Palm trees backed by superbly bright, sunshine-doused colors remind me of many happy home places. As a foreign service wife I carry the joy of many places feeling just like “home.” Don’t get me wrong, it is sometimes a burden as much as a joy. Mostly when people innocently ask, “so where’s home?” But palm trees! I could easily write pages about my relationship to them and how interesting I find them. Their pom-pom tops provide stick-dapples of shade, their rustling tells you a wind is about to grace your face, they are ability to withstand hurricane winds and are just the perfect poolside plant.
Growing up in Houston, I sensed how awkward and out of place palms were in the midst of long-armed live oaks. I imagined they were probably brought into people’s landscapes because they evoked a more tropical locale, an easier lifestyle, maybe as a rebuttal to the traffic and busyness of life in a large city made of many suburban neighborhoods. No matter why they were in Houston, they seemed like foreigners in the landscape.
My relationship to palm trees took a turn upon our appointment to serve in Costa Rica. There, palm trees were displayed in full array of variety. Royal palms heralded the entrance to the Embassy and its playground, where I would take the kids to play. Slender stalks of lady palms in our small backyard beckoned the kids to come and climb the boulders nearby. But my favorite palm was a coconut tree that bore no fruit, but curved from shore to sea at our go-to beach at Punta Leona resort. It served as a landmark, photo prop and play structure for our son to test his climbing abilities, Tarzan-like. The abundance of palms increased as we traveled from mountain to coast. By the time we arrived at any beach town we were already warmly welcomed by hot breezes, sunny vistas to the ocean through thick vegetation, and plenteous palms.
On weekends when we headed south along the Pan-American highway we would drive alongside the palm fruit plantations. It smelled of sweet fryer oil; the first time we drove through we started getting hungry for fried chicken. I learned the towering groves were perfect homes for the deadly fer-de-lance snake, and that most deaths from the snake were inflicted on the men who would harvest the fruit, high in the trees, with machetes.
This watercolor reminds me most of a vacation on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica with my sister and her family, swimming in an infinity pool surrounded by palms and flowering trees, the sound of giant katydids signaling summer evenings. Drinks in hand, we laughed and I got to share part of what life was like for us in that corner of the world. We shared tropical fruit smoothies, fresh with pineapple. We shared that papaya tastes best with lime. We shared the thrill of driving on remote highways and steep gravel roads. She felt the tinge of fear of invading banditos nearby, along with the importance of locking the doors and appreciating bars on windows.
My heart aches for the loss of moving away from Houston, where we grew up, where my family still live. It’s why getting to share our fluctuating home-life with them means so much to me. When you move somewhere new, it doesn’t quite feel like home until someone comes to visit you, and you get to host them. By default, being the host means you are welcoming someone into not just home, but experience, habits, life. And then, somehow, it feels more like you belong there.
