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| Raymond L. Palm (1911-2003) and Steven Reynolds / Wannaskawriter |
Raymond L. Palm of Roseau was buried in the Palmville Cemetery on April 15th, 2003 with a great number of his friends and family present at his graveside. This is a personal tribute to my Uncle Ray, a truly special human being.
The sun shown dull through a opaque sky above the Palmville Cemetery the morning after his funeral. The rope on the aluminum flagpole ‘clunged’ in the wind against the metal mast, near-center of the small township cemetery off the northeast corner of our farm. The leafless oak trees along the creek bank swayed in the wind; their fallen leaves fluttering from their winter nests along the woven wire fence of the cemetery. A Canadian goose rested on the ground at the head of Raymond’s grave, its head nestled against its back, asleep; the gander stood nearby facing east watching for danger among the headstones surrounding this newest grave.
A cigar in cellophane lays embedded in the fresh earth over Ray’s flower wreathed grave because “Uncle Ray liked a cigar now and then.” The soil at the base of the grave marker was moistened by the single can of beer one of his nephews let soak into the soil because, “Uncle Ray liked a beer sometimes.” A noticeably bold ‘L.’, in black magic marker, was added to his name because everyone knew he always signed his name as Raymond L. Palm.
After the lunch at the church in Wannaska the day of his funeral, several of his family shivered in their suit coats in the rapidly cooling temperatures of coming evening. In a large half circle around his grave, we ceremoniously toasted the man who had brought each of us so much real joy over our lifetimes and whose seemingly untimely leaving had created such overwhelming loss in all our lives.
That evening, rather symbolically, two Canadian geese came in low over the oaks along the south edge of the cemetery and flew directly over the grave as our toast to our very special uncle, friend, “grandfather” ended, our beers and sodas raised in salute. A lone raven watched from a far tree, dropped from the tree in a spiral and slipped from view.
Tears flowed freely. Men embraced one another as some broke down in the company of family gathered there. The women’s eyes glistened from behind wet mascara lashes.
There was laughter too as we recalled those special times with Raymond and jokes were shared. Chad “Raymond” Davidson, a great-great nephew, and son of Jeffrey “Raymond” Davidson played among the headstones, in view of the adjoining old Willie Palm homestead, where Raymond was born in 1911. Palmville Township was named for Ray’s grandfather Louis L. Palm, the first European settler in the area in 1895, and its cemetery holds, as well, the graves of Louis and Ingeborg and the Palms thereafter, and now Raymond.
Now Raymond...
Raymond was the reason all were gathered at the Riverside Lutheran Church in Wannaska after the burial; he was the reason his brother Clifford Palm, from South Milwaukee, and his sister Irene Reese, from Thief River Falls, were among all the many nieces and nephews, the many old friends and neighbors, the many small children and babies who were there in fellowship, visiting. Ray was their reason to be there, forever the nucleus of the Willie Palm clan, even after his death...
There was no disputing that he brought us together for his birthdays from all our thousands of miles apart. Each birthday over the years was particularly significant for a man who had once been told he had three weeks to six months to live, after he broke his back on July 3,1932 after a fall from a tree, then sent home to die.
Just his existence at Sheltering Oaks Manor in Roseau these past 18 years was reason enough to make the trek to his private room at the end of the hall, where his window looked down at the green grass edge of the golf course, and the oak trees, the birdhouses in their branches, and the several spruce there. It was a view reminiscent of Palmville where he was born, and liked to visit when he felt good enough; a view reminiscent of where he wanted to be buried, near his mother, father, and younger brother above Mikinaak Creek, where he had walked and hunted as a young man until the early 1930s.
The beautiful sound of Rachel Ulvin’s violin as she played “Ashokan Farewell” at the cemetery had brought swift tears to my eyes. The sadness of the last two days flooded me at graveside and the music provoked the tears I had repeatedly quelled earlier. Lovingly, others near me offered me their support as I wept. Overwhelmed in their own grief, I heard others in the crowd weeping, sniffling back their emotion, composing themselves again.
Sheet music in hand, I had asked Rachel if she was familiar with “Ashokan Farewell,” just a few minutes before the funeral began at the Moe Church in Roseau. A family musician who had previously planned to play at the cemetery could not attend and it proved difficult to find someone else at the last minute. Somewhat hesitant to ask Rachel about this specific piece, and request yet more of her charity, I did so anyway.
