Some Like It Really Hot.

When the SBirds decide to take a break from their nest, they do it in true desert style. Where, you might ask, do the SBirds decide to go in the middle of August to escape the heat of their desert home? …To the snowy mountains? To the breezy shore? To the pool at the nearest Y? No way. That keeping-cool stuff is for amateurs. The SBirds’ destination of choice is…more desert…but really serious desert, the kind that is very brown, very sandy and hovers around 125 degrees this time of year. For those of you in the know, we’re talking Mohave, not Sonoran.

R.’s family owns a farm in the middle of the desert. The Real Desert. It’s a palm tree farm. Having grown up back east, I didn’t even know there were such things as palm tree farms. Not that I thought that palm trees grew on trees (sorry, couldn’t resist), but I just had never thought about it before. I mean, who does this?

It turns out, my FIL does. He’s pretty good at it. He basically has his own little palm tree empire down there, although he doesn’t live on-site anymore, preferring the cool breezes (see first paragraph) of the coast. R. has now become the farm’s Vice President, in addition to his regular, man-o-academia job. I think he enjoys it because there are a lot of interesting politics involved in palm-tree growing these days, which can be summed up in one word: water. The depletion of aquifers in the west is a hot-button topic, especially as the baby-boomers begin to retire in large numbers and flock to the southwest.

R. is currently engaged in a confrontation with the local water board there, who want to shut down all the area’s agriculture to “save the water supply.” I put that in quotes because that’s their party line; what they don’t say upfront is that they actually want the agricultural land to build new residential developments (including golf courses) on. Since the farmers were there first, long before the residential folks, they acquired some pretty choice land. And now the developers and city planners want it.

It’s fascinating to listen to the arguments because my knee-jerk response to water politics in the west is to preserve the aquifers at (nearly) all costs, but, in this case at least, it’s not that easy. Do we really think that trading family farms (not just palms, also citrus, artichokes, grapes, etc.) for golf courses is a viable solution? Are we prepared to wipe out an entire segment of the community (the farmers) to make room for new residents? And–the sticky wicket for me: is a palm tree farm categorically different than a citrus, artichoke, grape, or other food-based farm? In other words, how important is it for a palm tree farm to exist?…doesn’t it just provide trees used to develop (and deplete) other places, like Las Vegas and Palm Springs? Is the aesthetic appeal of a palm tree on the grounds of Harrah’s really cause for allowing the palm tree farmer to exist? But, if he didn’t exist, would we allow the land to remain arid or would we build houses and golf courses on it?

I’m a bit conflicted, as you can see.

I just wanted to cover the territory before showing you some cool pictures.

These photos show the trees in various stages of production.

In the 1980s, my FIL grew the palm trees for the Winter Garden in NYC. This is the all-glass structure that was part of the World Trade Center complex. He had to grow the trees for many months under a huge shade-cloth canopy, so the trees would get used to living in low-light conditions. Here’s the remnants of that job:

The trees survived 9-11. In fact, I remember seeing some footage from the day after, where firefighters were searching through the rubble and picking their way past these dust-whitened palms.

When the trees get very large, they can create a dense forest. One part of the farm is so dense that you can lost in there…the trees all look alike. Deciduous trees don’t always look alike, but palm trees of the same age do, unless they grow crooked, which sometimes they do. But it’s hard to tell where you are if you get in there deep enough.

I mention this because my FIL embedded a secret in the heart of the densest part of the farm. It’s a place he calls his Shangri-La, a garden and yard and party-house where he used to host some wild times in the early 70s (wild in a Rat Pack sort of way). It’s actually a little creepy to go there now, and even a little sad, as if the desert version of Miss Havisham is going to step out from behind one of the rangy hibiscus plants and accuse you of trespassing.

But there’s a little house on the farm that the dogs love (a doggie door with a fenced-in running space) and my FIL and MIL will be there and R. will have a business meeting and I’ll hang out and cook and watch birds and maybe even write some new poems. But I probably won’t be able to blog (antiquated computer connection). So, I’ll see y’all next week.