In Memory of A Palmville Son
Raymond Palm 1911-2002
July 3rd, 1932, north of
Thief Lake on what now is the
Duane Nelson place.
It was lunchtime. Helmfred and I were takin’ a break from chores. Tomorrow it would be the fourth of July; it would so fun. Family and friends would be there. There’d be great food; swimmin’ in the river below Ingebritson’s. Games. Fireworks. It felt good to just lie there in the grass in the shade of those two tall poplar trees growin' side-by-side, their leaves flutterin' overhead in that warm July breeze.
We talked of the rope swing that used to hang between them popples and how the roots of the trees protruded there were worn smooth and burnished to a dark gold sheen.
Helmfred is crazy; he wants to race me to the top!
He’ll take the tree on the left; I’ll take the tree on the right.
Get set ... GO!
We leap onto the tall narrow trunks of the popples, grippin' the smooth chalky-white bark with our legs and pulled ourselves up, up, higher with our strong arms, our biceps and forearms flexing as we climbed.
We pulled ourselves onto bigger limbs quickly now,
one hand-grip at a time,.
Some loosed leaves spiraled down, tiny branches torn away in our eagerness.
Helmfred is almost to the top. He wins!
I concede defeat, my heart pounding,
thudding in my chest,
I laugh, between gasps and s-s-s-s-s-stretch out from my tree to his because I think I can,
when the branch beneath splinters with a crack
and
I
fall
my face smashing against the tree trunk and branches.
I try to grab hold of
something
anything
to stop
my fall
onto those gnarled roots
and a wheelchair
for the rest of my 91-year life,
eighty-eight years ago.
Raymond Palm 1911-2002
July 3rd, 1932, north of
Thief Lake on what now is the
Duane Nelson place.
It was lunchtime. Helmfred and I were takin’ a break from chores. Tomorrow it would be the fourth of July; it would so fun. Family and friends would be there. There’d be great food; swimmin’ in the river below Ingebritson’s. Games. Fireworks. It felt good to just lie there in the grass in the shade of those two tall poplar trees growin' side-by-side, their leaves flutterin' overhead in that warm July breeze.
We talked of the rope swing that used to hang between them popples and how the roots of the trees protruded there were worn smooth and burnished to a dark gold sheen.
Helmfred is crazy; he wants to race me to the top!
He’ll take the tree on the left; I’ll take the tree on the right.
Get set ... GO!
We leap onto the tall narrow trunks of the popples, grippin' the smooth chalky-white bark with our legs and pulled ourselves up, up, higher with our strong arms, our biceps and forearms flexing as we climbed.
We pulled ourselves onto bigger limbs quickly now,
one hand-grip at a time,.
Some loosed leaves spiraled down, tiny branches torn away in our eagerness.
Helmfred is almost to the top. He wins!
I concede defeat, my heart pounding,
thudding in my chest,
I laugh, between gasps and s-s-s-s-s-stretch out from my tree to his because I think I can,
when the branch beneath splinters with a crack
and
I
fall
my face smashing against the tree trunk and branches.
I try to grab hold of
something
anything
to stop
my fall
onto those gnarled roots
and a wheelchair
for the rest of my 91-year life,
eighty-eight years ago.
A great man.
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