I am absolutely crazy about palm trees. Don’t
ask me why this girl born of Douglas fir, cedar and western hemlock would be
attracted to this tree of the tropics.
I can so clearly remember the first time I saw a real one. In college two friends and I drove from Eugene, Oregon to
San Francisco for spring break. We stopped for gas after about a 10-hour drive and I
spotted my first palm tree. I was immediately smitten with these almost absurd
looking plants, tall skinny trunks which blossom out in a riot of awkward
looking branches. I felt like I
was returning home from some long arduous journey taking many generations,
perhaps an ancient warrior returning from a crusade to see the sentinels of my
homeland.

My master bedroom bath has a palm tree design
on the shower curtain, a print of a palm from Kew, the Royal Botanical Garden,
London hanging on the wall. My
guest room has a print of a Travelers palm from the Raffles Hotel in Singapore,
a gift from my sister. I have
several towels embroidered with Palm trees on them, a bar of soap covered in
cellophane with a palm print on it.
There is just something about them that makes my heart race a little
faster.
Two years ago I went out to Molbecks in
Woodinville and purchased my very own palm tree a Trachycarpus fortunei or Chinese
Windmill which can withstand temperatures below freezing. I am thrilled with it. I’ve planted it out on my terrace and
on hot days in the summer, I put my aluminum folding chair beside it with a
cold glass of lemonade and pretend I am in Puerto Rico once again.
When I was in Hawaii a year ago, I loved sitting sitting on our balcony eye-level with coconut-palm branches. There is something so soothing about the constant rustling of the palm fronds . . . almost hypnotic. I loved reading your ode-to-palms. Thanks!
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