By divinity alone, Rachel not only knew the piece by heart but liked it so well she played it frequently in moments of idle opportunity and said she would be glad to play it at the cemetery. I didn’t know until the funeral, that Raymond especially liked violin music.
“Ashokan Farewell,” is a contemporary instrumental American composition written by J. Ungur, and notably the musical score to historian/film maker Ken Burn’s documentary mini-series, ‘The Civil War.’
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kZASM8OX7s
The entourage of over 40 cars from Roseau to the cemetery was a phenomenal sight for us in the 2nd car behind the hearse because, sadly, for many of the elderly that pass on these days there are often few friends and family left to bereave them. Yet despite the numbers who pressed around the casket above the grave that sunny day, they were but a small visual testimony to the impact this simple man in a wheelchair had upon the number of people who he had personal contact with over his lifetime.
An impact that shown in the reddened eyes and tears upon the cheeks of all the nurses and caregivers from Sheltering Oaks that were able to attend the service, and who, in clusters, embraced one another in grief outside the flood-damaged church in Roseau, their bodies rocking with their sobbing, tissues to their faces.
Impact that likely shown in those eyes not able to attend; those nurses and caregivers behind desks and clipboards or pushing carts and dispensing medications; those with their arms lovingly around the elderly who shuffled down the aisles of Sheltering Oaks where Raymond once added his understated charm to their shifts; those with their attention to the residents in wheelchairs, who more often know neither night nor day, nor converse, nor listen as Raymond once did to their individual problems many times over his 18 years there; impact that was felt grievously in the hearts and souls of those in their homes unable to attend because the loss of this man, who changed their life in his most generous and kindly paternal way, was too much for them to bear in the presence of others.
Ray’s physical body may have existed the last 70 years, 7 months and 9 days in a wheelchair; his strong arms and gifted hands atrophied almost beyond use these past several years, but his unfailing compassion and influence extended far, far beyond the confines of his chair. To each of them, and everyone who knew and loved him, Raymond L. Palm, was truly a one-of-a-kind human being that they all were blessed to know.
The Palm boys always held their Uncle Raymond in great respect. Gene bore the pain of his damaged knees below the weight of the casket, down the steps of the church, as the nine of us carried Raymond’s body out of the church to the black hearse waiting at the curb. I know it hurt him, but it was not nearly the amount of pain in his heart to lose his Uncle Raymond. He and his older brother, Mike Palm, on my right, and younger brother, Doug Palm, on my left along the casket, and the youngest brother, Dale, had lived in Palmville until 1958.
Raymond and his mother remained for a short time, on the Palm homestead in Section 2, before Ray moved he and his mother to Twin Valley, Minnesota, and then later Red Lake Falls, Minnesota where he owned and operated jewelry and watch repair businesses with help of his youngest brother, Clinton Palm. Raymond and his mother moved back to Roseau in 1955.
Ray’s elderly younger brother and sister, assisted by their children, walked slow and carefully from the church to their cars to go out to the Palmville Cemetery. The kindly crush of the crowd leaving the church whirled around them. In the background people were crying; coughing, sniffling, speaking. There was the wind in the trees near the church. The tousling of long hair, the flap of dress ties, the fluttering of dresses, of whipping jackets and suit coats; the noise of shoes against the street and sidewalk, car doors opening and shutting; cars starting.
During the service, Rachel played a march on her ornate Hardanger fiddle, and a medley on her violin as her mother, Janet Ulvin, accompanied her on the church organ. Rhonda and Erling Huglen sang duets; the Reverend John Martinson gave the service. He related that when he first moved into town several years ago to become pastor at Moe Lutheran, a situation arose that a clock in the church needed repair. The ladies in the church told him to take it to ‘Raymond’, because everybody knew his work.
“The clock still runs today.”
Reverend Martinson had been with Raymond the night before and the day of Ray’s death, helping ease him into the life beyond with words of compassion and the comfort of his presence; he and Raymond talked often over the years. Great-nephews Jared Davidson and his brother, Jeffrey Davidson; my wife Jackie, and I had been at his bedside.
John read several of the written memories about their relationship with Raymond other people had contributed. One man wrote he had known Raymond for over 30 years and Ray had taught him much about guns and rifles.
