It was the summer of 1974 when the young Palm was first brought to the house on Vancouver Avenue. The local gardener, Ignacio (who liked to be called Nacho) selected this particular palm for the new family who had recently purchased the home and who had requested that a tree be planted in the front yard. He agreed that it was a good idea to provide some shade and add a little something to the bare yard.
"I bring it tomorrow." he told the baby-faced man of the house as they discussed his vision for his new yard.
Nacho drove leisurely through the wide neighborhood streets he knew better than his own aging body these days. In the back of the old patchwork yellow pick-up, the Palm fanned its sprite leaves through the warm breeze passing overhead. The ladder, coiled waterhose, mower, and rake all held on tight, not participating in the Palm's excitement. They knew they were only along for the ride - just another gig for the seventh day in a row. They'd be spending another night in Nacho's garage that felt like the inside of an empty tin can. But not the little Palm.
They quietly wondered, "What must it feel like to rest in a bed of earth under a blanket of night sky?"
Nacho had just finished gently patting down the dirt around the Palm's base when the family arrived, pulling their cotton-candy-blue Chevy Malibu into the long strip of driveway. From its new residence in the ground - the front right corner of the square lawn - it had an advantageous view of all the comings and goings related to the house. With its outstretched leaves atop the long narrow stem, it stood silent, tall, and proud like a Buckingham Palace Foot Guard.
The mother and father were youthful, vibrant people - opening and closing doors, grabbing bags, directing the little ones all in one spontaneous kaleidescope of motion and color. And the little ones- two boys, six and seven years old in mirror-image maroon corduroy and striped t-shirt ensembles. Coyly, the Palm waved a hello and the boys took it as an invitation to feel and poke with inherent curiosity until they were sufficiently appeased by its presence. Seconds later the boys could be heard enticing their pet German Shephard and the Palm was left alone to breathe in all the comforts of its new home.
By the time August made way for September the watchful Palm had learned a few indelible truths of the street. First, the old Japanese lady next door with the sharp eyes and sharper nose liked to peek through her curtains to make sure the boys did not set feet on her freshly-trimmed grass. The loyal Palm would try to warn them, but they never listened. Their mother told the crabby old lady on more than one occasion to "go find a hobby." Second, there seemed to be a surplus of stray dogs in the neighborhood. From itty-bitty trembling ones to gray and gruff monsters - all of whom would have raised a leg to the timid Palm, had it not been for the man of the house shooing them away. It was a not-so-well-kept secret that he enjoyed peeking through curtains as much as his retired neighbor. A very early observation made by the Palm was how the whole street pulsated with constant activity. An early morning rooster faithfully announced the day's beginning. The man across the street washed his perpetually parked RV every Saturday while playing ranchera music to serenade the whole block. Around noon the robust woman jingled her arrival as she pushed a cart full of ice cream bars in flavors called Jamaica, Tamarindo, and Horchata. Odds were if you looked up you'd see a ball whizzing through the air and into the arms of one of a dozen tanned-skin boys who scattered like ants when a car had to pass. Even at night while the houses slept, packs of dogs could be found strutting down the road like a leather-wearing gang of misfits.
The Palm grew quite comfortably in its new home. By the time it was seven feet tall four summers had passed and the family welcomed a baby girl.
"Felicidades", Nacho exclaimed when the tidy bundle in hand-knitted blanket was introduced to him. Everyone was delighted by the arrival of the baby girl, including the Palm. Mother and daughter made it a habit to sit underneath its long, slender leaves. And the Palm cherished when it could play hostess to its guests - making them comfortable and sharing the very best it had to offer. During football seasons, the three of them listened to the brass and bass of the high school marching band as they practiced for their half-time shows right across the street. Years later, even, mother, daughter, and Palm, would play who-could-spot-the-two-boys-first while they ran laps during P.E.
While the boys walked to high school every morning, their little sister got dropped off a few blocks away at the diminutive catholic school dwelling tucked behind the church. Now, the Palm didn't know much about church, but it did know that it shook with excitement every April when the little girl supervised her father as he cut off six to ten of its evergreen leaves, reminding him to, "be gentle, Dad, it's a living thing with feelings." He would then create a dozen or so small crosses out of the leaves to be blessed by Father Joe on Palm Sunday and dispersed to various locations for optimum blessings- above your bed as you sleep, the dashboard of your car as you drive, and the front door for whatever else may come. The Palm never saw any other tree or bush get its leaves cut for the family so it knew there was something very powerful, if not magical, inside of it.
