A Working Female

Reading Time: 3 minutes
camellias, honey bees, worker bees,

It was Manuel who made me stop and smell the roses yesterday.

Or camellias I should say.

“Miss Janet, did you see the flowers,” he asked, his English very clear, slightly lyrical due to a gentle Spanish lilt.

“Yes,” I said smiling up at him. He was trimming one of hundreds of crepe myrtles and as he stopped his clipping, he rested his arms on the top rung of the ladder, and looked down at me.

“They are beautiful, no?”

“Gorgeous. The prettiest I have seen them. They have liked the winter we’ve had.” And we continued our conversation, him telling me that he never worried about the camellias, their cold hardy, floweriness something of a botanical wonder to him.

“Do you think I should blow the blossoms away that have fallen?” he asked, a smile dancing around his lips.

I turned and look. All around the base of the massive pots were pink blossoms. Only slightly spent, they could not have been prettier than if an artist has staged the composition. They looked proper there, a place that only they could oc