It’s always something: First the cinch bugs ate the lawn and then the white flies ate the ficus hedge and by the time the lawn and hedge were healthy again the iguanas had destroyed the hibiscus and the gardenia was covered in mold. And then when everything was (I thought) under control my partner came in from work.
“What’s up with the date palm?” he asked. “It’s really yellow.”
I sighed and went out to investigate; we have a magnificent date palm in the front yard that was planted when the house was built in the ‘50’s. I would hate to lose it.
He was right; the palm was very yellow, and droopy: It just exuded an aura of ill-health. While we both stared at it our neighbor Kendra walked by with her big dog, Simon. “Call ‘The Palm Whisperer,’” she advised us, not stopping. “He’ll cure it.”
Next our neighbors Jim and James walked by. “That looks like a job for ‘The Palm Whisperer,’” said Jim.
“Who is The Palm Whisperer?” I asked.
“He knows everything about palm trees,” said James. “It’s almost like he can communicate with them.”
“He’s barking mad,” said Jim, “and he ain’t cheap, but he knows his palm trees.”
A quick Google search revealed that the Palm Whisperer was a real person, and I called his office the next day. A pleasant lady took down the tree’s vital statistics and looked in her calendar. “I have an opening Tuesday,” she said, “but I’ll have to charge you extra for a diagnostic evaluation. Treatment is extra.”
“Please hurry,” I said. “We don’t have time to wait.”
When I opened the front door on Tuesday at the appointed time I was alarmed to see a heavy man on my front porch, weeping copiously.
“What have you done to her?” he asked, wiping the tears away from his red-rimmed eyes.
I was taken aback. “What?” I asked. “’Her’?”
“The date palm,” he explained. “What have you done to her?” He blew his nose noisily while I just stared at him. “She’s been neglected,” he continued. He looked at me accusingly. “You’re abusing that palm tree!”
By this point I was looking at him as though some alien life form had materialized in my driveway, and who’s to say it had not? I knew the palm was sick but I think the accusation of “abuse” was a bit strong.
“I water her twice a week,” I said defensively, unconsciously using a personal pronoun to refer to an inanimate object. “And I fertilize her in March, June and October.”
The Palm whisperer was next to the date palm at this time, caressing her trunk tenderly. “Home Depot fertilizer?” he asked and I nodded mutely. He shuddered.
“And why are there no dead fronds?” he demanded. “Where did they go?”
“I cut them off when they’re dead,” I said adding, unwisely, “Is that wrong?”
The Palm Whisperer closed his eyes and leaned against the Palm for support.
“Some people should not have Palm trees,” he said bitterly. “Never cut the dead fronds off a palm tree,” he said. “I know they’re unsightly but she is not here to be ogled,” and I nodded in shame.
In the end he recommended a nitrogen spray and something called a deep root feeding and some kind of anti-fungal treatment and a good dose of either manganese or magnesium; I forget which. He handed me the estimate and I gulped.
“It’d be cheaper to cut her down,” I said lightly.
The Palm Whisperer hugged the tree. “Stop it,” he whispered. “She can hear you.”