No amount of magic, however, could help Nacho the day he fell to one knee while tending to his old friend. It could only watch, completely helpless, as the old man struggled to breathe. A screaming ambulance took him away and the Palm never saw Nacho again. It struggled to understand what it was feeling. Summer had come around again but the Palm had no desire to drink or bask in the sun's warmth. July 4th always brought with it a booming thunder and light show, courtesy of the neighborhood kids who got their hands on (allegedly) illegal fireworks. Normally, the Palm looked forward to this night when the family would sit in lawn chairs beside it and gaze up at the brilliant explosions of red, green, blue and white light. This time was different. Something landed softly on the girl's shoulder. She turned to find a faded and frail leaf that had fallen from high above and noticed for the first time its drooping palms. She nagged her father to do something but the regular watering made no difference in its appearance. After a couple of months, he admitted to his daughter that the sad tree might have to go.
On a cool Sunday afternoon the Palm, looking down at the dull cement sidewalk, caught sight of an approaching shadow. The Palm was confused and thought it had traveled back in time. The family hired a new gardener - Enrique - who liked to be called Quique and who was Nacho's youngest son. Same eyes, nose, mouth, and as it would soon discover, gentle hands as his father. A few visits in, it became clear to the Palm that Quique missed Nacho immeasurably, but somehow found comfort in the company of the ailing tree. Something about running his hands through the same soft dirt his father's hands had nurtured chipped away at his grief. He remembered out loud the times he planted vegetables with his father in their own small backyard. And recounted the numerous lessons Nacho had taught him on planting, gardening, creating new life...and girls. "It's all the same, mijo" Nacho would say. That made the Palm laugh.
When it was time for the girl to leave for college, the boys had already moved out, the mother and father played with their first grandchild, and the cotton-candy-blue Chevy Malibu was little more than a dream. "Nothing stays the same" thought the Palm. The screen-door clinked shut and the Palm watched the mother coming straight towards it with her grandbaby in one arm and a blanket in the other.
"I bring it tomorrow." he told the baby-faced man of the house as they discussed his vision for his new yard.
Nacho drove leisurely through the wide neighborhood streets he knew better than his own aging body these days. In the back of the old patchwork yellow pick-up, the Palm fanned its sprite leaves through the warm breeze passing overhead. The ladder, coiled waterhose, mower, and rake all held on tight, not participating in the Palm's excitement. They knew they were only along for the ride - just another gig for the seventh day in a row. They'd be spending another night in Nacho's garage that felt like the inside of an empty tin can. But not the little Palm. They quietly wondered, "What must it feel like to rest in a bed of earth under a blanket of night sky?"
Nacho had just finished gently patting down the dirt around the Palm's base when the family arrived, pulling their cotton-candy-blue Chevy Malibu into the long strip of driveway. From its new residence in the ground - the front right corner of the square lawn - it had an advantageous view of all the comings and goings related to the house. With its outstretched leaves atop the long narrow stem, it stood silent, tall, and proud like a Buckingham Palace Foot Guard.
The mother and father were youthful, vibrant people - opening and closing doors, grabbing bags, directing the little ones all in one spontaneous kaleidescope of motion and color. And the little ones- two boys, six and seven years old in mirror-image maroon corduroy and striped t-shirt ensembles. Coyly, the Palm waved a hello and the boys took it as an invitation to feel and poke with inherent curiosity until they were sufficiently appeased by its presence. Seconds later the boys could be heard enticing their pet German Shephard and the Palm was left alone to breathe in all the comforts of its new home.
