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est memories are of Easter Sundays, family gatherings, and the blooming azaleas and dogwoods that surrounded me on those days — splashes of pinks against the greens of grass and the blues of the beautiful Georgia sky. I think that’s why I love to see Mom’s yard in its ornate peak.

For people like me and Mom, who tend and admire gardens, we appreciate the work that goes into each shrub, each flowerbed, and every blossom. Azaleas speak to the endurance of beauty, having weathered violent thunderstorms and the sweltering summers of South Georgia, only to return each spring, as pretty as ever — a piece of our hospitality and heritage that greets everyone who notices them. And how — how — could you not notice them?

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