A love of things mechanical for Raymond, a year or so after his spinal cord injury, brought his gunsmithing craftsmanship to the attention of three Roseau men; J.A. Burke, Roseau County Register of Deeds; W.E. Strandburg, Roseau County Treasurer; and E.O. Anderson, a Roseau jeweler. These men helped Raymond become a licensed watchmaker and jeweler, as well as sell and trade guns. Ray repaid this unsolicited kindness and generosity to each of his customers for as long as he was in business; many times he did not charge any more than was enough to meet his costs. He was a good businessman, but not greedy; many people said he didn’t charge enough.
A woman from the staff at Sheltering Oaks wrote that Ray had seen all her children grow up and that they’d always ask to go see him whenever they came to the nursing home. One woman wrote that when she gets to heaven, she wanted the first dance to be with him ...
Someone said, about Ray who had spent a lifetime in his wheelchair, having been robbed of his upright mobility in his early 20s, “When he gets to heaven will he walk, run, or fly first?”.
There was much imaginative speculation about his afterlife, all about him getting his legs back, all about the wonder of Raymond arising and standing and walking across fields, or whirling across dance floors. Stacy Davidson wondered if he would just fly, as angels do. Who is to say no?
One person from Sheltering Oaks wrote, “Raymond knew what he liked and what he didn’t like. I appreciated that about him. He was real and didn’t try to be anyone he wasn’t.”
I think this says he was straightforward with her and the others when he needed his needs addressed in a particular way. He had survived within a rigid physical care schedule first initiated by his mother, Annie Palm in 1932, and carried on by his sister Irene from 1964 to 1985, after which he chose to live at Sheltering Oaks. Although Raymond was unfailingly understanding, he knew what he needed and knew when things weren’t right because his very life depended on it. When the jobs were done right, Raymond paid that respect back tenfold; he was just like that.
After the funeral director had told us pallbearers how we would handle the casket and had left us nine alone on the walk outside the church, we looked at each other and laughed and said we hoped the others had understood him because we had not. Our laughter eased our nervousness, it helped fill the heartbreak of the reason we were all gathered there outside a church on such a nice day in April.
We knew Raymond would have understood our levity and taken part in the joking for he enjoyed good humor and laughed frequently during his lifetime; he was seldom a grouch in anyone’s memory. And when he was, it was only because he was very human too, like anyone else. He had his days, but they were far less than what others may imagine of a person so confined within a longtime broken body and so aged, for Raymond almost never complained; he never felt sorry for himself, nor allowed others to do so of him. Ray once said, “I kept thinking I’d get better and I’d be able to walk again, and when I didn’t, I just got used to my situation.”
Raymond’s coffin, a simple, straight-forward oak casket wreathed in flowers was in the front of the church; his saddened brother and sister in the front row, their family behind them, and scattered throughout the church and down the steps, were all Raymond’s extended family; the pallbearers sat behind the honorary pallbearers across the center aisle. Yet none of it seemed real. It seemed impossible we were all sitting there in the church and Raymond was in that casket, and all of these people were here to say goodbye to him.
I sat on that pew with my cousins from Bemidji, Thief River Falls, Aurora, Hoyt Lakes, and South Milwaukee, Wisconsin many of whom I see but once a year, not in suits of gray as they were dressed that day, but suits of florescent orange and camo during deer season, a family tradition that Raymond especially enjoyed hearing about and had participated in years gone by. He listened to the stories with a visible interest and understood everything, imagining the hunt, the shots that were made. He enjoyed fresh venison and jerky. People would bring him wild game meats of all kinds as treats to go with a can of good beer and conversation.
Raymond told me of a time when he was about fourteen, before he was hurt, when he and his father, Willie, were returning home on skis pulling a toboggan with a frozen deer on it that Willie had cached in the woods the day before. Tired, hungry and thirsty, they stopped and sat down on the frozen carcass. Willie took out his knife and cut a couple small chunks of meat off the animal for each of them to suck on and eat...
The processional into the church behind the casket, the congregation standing; the weight of the casket up the steps, the slow cadence we nine walked, the heaviness in our hearts.
They closed the lid on a withered body laying in-state just inside the church; a body whose deformed hands, laying one upon the other, which two young children had tenderly touched for the last time with their mothers nearby, weeping. In death, as in life, Raymond L. Palm taught each of us, many of us since we were children the age of these two, the facts of real life and what it is like to be a real human being. Uncle Raymond, we owe you no less to repay each other with that same kindness and respect, the rest of our lives, that you paid us. The world can only become a better place for it.
Thank you, Raymond.
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