I still remember standing in the garden that March morning, coffee going cold in my hand, staring at my twelve-year-old camellia like I’d just watched a car crash in slow motion. She’d been loaded with fat pink buds. A hard…
It was a gray November afternoon, and my neighbor leaned over the fence with that particular look — the one that says “I’m about to save you from yourself.” He pointed at the small shrub I was tucking into the…
It was a Tuesday in January when my neighbor Linda showed up at my door holding her phone out like it was evidence at a crime scene. On the screen: a photo of her camellia, leaves slightly curled, a few…
It was the third week of January, and I was standing in my garden at 6 a.m. in my dressing gown, watching a hard frost settle over my camellias like a slow disaster. One of them — a Jury’s Yellow’…
I still remember standing in my backyard on a January morning, staring at my beloved Kramer’s Supreme’ camellia, its buds turned to brown mush overnight. My neighbor Patty had told me back in October not to worry — “camellias are…
