down the brick path to where I stood.
Sally meanwhile had turned a sudden dusty red from the embarrassment of the moment. She did not let it curb her tongue, however. "You should have told me who you were instead of letting me hang myself."
"What? And be accused of being a pushy, overbearing stranger who didn't know his place as an outsider to the community?" I retorted. "Please; I lived in Cobb County for a year; I know how this southern shtick works. And for your information, M'am, I am not a true Yankee. I am a Westerner. There is a difference as big as the one that separates a sorority deb from stripper bait."
"Good Lord, Sally!" Jim snorted even as he reached to shake my hand, "When are you going to stop being such a hothead? Come on in, Truman. Don't pay Sally no mind. She likes to put men through their paces."
"I can only imagine the sort of trials and tribulations one must endure."
"No more than what women endure from men," Sally said, on my heels like a terrier ready to strike a mailman where it counts.
"You don't have anything to worry about from me," I told her. "I got your message loud and clear. You don't want anything to do with me."
"I never said that!"
"You most certainly did!" I countered, turning to face her so quickly that she plowed into me headfirst.
"Well, if I'd known you were a friend of Jim's, I'd have at least been a little nicer."
"Even though I was evil enough to buy the Morton's store?"
"Well... did they really want to retire?" The way she twisted back and forth from front to back was appealing in concert with the way she turned those eyes on me.
I held up my right hand. "If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'," I assured her.
“Well, that remains to be seen.” A sly playful smile came to her face at last, and I felt a little more comfortable about my visit. Perhaps I would leave the dying part out of future conversations. Southern women have a way of making you keep your word.
Azaleas are a very big deal in the South. Don't ask me why; personally I don't care for them. Oh, they are gorgeous when they are all in bloom but when they are not in bloom they just look scraggledy. Compare a non-blooming azalea bush with a nice ordinary hedge, and it looks like a man who can't grow a decent beard standing next to an Amish community.
But you have to have azaleas if you live south of the Mason-Dixon Line, and it's a good bet there will be roses around somewhere too. Some people like to grow the stately long-stemmed roses that are coddled and coaxed into delivering a divine single rose per branch. Far too often I see rose bushes covered in cat's-butt roses. You know cat's-butt roses - they are roses left to grow at will on bushes and do not get trimmed back for long stems. Instead, all the buds crowd together and completely bloom out until they look the aft end of a forward-bound cat.
All along Greater Metropolitan Roopville's Rebel Street, azalea bushes line up along the sidewalks like tough little sentries, willing to endure the everyday onslaught of bored children and pissing dogs and visitors making shortcuts. In the springtime, their riotous offerings of red and white and pink burst forth upon the world. They make you forget all about how lousy they look the rest of the year, when their spindly branches and haphazard leaf coverage reminds me of a dog with the mange.
But that is just my take on the matter; it's no secret that I don't like azaleas. Maybe it's because I don't like the spindly branches or mangy leaves during the non-flowering seasons. Maybe it's because everybody and their cousin has azaleas in their yards and the South is just sick with them.
No. I must confess, it is for none of those reasons although they could stand up to scrutiny. It's because of Sally Dimity. It's all her fault I don't like azaleas.
When I first met Sally, she was hunkered down behind the row of blazing bright red flowering bushes along the sidewalk outside the Dimity home. I didn't notice her gardening there at first; my eyes were drawn to the flowers since that year they came in good and thick. Uncharacteristically for me I said, "Niiiice" out loud, whereby Sally lifted her head up sharply like a prairie dog watching for a coyote on the horizon. She looked like dewdrop on a leaf, so delicate and fragile at barely five feet four inches tall. She had high sharp cheekbones and big blue eyes and her blonde hair was styled in a short retro upturned flip. I looked forward to meeting this little pocket angel until she opened her mouth to speak.
"I'll thank you not to pass judgment on my butt," she told me sternly.
"I beg your pardon. I was passing judgment on your azaleas," I said with a slight polite bow.
"Well, of course you were. Everybody knows my mama has the best azaleas in town. And just who are you to judge azaleas?"
"It's my job down at the Feed and Seed," I said, and prepared to properly introduce myself.
"The Feed and Seed!" she interrupted in a voice just a shade under contemptuous. "The Mortons owned that place ever since I can remember, ever since my mama and daddy can remember, and then some damn Yankee or other just swoops in and buys them out! I'm not going to go down there and buy one seed more from them! I want the Mortons back."
"It is my understanding that Mr. and Mrs. Morton genuinely wanted to retire."
"Retire? Nobody believes that! You know what it was; it was that old Fable jerk who bought the place, that's what it was! He came in wavin' his Yankee dollars around and talked them out of something that's been a part of this community for the past - well, since the turn of the century."
"Have you ever met him? The Fable jerk?"
"No, and I hope I don't. I'm afraid of what I would say to him."
"Why, what would you say?"
"I'd tell him what swindler he is, and that he can take his fancy-assed out-of-towner ways and hit the road!" she fumed, stabbing at the dirt with her trowel. I was glad I was on the other side of the azalea bushes from her.
At that moment her brother Jim Dimity, whom I met at the Court Cafe earlier that week, waved at me from the front doorway. "Hey, Fable! Come on in, you're just in time!"
"I don't know that I should," I called back. "I might have my fancy-assed out-of-towner self run out of town."
"Huh?" He trotted down the brick path to where I stood.
Sally meanwhile had turned a sudden dusty red from the embarrassment of the moment. She did not let it curb her tongue, however. "You should have told me who you were instead of letting me hang myself."
"What? And be accused of being a pushy, overbearing stranger who didn't know his place as an outsider to the community?" I retorted. "Please; I lived in Cobb County for a year; I know how this southern shtick works. And for your information, M'am, I am not a true Yankee. I am a Westerner. There is a difference as big as the one that separates a sorority deb from stripper bait."
"Good Lord, Sally!" Jim snorted even as he reached to shake my hand, "When are you going to stop being such a hothead? Come on in, Truman. Don't pay Sally no mind. She likes to put men through their paces."
"I can only imagine the sort of trials and tribulations one must endure."
"No more than what women endure from men," Sally said, on my heels like a terrier ready to strike a mailman where it counts.
"You don't have anything to worry about from me," I told her. "I got your message loud and clear. You don't want anything to do with me."
"I never said that!"
"You most certainly did!" I countered, turning to face her so quickly that she plowed into me headfirst.
"Well, if I'd known you were a friend of Jim's, I'd have at least been a little nicer."
"Even though I was evil enough to buy the Morton's store?"
"Well... did they really want to retire?" The way she twisted back and forth from front to back was appealing in concert with the way she turned those eyes on me.
I held up my right hand. "If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'," I assured her.
“Well, that remains to be seen.” A sly playful smile came to her face at last, and I felt a little more comfortable about my visit. Perhaps I would leave the dying part out of future conversations. Southern women have a way of making you keep your word.