Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, April 13, 1993 TAG: 9304130015
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: Robert Freis
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
IN PRAISE OF THE HUMBLE REDBUD
Now that the season's finally turned, and the sun's begun to incubate the earth, the first sentinels of spring are emerging on the slopes of the Appalachians.You'll find them in modest locations - beneath tall trees, in abandoned pastures or along fence lines - and scarcely notice them again all year, once they've lived out their brief, flamboyant bender of a week or two.
Even their name seems understated and inadequate: "redbud."
Who coined this name? Probably the same unimaginative Dan'l Boone who came up with "Brushy" mountain or "New" river. Eating raw possum must have rendered him color blind, too, because redbud ain't red.
My opinion is that redbud's contributions to our visual appreciation of the season generally are overlooked, which is why I'm devoting this column to horticultural diversity.
Let's sensitively consider redbud and its rites of spring:
Redbud is the first wild flowering tree of the season, small and sturdy, braving the early chill and demonstrating to other leafless trees - dogwood, apple, peach, serviceberry - that it's OK to bloom.
I've always been struck by the generosity of redbud, how it enlivens the spring landscape by voluntarily cropping up in marginal areas - interstate highway roadsides, for example - without cultivation.
People fortunate enough to live in the foothills where redbud, dogwood and mountain laurel flower believe they inhabit the most beautiful garden spot on earth.
Such greats as George Washington and Thomas Jefferson spoke highly of redbud in their notes. Washington transplanted redbud from woods to his garden at Mount Vernon, showing a more nurturing touch than he had for cherry trees.
The least we could do is call redbud by a more accurately descriptive name. Some call its blossoms reddish-purple, or magenta. Redbud's proper name is Cercis canadensis.
Unfortunately, the old folks also call redbud "Judas tree," which is a slander if ever I've heard one.
Legend says redbud's bud once was white, until the fallen disciple hanged himself on its boughs. His act of self-destruction, and the betrayal that prompted it, turned redbud's blossoms the blushing color of shame.
That one of the loveliest trees of our Southern countryside should bear this name of reproach is a shame in itself.
Never mind that redbud rarely grows large or thick enough for Judas to have given himself a sound whipping, much less a necktie party.
But the cycle of life and death, and the spirit of renewal, is very much a cultural trait of springtime - particularly here in the South, where religion is fervent and we have our own Resurrection, at Appomattox, where The Cause was lost and the nation was reborn in April, along a path strewn with redbud and dogwood blossoms.
No wonder, given all that symbolic baggage, that redbud is content to exist in the background. Once its blossoms fade, redbud seemingly disappears into the forest, merging with all the other spindly green things.
Should you seek out a redbud in midsummer, you'll find it bears a heart-shaped leaf, perhaps as a gesture of healing. The leaves turn bright amber before they fall in autumn.
By that time, redbud's forgotten and rarely celebrated - except by saps like me.
It's true that redbud is the official state tree of Oklahoma, although this seems ironic and improper to me. I've never been to Oklahoma but it's a place one commonly thinks of as a state without trees, where the only shade comes from oil derricks and prairie-dog hills.
And in Honaker, a town of 950 folks way down in Southwestern Virginia, they have an annual Redbud Festival, during which they select a Little Miss Redbud. This may not rival Winchester's Apple Blossom Festival or Vinton's Dogwood Festival in scope, but Honaker has the right idea.
Redbud should be recognized, and praised. I don't know what sort of tree died to make the pulp for today's newspaper - something of larger timber yet no stronger fiber than a redbud - but it was a worthy sacrifice, indeed.
It's been a chilly, wet spring this year, a season of delayed gratification for redbud watchers. Sometimes when I expect too much, I understand why poet T.S. Eliot called April the cruelest month.
But the redbud will appear soon, I know, graciously offering their delicate beauty and saying, "Hey, people - this bud's for you."
Robert Freis is a New River Valley bureau reporter.