Camellias

I have always loved Camellias. They are hard to grow in the central valley. When Alpha School was built, they planted camellias on the North side of the cafeteria. The camellias slowly died off. Finally there was one plant remaining and one fall it had a single leaf left. I told the kids to watch because the last leaf was going to drop. And it did.

I remember my first job, as a squeaker. My mother had about twenty camellias in barrels on the terrace. Camellias grow beautifully, with some shade, in Southern California. They were a left over from Uncle Harold’s venture into the nursery business. The nursery business was staged on my father’s eight acres in San Dimas Canyon. I have pictures of about an acre of tiny orange trees in the snow. But I digress. Somehow, the nursery business flagged and my mother ended up with twenty camellias.

Father had brought home a twenty-four hour pocket watch, from “The War”. It had a second hand. My job was to water the camellias. Mom would give me a hose and give me the watch with a white string attached, so I wouldn’t drop it. I was to run put the hose in a barrel and wait for the little white hand to go around once. When the pointer got to the top, I was to move to the next barrel. This was big stuff.

Someone gave my mother a giant martini glass/vase. About this time of year she would float camellia flowers in the martini glass. I loved that, on the table, in front of the huge windows.

There must be 50 camellia bushes on our new place. Ruth knows how to make memories.