East

A Long Story of the Quest for the Perfect Dead Palmetto

I could claim that it started with my father, who, while working on the railroad, had an ongoing quest to find the kind of falling-down old farmstead that he'd been raised on in the 1930s and 40s. I remember two things about riding through the country with him when we were young and lived in a little brick ranch-style house. One was that if a train was anywhere to be seen for miles, instead of speeding up to get over the tracks, he would stop, turn off the truck, get out, wait, and watch the train pass. As it roared by, he'd explain what every single railroad car label and insignia meant.

When we finally got to go again, if he saw a falling-down farmhouse that looked like it may have lost its loving owner, he'd stop, wander around, and ask around the neighboring farmers if the place could be bought. He finally found that place, but his love of a grand quest never died. Years later, I made him watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and that serious and conservative man laughed out loud for two hours.

A New Exciting Project

A few weeks ago, some friends who once worked for Southern Living came by to visit and gave me a bundle of very good advice on creating a cover for my new book.

They presented a very exciting and seemingly easy project for me. At the time, it seemed easy. I started with the simple parts. But my paying work got busy. The hard parts got put off. I let them slide till the very last moment. Four days till my deadline for this exciting project, and I found myself with a difficult quest: acquire a dead palmetto tree.

First Rookie Mistakes

At my first stop, I made the first two mistakes. I could've ended it all there. I've been eyeing a place along Highway 17 South. It was just a dirt yard with a bunch of giant racks made out of telephone poles, a couple of piles of gravel and topsoil and a spray-painted sign that read, "Palms 4 Sale." You've probably noticed these places popping up in the past couple of years. Anyone with the skills to make a giant rack out of telephone poles and the cell phone to call the wholesale palm dealer in Florida jumped on the bandwagon. You can make a pile re-selling palms.

At this first stop, there was a tiny little plywood hut with an air conditioner and a Mexican guy. My first mistake was jumping right into my need rather than chatting the guy up. I'm Southern, so I know how important and fun small talk can be. But I jumped out of my truck and said in my bad Spanish, I'd like to buy your dead palmetto.

He looked befuddled. Was my Spanish so terrible? I pointed, and he chuckled and said in a Southern/Mexican way, "That palm ain't dead."

I don't claim to know everything about palms, but I wondered if he knew something about palm resurrections that I didn't. Then he said, "OK, two hundred dollars for that one."

Highway robbery, I thought, and I also thought there are plenty of dead palms. Mistake number two. I should've just loaded the thing up, forked out the cash, and been done with it.