I’ve loved live oaks and azaleas since childhood. Most of my life I’ve had close acquaintance with these magnificent trees and flowering shrubs, first in my youth growing up in New Orleans, and later in life, and now, in Charleston.
The live oak—most commonly the Southern live oak (Quercus virginiana). — has been described as “less a tree than a presence.” And I completely agree. As they age they become massive, with deep furrowing bark and large, spreading canopies. Their sweeping limbs extend outward and upward, making them uniquely recognizable.
Sometimes they become quietly sheltering and huge ancients such as the 500-year-old Angel Oak, near Charleston, protected in a park that I visited last Spring and photographed. It is an awe-inspiring wonder of Nature.
Live oaks have always lent themselves to poetic, lyrical mystical descriptions, as in this passage I came across: “With its soft veils of Spanish moss, its branches seem to carry the atmosphere of the coastal South itself—humid, luminous, and steeped in history.” Indeed. Live oaks are the iconic Southern tree.
The azalea, a flowering shrub of the genus Rhododendron, arrives with a sudden burst of color, transforming quiet gardens into light-filled pavilions on sunny Spring afternoons, as I’ve witnessed the past months on several photo walks in nearby parks and gardens. For me it is THE ritual of the season I love most, although in old age now, I am often wistful about how few Springs are left to celebrate and thank God for this miraculous beauty. Azalea blossoms are indescribably soft and cool to the touch, clustered, and often abundant beyond counting in shades of pink, white, crimson, and lavender, and with the most beautifully delicate tiny sparkles of light when viewed up close and backlit by the sun.
Because I knew it would all be over soon, It was with a twinge of melancholy that I walked along the azalea-and-live-oak-covered paths at the state park, and in the middle of the city at Hampton Park this past week and yesterday on perfectly cool late March afternoons just before sunset when the light is perfect for photography. I also recently made my annual Spring pilgrimages to Magnolia and Middleton Place Gardens, glorying in the final hurrah of their abundant and dazzling displays of azaleas at peak bloom and blazing with their finest Spring colors.
Sadly, the splendid blooms that spread out in wide swaths of color are fading and ebbing now, but their brilliance and peak bloom lasted long enough to reaffirm for me, with everlasting gratitude, the miracle of Nature in Spring.
The sun’s shadows played along the ground around the azaleas, and stood still for my photographs, a very nice complement to the near perfection of the landscape scenes that unfolded around every bend.
My mother’s garden downtown where she lived for many years, was full of huge white azaleas, which contrasted with the pinks of Loropetalam.
This annual ritual of going to the gardens to see the azaleas in March is one of the greatest outdoor pleasures our magnificent South Carolina Lowcountry affords. Thousands and thousands of visitors have arrived to soak up the beauty, but I manage to find those late afternoon times and paths that are less frequently visited at those times, and I usually have them to myself. Me and my camera.
That camera, now that I have the freedom offered by digital technology, has become truly an extension of my eyes. I see with that sturdy, amazing device in my hand, always at the ready, and prompting me to look closely, ceaselessly, not just on a whim or perfuntorially.
At the end of an afternoon’s walk, the resulting pictures always astonish me when I think back on what I have just photographed, and when I view them on my iPhone and iPad, my delight is complete.
Angel Oak. I took this photo last Spring.
Photos taken a few days ago at Charles Towne Landing State Historical Park:
Loading comments...