Crape Myrtle Madness

When our family moved from the Bay Area to Vacaville five years ago, I looked forward to warm fog-less summers sitting beside the swimming pool in our small backyard. But I found out that sitting is a rare occurrence since seven 20-year old Redwood trees (Sequoia sempervirens) and three Crape myrtles (Lagerstoemia indica) border the pool. When my husband and I aren't scooping out cones and needles, we're glaring at the myrtle trees bursting with aerodynamic blooms fit for the slightest breeze. 

We determined that this year would be different. By late-July we hatched a plan to conquer the blossom drop. Before the petals started falling, we started pruning. One by one, flower clusters plopped onto the walkway. By day’s end our green-waste can sat at the curb like a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey. My husband and I sank into our faux wicker  chairs with pretzels and cokes in hand. We grinned from ear to ear, thrilled that these skinny-dipping blossoms were history. Finally, time to relax.

“Hey, Honey, we'll have a clean pool for a couple months before the autumn winds shake down the dead redwood needles,” I told my husband. 

Wrong. By Labor day, I was staring at Crape myrtle buds—again. In fact, they sprouted from every single cut our pruners had made and by mid-September the trees were thick with flowers. Oops, I had unknowingly coaxed a second bloom out of the trees. Next year we'll return to our usual once-a-year early spring pruning regime of removing the prior year’s seed capsules, enjoying the flower show—and putting up with the maddening scattering mess.

Crape myrtle buds. (photos by Launa Herrmann)

Crape myrtle blooms.

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