Tall Clover Farm

Nature doles out some amazing colors. When my camellia Taylor’s Pink Perfection 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 face-to-face and politely, albeit sternly, in the most lilting of southern accents say, “May I please have a word with you, [insert child's name]?” Trouble was, she would have many words with me 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