A few weeks ago, the mimosas started blooming along the North Carolina roadsides — those impossible puffs of pink floating above the tree line like something straight out of Dr. Seuss.
I hate how much I love them.
I know I should bristle when I see one sinking roots deeper into a creek bank or woodland edge where it doesn’t belong. But my heart keeps winning the argument.
Mimosas came from Asia in the mid-1700s as fancy yard trees. Those fluffy pink blooms from May through July are absolute magnets for butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds. Everyone thought they were wonderful… until the trees escaped the garden.
Each bloom makes pods full of seeds that lie dormant in the soil for years. They love disturbed spots — roadsides, creek banks, forest edges — exactly where things are already struggling.
The state lists them as invasive, and local gardeners are on a mission to pull every seedling they can find. I get it. It’s tough to cheer for a tree that’s quietly taking over the neighborhood.
And yet… I catch myself smiling every time I drive past them.
Papaw hated mimosas. Mamaw planted one on the far side of the creek in Dutch Cove, right where the bank drops off. It wrecked his mowing, snagged the riding mower along the fenceline, and left sticky pink petals everywhere. He’d stand on the porch, hit it with that cold gray stare, and mutter complaints like it was listening. He fussed at that thing right up until the day he died.
Not long after he passed, the tree died.
Sometimes I wonder if his grudge finally wore it out.
Granddaddy was the opposite. When I visited him as a little girl in Wilmington, we’d wander his Seagate property. We’d stop at the scuppernong vines, and he’d pull down warm bronze grapes, skins tight and juicy from the Carolina sun. If the mimosas were blooming, he’d snap off a big pink cluster, tuck those silky threads under his nose like a mustache, and look at me completely straight-faced.
I’d lose it every single time.
I’ve forgotten a lot about those visits, but I’ll never forget my giant of a granddaddy turning himself into a neon pink fool just to make me laugh.
So yeah, I understand all the hate mimosas get. I really do. Part of me hates them, too.
But the trees don’t care what Papaw thought, or Granddaddy, or me. They bloom anyway—invasive, unbothered, extravagantly pink—the same way they did when Granddaddy reached into the branches and Mamaw planted whatever made her happy.
I know what they are now.
I know what they do.
Yet when the roadsides turn pink, all I can see is Papaw arguing with a tree and Granddaddy’s mimosa mustache.
That’s worth a smile.
