We’ve lived at our present address since 2006 and have generally appreciated the grounds that “come” with our condo, but after eighty-plus years in cities, our horticultural know-how is pretty much nil. I can identify daffodils and tulips outside, roses, orchids, sunflowers and lilies inside — but that’s about it. And during the time he still maintained a part-time practice in Princeton, Bill didn’t seem particularly curious about nature, either.
Until with time on his finally retired hands, he developed a new thirst for learning what was what. Now he’s always exclaiming about the beauty of this or that, and asking the names of growing things. Looking out our bedroom window when we wake up, I scan the sky for the weather, he scans the trees.
So it is that whereas I consider the tree directly in front of the building just a tree and don’t ponder further, he has begun gazing lovingly at it first thing every day, especially since its branches developed white flowers a week ago. “Look, look!” he urged this morning.
“Mmm, lovely,” I agreed, heading for the bathroom.
“Take a picture,” he demanded.
“Now, in my nightgown? It’s cloudy out today. It wouldn’t be a good picture, anyway.”
“Well not now this minute,” he said. “After breakfast. Before the flowers are gone. The petals are already beginning to fall.”
And that was true. When I looked down at the walkway, it was already covered with a blanket of fallen white petals. So I took pictures. Even though it was cloudy. Enough pictures to satisfy the most demanding of men.
The most demanding of men was happy for about two minutes. “Great pictures,” he said. “I wonder what kind of tree it is.”
He was asking me?
We referred the question to Google. Could Google identify a briefly white-flowering tree native to New Jersey? Google knew too much. It told us (with pictures) that “our” tree might be a Cleveland Pear (because the leaves of that tree, like ours, turn red in the fall) or a Natchez Crepe (because the blossoms look like our blossoms). But the Natchez is described as blooming for 110 days a year, which is definitely not the case chez nous. And the Cleveland Pear is not described as having a very short blooming season. Moreover, our tree does not produce pears, not even small misshapen ones. And that was just the first page.
“Why don’t we ask my blog readers?” I suggested. “Many seem to have comprehensive knowledge of plant life. Someone is sure to know.”
Bill thought that might be a good idea. Hence this post.
Then the sun came out. Which may make determining what kind of tree we have an easier question to answer. Or perhaps not. It does make the flowers prettier to look at.
Look all you like. And if you know what you’re looking at — meaning what in the world is the name of this tree — please tell. Bill would love to know too.