By the time August made way for September the watchful Palm had learned a few indelible truths of the street. First, the old Japanese lady next door with the sharp eyes and sharper nose liked to peek through her curtains to make sure the boys did not set feet on her freshly-trimmed grass. The loyal Palm would try to warn them, but they never listened. Their mother told the crabby old lady on more than one occasion to "go find a hobby." Second, there seemed to be a surplus of stray dogs in the neighborhood. From itty-bitty trembling ones to gray and gruff monsters - all of whom would have raised a leg to the timid Palm, had it not been for the man of the house shooing them away. It was a not-so-well-kept secret that he enjoyed peeking through curtains as much as his retired neighbor. A very early observation made by the Palm was how the whole street pulsated with constant activity. An early morning rooster faithfully announced the day's beginning. The man across the street washed his perpetually parked RV every Saturday while playing ranchera music to serenade the whole block. Around noon the robust woman jingled her arrival as she pushed a cart full of ice cream bars in flavors called Jamaica, Tamarindo, and Horchata. Odds were if you looked up you'd see a ball whizzing through the air and into the arms of one of a dozen tanned-skin boys who scattered like ants when a car had to pass. Even at night while the houses slept, packs of dogs could be found strutting down the road like a leather-wearing gang of misfits.
The Palm grew quite comfortably in its new home. By the time it was seven feet tall four summers had passed and the family welcomed a baby girl.
"Felicidades", Nacho exclaimed when the tidy bundle in hand-knitted blanket was introduced to him. Everyone was delighted by the arrival of the baby girl, including the Palm. Mother and daughter made it a habit to sit underneath its long, slender leaves. And the Palm cherished when it could play hostess to its guests - making them comfortable and sharing the very best it had to offer. During football seasons, the three of them listened to the brass and bass of the high school marching band as they practiced for their half-time shows right across the street. Years later, even, mother, daughter, and Palm, would play who-could-spot-the-two-boys-first while they ran laps during P.E.
While the boys walked to high school every morning, their little sister got dropped off a few blocks away at the diminutive catholic school dwelling tucked behind the church. Now, the Palm didn't know much about church, but it did know that it shook with excitement every April when the little girl supervised her father as he cut off six to ten of its evergreen leaves, reminding him to, "be gentle, Dad, it's a living thing with feelings." He would then create a dozen or so small crosses out of the leaves to be blessed by Father Joe on Palm Sunday and dispersed to various locations for optimum blessings- above your bed as you sleep, the dashboard of your car as you drive, and the front door for whatever else may come. The Palm never saw any other tree or bush get its leaves cut for the family so it knew there was something very powerful, if not magical, inside of it.
No amount of magic, however, could help Nacho the day he fell to one knee while tending to his old friend. It could only watch, completely helpless, as the old man struggled to breathe. A screaming ambulance took him away and the Palm never saw Nacho again. It struggled to understand what it was feeling. Summer had come around again but the Palm had no desire to drink or bask in the sun's warmth. July 4th always brought with it a booming thunder and light show, courtesy of the neighborhood kids who got their hands on (allegedly) illegal fireworks. Normally, the Palm looked forward to this night when the family would sit in lawn chairs beside it and gaze up at the brilliant explosions of red, green, blue and white light. This time was different. Something landed softly on the girl's shoulder. She turned to find a faded and frail leaf that had fallen from high above and noticed for the first time its drooping palms. She nagged her father to do something but the regular watering made no difference in its appearance. After a couple of months, he admitted to his daughter that the sad tree might have to go.
On a cool Sunday afternoon the Palm, looking down at the dull cement sidewalk, caught sight of an approaching shadow. The Palm was confused and thought it had traveled back in time. The family hired a new gardener - Enrique - who liked to be called Quique and who was Nacho's youngest son. Same eyes, nose, mouth, and as it would soon discover, gentle hands as his father. A few visits in, it became clear to the Palm that Quique missed Nacho immeasurably, but somehow found comfort in the company of the ailing tree. Something about running his hands through the same soft dirt his father's hands had nurtured chipped away at his grief. He remembered out loud the times he planted vegetables with his father in their own small backyard. And recounted the numerous lessons Nacho had taught him on planting, gardening, creating new life...and girls. "It's all the same, mijo" Nacho would say. That made the Palm laugh.
When it was time for the girl to leave for college, the boys had already moved out, the mother and father played with their first grandchild, and the cotton-candy-blue Chevy Malibu was little more than a dream. "Nothing stays the same" thought the Palm. The screen-door clinked shut and the Palm watched the mother coming straight towards it with her grandbaby in one arm and a blanket in the other.
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