I live in a land of palm trees. Though there are a few species native to Southern California, most planted in Santa Monica come from other places. The list of their origin countries and regions would make a good year or two of traveling. Canary Islands. Guadalupe. Cuba. Mexico (Pacific coast). Mexico (Carribean coast). Senegal. Java. Burma. Northern Arabia. My source for the origins of the various palms I see as I walk, stroll, or run along the city streets is Trees of Santa Monica, first published in 1944 and revised in 1981, and a delight of local knowledge with the tone of a long time resident speaking to other long time residents.
These palm trees need maintenance. Without care and pruning, their lower leaves will die and rot, become infested with bugs and animals, and threaten both the health of the tree and passersby when they eventually fall. Up and down Wilshire Blvd. between our house and the park are trees in the midst of their regular trimming. An entire block of parking is coned up and three cherry pickers each attack a tree. 50' in the air a guy with a chain saw hacks at the lower fronds and they fall to earth, sometimes gracefully, sometimes in a heap. The worst of these fronds are in tatters, their backbone and frills all but unrecognizable. The youngest of them are mostly green, with just the tinge of grey brown death on the tips of their leaves. These fall most satisfyingly, with a dip out to the side, then gliding along and angle stem first, like a nose-heavy paper airplane. Below, a backhoe with giant jaws in place of the regular arm and shovel collects and picks up the piles of debris to be trucked away. The resulting trees look green and healthy, if a little shorn.
Yesterday's run destination: CVS
Yesterday's menu:
breakfast: smoked mozzarella omelet
lunch: japanese leftovers
dinner: quesadillas and lentil soup
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