David Palmer, 1927-2008

Come and sit by my side, if you love me
Do not hasten to bid me adieu
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loved you so true



On behalf of myself and the David Palmer family, I would like to welcome each of you to this celebration, and to thank you all for the support and compassion you’ve directed towards us. It is truly appreciated.

Dad had a plethora of positives. Despite not being a Boy Scout, he was still trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, yada, yada, yada. He was a staunch believer in and supporter of the United States Constitution, especially the Third Amendment, and would never, ever, involuntarily quarter soldiers. He was active and involved in his career, but always made time to advance the Profession through his work with various professional societies. He was a respected Professional Agricultural Engineer, whose primary obligation, like all engineers, was to the health, safety, and welfare of the People. This is an obligation he took very seriously.

He never really retired, just redirected his efforts from work, to professional associations, to volunteer efforts – often rising to top leadership positions. He wasn’t one to hang with the buds and choke down a couple of 40’s. He may not have seen the benefit to that.

He was true to the Rotarian motto long before he was involved in the Rotary. He was a poster child for Service Above Self.

I guess he did have one of bad trait. Like many engineers, Dad was a sorter and a filer of every scrap and tidbit and, mostly, a stacker of said scraps and tidbits, using every square inch of horizontal space to pile some papers about something or another. Many of you have seen the mess of his desk at their Evergreen house, where only the need to maintain the space as a guest bedroom kept the piles of paper below three tonnes.

Prior to that, the piles were in Joel’s old bedroom at the Regent Park place, packed full to overflowing, including the closet. He had moved up there from the family room, when his overstuffed alcove was absconded for use as a bar. [Which, by the way, he only got around to building after we kids had turned 21 and moved out of the house. For many years, that bar was used to pleasantly celebrate the daily happy hour.]

Before that, he piled his many piles downstairs in the furnace room, until fears of radon moved him upstairs. In the furnace room, however, many piles remained piled until the day they sold that house.

In Ames, his home office desk was an interior door, with legs bolted to it to form a table. Of course, a table has no file drawers, so stacks and piles are the only way to organize.

He was a piler from before the day I knew that there was such a thing and, sadly, separating from this inherited trait has proved difficult.

Of the good points, there were many. These have been passed down, through heredity or upbringing, to each of his children. We each share all of these traits in different measure. He had a great love of the outdoors, which Joel tends to follow. His love of music and performance is shared strongly by Sarah. John (obviously) got the brains. I received his love of travel to backwater burgs and exotic shitholes.

We each received his tolerance for most everybody and every idea. We each received his logical way of thinking. And we each received his strong dislike of FDR and the policies of Socialism in this government.

We each have the upmost love and respect for his wife of 54 years.

What have you picked up from the man? Hopefully not his laugh, or hairline, or the way he always sneezed twice. Perhaps you picked up his ability to always have someone to talk to at a party? Perhaps it was his narcolepsy? Perhaps his love of trucks, tractors, canoeing, travel, limnology, rodeo, agriculture, politics, or the Cubs? Perhaps you have noticed an increased love of pie?

He was clever and appreciated wit. [John’s wit, perhaps. I preferred to amuse him with a broader brand of humor.]

Dad was a man of letters, both academically and literally. While going through his office this week, we discovered one of his early letters, written to his eventually esteemed younger brother, Joseph. He was ten years old when he wrote this.

=====

Josephene,

You are a P-I-G baby pig. You are a great big fraidy cat and cry baby. You are a great big old sow that just came out of a mud hole. You squeal [to] your ma and pa and everybody else.

Your chicken pox, David

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Little known factoid – you know that cold headache you get when you wolf down ice cream or suck down a Squishy too fast (I think kids today call it a brain freeze). Well, he never suffered from those.

The flowers fall, for all our yearning; weeds grow, regardless of our dislike.

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Chainsaw Trout

I did this one solo. Those who missed it should regret it through the entire fast-approaching winter.

Leaving at about 0830, I drifted south on MN 52 through some clouds and temperatures in the low 50's. the electric vest was set on 2 or 3, but that came off at my first stop in Preston. As you may recall, I was in search of the elusive Chainsaw Trout, which plies the clear waters of the Root River.

What caught my eye coming into town was a 15-20' fiberglass trout (likely manufactured by FASTCO in Sparta, a Mecca for lovers of big fiberglass things). This modern trout was mounted on a trailer on the north side of town, just outside the tourist information booth.

So I stopped, and shed the vest, then went in to see what I could, which is more than I can say for the 70 year old dude behind the desk, whose glaucoma was so bad his eyes were reduced to two cloudy orbs. It was like I was caught in some awful made for TV sci-fi film on the WB.

I asked about the Chainsaw Trout, which stumped him for a little bit, until I could sense him starting to dredge up the memories from his past. I'd like to say that his eyes lit up at the thought but, you know, the glaucoma.

As the story goes, the Chainsaw Trout was spawned from an old dead tree. Since the tree was still standing, it was carved vertically, the fish standing on its tail. Sadly, as happens with many wild species forced to live out of their native waters, the trout suffered from tail rot,... and termites, and toppled a number of years ago. Ah well.

By now, it was gorgeous-sunny, and from there, it was east over the curvy section of MN 16, as it parallels the Root as it falls towards the Mississippi at La Crescent. Very nice highway, this, undulating up, through, and around the base of the bluffs. First on the left bank, then the right bank past Rushford. Although not quite at peak, the autumn leaves were spectacular. There were a few on the highway, but all of them dry, and not so many that they became a hazard.

I missed the Culvert Man in Nodine, because Ms. Garmin wanted to route me down aggregate to find it, and I refused to follow her instructions this time. Obviously pissed off, she tried twice more to get me on the rocks. Meanwhile, I got pleasantly lost on some narrow county routes before eventually stumbling out of the woods at Winona, where I stopped to eat a long lunch, make a number of calls, and shed the liner of the 'Stich.

Now homebound with plenty of daylight left, I considered a change in plans to play a few word games on Wisconsin's alphabetized county road system, but didn't, electing to get home in time enough to start earning the next kitchen pass. It was a quick shot north to almost Wabasha, then MN60 in Zumbrota.

MN60 wasn't my planned route, but it was so much fun flogging the twisties I didn't bother with the original plan to bypass through Millville, Hammond, and South Troy (maybe next time). Fortunately, all of the traffic seemed to be eastbound, so I rarely had to pass folks, even though I was moving slightly faster than the legal limit. I'd slow down for the curves, generally posted with advisory speeds between 30 and 50 mph, but 25 over that felt about right.

The run back on US 52 was as dull as could be expected, getting home around 3:30, with another 400 miles for the season, and one of my better Octobers.

Will there be riding in November?

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