Taylor’s Pink Perfection Camellia
Nature doles out some amazing colors. When my Taylor’s Pink Perfection camellia began to bloom for the first time, I found its blush exuberant, unapologetic and very reminiscent of a hue I’d come across before: the lipstick color of my fourth grade teacher Miss Wells.
In my recollection, Miss Wells and Delta Burke are now the same person. When Miss Wells wanted your attention (read disciplinary action) she’d lean over your desk placing her well-manicured hand on your shoulder, and zero in her face to your ear, and politely, albeit sternly, in the most lilting of southern accents say, “May I please have a word with you, [insert child’s first and last name]?” Trouble was, she would have many words with the pupil and always win the argument. (I had a theory that her weapons-grade perfume was a numbing agent used to lull kids into a semi-lucid, obedient state, but that’s another story.) Because she insisted on unflinching eye contact (her form of a Vulcan mind meld), I was forced to behold the brightest shade of pink lipstick known to man. And now that I’ve seen this camellia, I can say it’s also known to nature.
One year ago: Tulips: A Worthy Form of Currency
Two years ago: Wheelbarrow or What 2.5 Hours Looks Like