On the tip of my tongue!

  Have you ever drawn a blank on something you should fully know?  The name of a certain tree has fully slipped my mind and it is aggravating the stew out of me.  I know this tree.  I have seen this tree almost every day of my life.  It grows wild near or in the marshes of the Bayou and since Hurricane Katrina, we have them popping up all over the hillside.  I am not complaining about this as it is a positive side of a very devastating storm but the fact that I cannot remember the name is driving me nuts!

  The trees here stay on the smallish side and are nondescript most of the time.  Their true beauty comes out when they bloom.  Some of the trees have orangish blooms while others are yellow.  The flowers are in small clusters and droop much like wisteria.  In fact, someone mentioned that the orange ones are scarlet wisterias but, somehow, that does not seem correct.  

  The quandary will frustrate me until I have a chance to research the blooms for a true identity.  In the meantime, I will simply enjoy the loveliness that dots the hillside!

Update!  A friend just informed me that this is rattlebox (Sesbania)!  The seed pods do indeed rattle.  It is sort of an invasive plant if allowed to go unchecked but since I mow this area, it should be fine.  Why could I not think of that quite obvious name???

The Morning After...

   Last night, Son walked out with me to view the Night Blooming Cereus.  The plants are potted and sit on a plank bench near Pebble Creek (the glorified roof drain).  I know it is probably silly but these plants have a strong meaning to me.  These are direct descendants of plants that Granddad grew. In fact, he rooted my very first plant and gave it to me when I was still in high school.  Over the years, I rooted more until I have a dozen and have shared with all my friends.  I did, however, almost lose every one during Hurricane Katrina.  There was no way to protect the plants and, at the time, that was the least of my worries.  Afterward during the massive cleanup, I found one small "leaf" and from that started anew.  The memories of "Night Blooming Cereus Parties" still hold a special place in my heart.  About a week ahead, we were put on "bud watch".  As the tiny buds grew, so did the excitement (at least for me.)  Then, on the big night, the family would drive over to my grandparent's place and we would have supper and wait for the buds to open.  The buds usually began to open around 8pm but were not in their full grandeur until about 10pm.  That late hour added to the intrigue.  It was one of the few times that I was ever allowed to be up late and especially to be that late at someone's house.  It was special!  Like I said, Son and I went out to view the blooms.  Nine of the buds were opening!  I marveled at the beauty and the aroma.  Son, on the other hand, patiently humored his mom.  

  Then...the day after.  The morning after the blooming, the excitement fades and a sort of sadness settles in to replace it.  The blooms of the cereus only last for one night.  They open late and then before dawn, the blooms start to wane.  By sunrise, the once dinner-plate-sized blooms are sad, wilted remnants of themselves.  This morning, I snapped off the spent blooms and tossed them to the wayside.  They were done.  I was sad.  Until tonight!  More buds are set to open tonight and for the next few nights.  This is the third time this summer that the plants have set buds.  I think I finally found the perfect spot for them to flourish.  Sadly, however, not a one of the plants that I shared with friends and family have bloomed yet.  Perhaps they are lonely and I should root some more!  Granddad would have.  He always said that if you want your plants to do well, then you should share them with others.  It works, for sure.  Memories...tied to plants, just like to people are well worth hanging onto.