By the time we got that tree home, it looked slightly traumatized, and honestly, so did I. But I was determined. I wanted that tropical, breezy look you see on gardening shows where people wear linen shirts and don’t sweat through them. Spoiler: I sweat. A lot.
The hole had to be twice as wide as the pot, so naturally, I found the one spot in the yard full of rocks and roots. Josh offered to help by bringing out the post-hole digger, which I’m convinced is just a medieval torture device rebranded as a tool. Half an hour later, I was covered in dirt, my ponytail was hanging by a thread, and the palm still looked like it was judging me.
Finally, we wrestled it into the hole, straightened it up, and filled it back in with our sandy Florida soil. I gave it a long drink of water and maybe whispered an apology for the rough day. Ethan immediately named it “Palmie,” and I swear that tree looked proud about it.
Every morning now, I sip my coffee on the porch and check on Palmie. The fronds are opening up, bright green and wild, catching the sunrise like they’re showing off. And there’s something about seeing that bit of tropical beauty swaying out there that makes me forget about the mud, the bugs, and the endless to-do list.