I was scrolling through photos the other day and was reminded of the lilac blossoms I cut last May. It warmed my soul to see those springtime blooms on a 30-degree December day. If only the photos were scratch-n-sniff.
A botanical tribute awaits on the other side of door 11.
December 11, 2024
I realize that I’m in the minority when I tell you that my favorite season is winter. It’s true that I like the cold and snow, but it could also be because there’s nothing like a killing frost to put an end to seasonal allergies. Despite higher pollen counts, I’ll admit that there’s a lot to like about the other three seasons. In all honesty, it’s hard to imagine anything more beautiful than when everything blooms in the spring.
Of all the botanical fireworks that Mother Nature sets off in springtime, lilacs are my favorite. This past spring was beautifully outrageous; lilac bushes dripped with purple, pink, and white blooms, their sweet scent was intoxicating. Alas, as always, in a few short weeks it was over.
Many years ago, my mother planted a type of lilac bush that bloomed later than the rest. It’s called Syringa pubescens subspecies patula or, more simply, Miss Kim. An army horticulturist, Elwyn Meader, selected seeds from mountain-dwelling lilacs while stationed in Korea. The higher altitude plants are more tolerant of moisture and colder temperatures. They also bloom later than their lower altitude cousins. That means the weather is warmer which protects the flower buds from late frosts and the mold and mildew that can form earlier in the season. He named the new cultivar after his assistant, Miss Kim.
My brother John and I were both born in May, a number of years plus three days apart, toward the end of lilac season. Growing up we celebrated our birthdays together. It was fun. After he left home, I’d call him on his birthday and before we hung up, he’d say, “Let’s do this again in three days!” And we did.
Our birthday tradition ended two years ago when he passed away, far too young, from cancer. The first birthday season without him was beyond hard. He’d only been gone a few weeks. The lilacs that began to emerge were a comfort, something to count on. One Saturday, my husband took me to the garden center where we inquired about that wonderful lilac bush my mother had in her garden. Of course they knew what we were talking about and brought us to a group of Miss Kim lilacs, their roots in burlap-wrapped balls and their leafy green branches covered with tiny, purple buds. We were told simply to plant it, keep it watered, and it would reward us with abundance in a couple of weeks. They were right.
A week before John’s birthday the first buds popped open. Every day after that more blossoms unfurled. Then, on his birthday, anyone within a few hundred feet and in possession of a functioning olfactory nerve could smell it. Fragrant doesn’t begin to cover it! By my birthday, three days later, it was in full bloom and full scent. It was nothing short of spectacular. The intense fragrance persisted long after the pale lilac color of the blossoms faded.
It’s not the same as being able to pick up the phone and sing Happy Birthday to him and then hear him promise to do it again in three days. But I’m comforted by starting a new birthday tradition with Miss Kim in his honor. The bush is planted outside my sewing room window. I can see it from my desk and smell it no matter where I am. It blooms, like clockwork, just before his birthday. The blossoms delight and then fade away. That heavenly scent lingers a little bit longer as if to say, “Let’s do this again next year!” And we will.
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