The dogwoods are coming out now and with them come memories of my mother. We both loved dogwoods, each of us rejoicing in the wonderful spring cross-like blossoms, bright red foliage and berries in the fall and the graceful sculpture of leafless limbs in the wintertime. I fondly remember our home in Atlanta – and most particularly at this time of year, the front yard. Mom did the gardening. She was a farmer’s daughter and loved to get her hands in the dirt and make things grow. Our home was on a sloping bank. For years mom hustled her push mower up and down that hill. To prevent water washing the soil away and to make the rise easier to maintain, she finally decided to install a rock garden. Dad insisted on getting her some help and sent over a gardener named Epp.
          They installed rocks, trailing ivy and azaleas. These were capped by a duet of hand selected and hand raised pink dogwoods. These were mother’s pride and joy.
          Atlanta is the Dogwood City where pink dogwoods thrive. Epp had a secret for making them even more colorful. He installed rusty nails beside each tree. With that extra iron the pink color deepened. Those new dogwoods flourished a full 24 hours – until the night of the robbery.
          Mom was a shy, soft spoken person – generally – but she lost her well deserved reputation as mild-mannered Mary the morning after Epp put in those two special pink dogwoods. When she came out to water her new plantings she stopped dead in her tracks. The dogwoods were both gone. Someone had come in the dead of night and dug them up.
          ÒThe dirty rotten thieves,” she shouted, storming back into the house. “We’ve been robbed. Bob,” she raged, jolting my father out of bed and scaring the pants off the rest of us, “get up and call the police!” The law checked it out and mother patrolled the neighborhood herself, but the trees were never found. Dad had Epp install beautiful new ones, but mother never got over the loss of those special trees. Even in her 92nd – and last – year she still got mad as a wet hen every time she thought of that night.
          Maybe that’s why she gave so many dogwoods as gifts. Her tree in our backyard is beginning to bloom, just like it’s cousins in the front. Summerville is blessed withdogwoods, originally hundreds on public streets, a tradition begun by the man who helped create Azalea Park, Grange Simons Cuthbert. This flower lover was our mayor from 1932-47. His Honor also used a gavel made from a dogwood tree in his municipal duties.
          Our temperature is not really cold enough to produce many pink dogwoods, but the white ones are making ours a Flower Town of lacy blossoms topping the newly (and finally) sprouting azaleas. These trees are closely associated with Easter, especially today, Good Friday, with tradition comparing the blossom center to a crown of thorns and the red stained petals to marks of the Calvary nails. It’s a safe bet they’re blooming in paradise now too. And an even safer wager that two of the most avid appreciators of these glorious plants used to live in Summerville.