Sunset: Remembering Palmer Hall
Yesterday morning, when I
received an e-mail reporting that Palmer Hall had died a few hours
earlier, I was saddened by the loss of a good and generous man. Palmer
had been a wonderful friend to many, especially writers whose works he
nourished and cherished during his decades as the editor of Pecan Grove
Press. Though he had been in poor health for a while and he had kept
everyone informed of various stages in his serious condition, displaying
grace and dignity in his messages up until the end, the news of his
passing was difficult to accept.
The fact that information about
his death arrived by message on my computer seemed appropriate since I
had first encountered Palmer in an online writers’ list more than
twenty-one years ago during the early adventurous dial-up days of the
Internet. We would correspond with others in the group and in personal
notes, gaining admiration for one another’s works. Sometimes, in the
middle of the night when online access was more available, we’d also
meet with other authors at virtual cafés for continuing conversations.
Indeed, Palmer and I eventually established a friendship that would grow
further when we met in person at a writers’ conference in Atlanta and
then at other gatherings on a number of occasions over the years.
Each
time we’d gather at a conference in a different city, we arranged to
visit interesting sites and we’d talk for hours—often discussing our
homes, schools, students, friends, and family as much as our passion for
literature or writing. In fact, our outings to different locations
frequently stood among the highlights of the conferences.
When we
were at a meeting in Washington DC, Palmer graciously took me for a tour
of a few historic landmarks, especially the Vietnam War Memorial, which
he knew I’d wanted to visit with him because I’d read his prose and
poems about a tour spent in the military working as a translator in
Vietnam. I’m aware Palmer did the same for other writers as well,
introducing them to this world he’d experienced, had meant so much to
him, and had greatly shaped his character. Years later, I was honored
when Palmer requested a comment from me for the back cover of one of his
books detailing some of those war stories.
In New Orleans, Palmer
and I would have lunch at real local cafés, where he could introduce me to
the spicy regional dishes, and we’d spend evenings at jazz clubs in the
French Quarter, comparing opinions on the musicians we both appreciated,
as well as the current players in different sports we followed. When we
were in Portland the year my university’s basketball team had made the
Sweet Sixteen in the NCAA tournament and my alma mater’s team had made
the finals, we sat in a bar and watched hours of hoops together.
Over
the years, Palmer published two of my collections of poetry, and he
also published an anthology of poems from the first ten years of Valparaiso Poetry Review. When I initially explained my intention to compile the VPR
poems, he immediately asked me to publish the anthology with Pecan
Grove Press. I wanted him to co-edit it with me, but Palmer declined
because he thought I should receive all the credit for the journal’s
accomplishments.
Palmer had offered his encouragement and his
confidence in all my books, a couple of times even before they were
halfway developed. His faith in the writers whose volumes he produced
for Pecan Grove Press never wavered, and I found the process delightful
when collaborating with him as an editor.
Palmer solicited my
suggestions for cover art, and he seemed genuinely pleased by the
selections I had made. However, during our discussions surrounding the
publication of East of Omaha, I confessed to him I had no idea
for the book’s cover. After weeks of back and forth, we decided to just
brainstorm by mentioning our favorite images. Oddly, the first scene we
both chose concerned winter trees with bare branches backed by a bright
or dramatic sky. I was especially surprised since Palmer was from Texas,
and I didn’t think a cold weather setting would be appealing to him.
Consequently, Palmer found a photographer he knew, one who had taken nature pictures for magazines like National Geographic,
and he obtained just such a photo for the cover of my book. When the
volume was released, we jokingly agreed it would be our secret that the
image was actually photographed in Alaska rather than anywhere near
Nebraska.
Since Palmer had expressed a preference among his
favorite scenery for a wintry image with a brilliant sky as backdrop for
leafless trees, I thought of him when I photographed the sunset above,
which I captured recently after learning from Palmer that doctors had
told him his time left was limited. For me, looking at this picture
immediately brings back fond memories of Palmer, as well as my gratitude
for the more than two decades I was privileged to know him and to call
him a friend.
The VPR Poem of the Week is Deborah Bogen’s “Vigil,” which appears in the Spring/Summer 2013 issue (Volume XIV, Number 2) of Valparaiso Poetry Review.
