Memories live on in the ‘faces’ of palms

It started when Mom told me she was hearing music in the middle of the night. Back then she was in her early 80s, living alone in the old ranch house.

Next time I saw her, she said the beekeepers were playing opera music all night long. So, there is an orchard across the road from the house. Almonds bloom in February, and require honeybees for pollination. Beekeepers set out hives before the bloom, and remove them later.

But I was skeptical. Beekeepers don’t generally work at night, and far as I know, they would favor country music over opera. I suggested Mom might have been dreaming. She disagreed. I changed the subject.

For the next year or so, Mom occasionally mentioned the

“bee guys” and their opera music. I didn’t bother to argue. Sound travels far at night, and the mind can play tricks. She also reported strange lights bobbing in the pasture, and glowing coyote eyes revealed in her flashlight beam.

In May of 2018, she told me there were people hanging out in the two big palm trees near the front of the house. The trees are squat and stumpy, with profuse fronds starting about 15 feet up. There was no way anyone could be up in those trees.

I realized we had entered new mental territory. I respectfully asked Mom to describe these people. She told me they were tall, with dreadlocks, or braids. Brightly colored garments were worn by both men and women. She thought they might be from the Caribbean. They peered out from the palm fronds and watched her all day long.

I saw Mom frequently during the next few weeks. We talked about the “palm people.” She said they had come down from the palm trees, and there were kids with them. In the evenings, the tribe gathered in the front yard area and cooked dinner over an open fire. Sometimes they played music and danced.

As summer progressed, the palm people’s mood darkened. There was less singing and dancing. Mom overheard muttered threats against her. She caught them trying to get into the house.

In August, Mom’s attention pivoted away from the Palm People. She heard conversations with deceased neighbors “over the loudspeakers.” She reported fires, drownings and shootings. She began calling 911. I consulted with my siblings, and my youngest brother agreed to move back to the ranch. While that was happening, I sought professional help for her. Behavioral Health demurred. Mom’s physician prescribed drugs.

After that, a lot of stuff happened quickly. Mom was tentatively diagnosed with dementia. I took over her bank account, and my brother took her car keys. While she still had the capacity, Mom signed medical and financial releases. In May of 2019, Mom began “eloping” from the ranch house. When the deputies drove her home three days in a row, the family realized she had to go into memory care.

I found a well-staffed facility in Oroville with a “down home” country flavor. Mom had her own room, but preferred to roam the halls. I visited her frequently, and for the first few months she was her normal conversational self. She told me the Palm People had followed her to Oroville. She could see them from her window, and they had set up tents in the parking lot. She did not fear them, but their loud partying kept her awake.

Mom’s body lived at the facility, but her mind resided in a portal of alternate reality. Within that portal, she sometimes lived at the ranch, sometimes in a house in Oroville.

She described a diverse cast of characters. She complained of long hours at her job.

Mom’s condition steadily worsened. Her last Thanksgiving dinner was with family at the facility. Covid came, and she survived unscathed, but she was gradually drifting away. As her mind left her, her body began to fail. She eventually stopped eating and drinking, and we placed her in hospice care. Mom died on October 2, 2020.

I still go out to the ranch every few days. No one lives there now, but the big palm trees endure. I walk by them occasionally. Once or twice, just for an instant, I’ve seen something from the corner of my eye. Was it a shy face peering from the fronds, or a patch of bright fabric flickering, then gone?