The Scent of the Magnolia
“Well, how are you, Magnolia? Looking pretty as ever,” my uncle always greeted a woman whose name he could not remember. (Men were designated “Coach.”) “Magnolia,” of course, speaks metaphoric volumes: It heralds the woman as a flower of the South, as mysterious and beautiful, her skin flawless; it acknowledges her fragrant allure. And that flower of the South knew full well that my uncle had no idea what her name was.
Reflection:
Magnolia grandiflora, a true native. Does any other flower have quite the mystique? The California poppy, the Washington cherry, the Texas bluebonnet? Not a chance. They lack a perfumeas strong as knockout drops, they lack the magnitude of the creamy tight buds that open into face-size blossoms of extravagant beauty, and they lack gravitas. At the first funeral I ever attended, a full-open magnolia blossom lay on top of the gleaming, dark wood coffin. One was enough.
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