I’ve grown an unknown crinum lily for a number of years, but rarely has it bloomed. No matter, as I’ve contented myself with appreciating its abundant foliage and the lush tropical feel that the plants lend my decidedly non-tropical garden.
This summer, one of my crinum bunches bloomed.
It wasn’t a prolific bloom show, but it was enough that I swooned for several days over the beauty of the blooms.
Softly pink and gloriously fragrant, these July flowers were a real gift–and surprise–during the hottest time of the year.
These bulbs came from my parents’ garden in South Texas. My mother grew them, though I don’t know where she got them nor when she planted them. In her garden, with the full, blasting South Texas sun and the loose, sandy soil, the crinums always flowered with abandon during summer, their seemingly delicate, but tough-as-nails pink lily faces open to the sky. In my clayey soil and dappled shade garden, the blooms are a rare and reticent offering.
Both of my beloved parents are gone now–my mother in 2002, my father last summer. But I grow their flowers, evoking their love of gardening and appreciation of the natural world. When my crinums bloomed, I checked my daughter, Shoshana’s, grave where I planted crinums, to see if her crinums were blooming. Alas, none were open. Those have bloomed in past summers, but the bulbs that my father gave to me after she died are quiet this year.
This year, the granted blooms were for me.