The Mountain Azaleas are in full bloom in my part of Appalachia. Some folks call them wild honeysuckle, others call them flame azaleas. Me-I just call them pretty. Mix together the clear blue sky of spring, the deep lustrous green of new growth and the bright orange of the azalea’s and you’ve got a pretty sight.
Silly as it sounds the orange azaleas have been calling to me. The one on the ridge out from my kitchen window says “Don’t you want to climb through the brambles to get a closer look at me? Don’t you remember the piece of barbwire growing through a tree near where I grow? If you come see me I bet you might find another treasure from days gone by. Just leave those dishes in the sink and come look at my beauty before I’m gone for another year.”
The one at the bottom of Doosenberry Hill calls to me as I drive to and fro to work. “Hey Tipper don’t you want to stop and sit a spell? I’ll tell you about the days when Pap was little. Do you know the Island Ford was just below here where Brasstown Creek flows into the Hiwassee River? Did you know your Pap used to roll up his overall legs and walk across the ford on his way to the mill? How about the time your Great Uncle Frank tried to cross the ford with a wagon when it was froze solid-now boy that was a sight!”
The one farther up Doosenberry Hill shares a varying message with me-depending on the way I’m traveling. On the way to work it says “Stop it’s not too late! Turn around and go back to my brother down the way. After he tells you stories about Pap he’ll tell you stories about other Brasstown families.” On the way home it says “SLOW DOWN! There’s a message waiting for you at the bottom of the hill-LISTEN to what my brother says and stop for awhile!”
The Mountain Azaleas are in full bloom in my part of Appalachia. Some folks call them wild honeysuckle others call them flame azaleas. Me-I just call them pretty.