I’m Dedicating This Blog to My Dad

I don’t always share many deeply personal things on my blog, but today I’m making an exception. My beloved father, Glen Palmer, passed away at the age of 88 on Saturday, January 25, 2020. If you’ve followed me long enough, you’ll know that I include my father’s photos and stories in my presentations, books, blogs, videos, and conversations.

I love to talk about his connection with food and the land. In fact, everything I am, I owe to my dad (and my mom, of course). My curiosity about how food grows comes straight from my father, who grew up on a farm. Even when we lived in the suburbs, my dad had a massive garden, enough to supply most of our produce in the summer. He built his own greenhouse, and would plant small pots of vegetable starts to transplant in the garden when the weather warmed up. He was a master gardener, intuitively knowing exactly what his plants needed to produce a bountiful harvest. My dad patiently taught me how to love the soil too. He also lived and ate the Blue Zones, following a primarily plant-based diet most of his life; exercising by walking, hiking, and gardening; and gaining support from his community and church. No wonder he lived a rich full life, with very little slowing him down until the last year of his life.

My interest in becoming a dietitian was fully supported by my dad. As my career flourished, and I wrote my books and enjoyed such a positive reception for my plant-based, sustainable focus, my dad was right there along the way to support and brag about me. He was my biggest fan. And I was his biggest fan, too.

A camera around his neck. His old, worn Veteran hat on his head. A comfy cardigan sweater pulled over a plaid, button down shirt. A mischievous twinkle in his bright, turquoise eyes. A tiny chuckle following a soft-spoken tease. That was my dad.

He had a wicked watermelon seed shot, which would seemingly come out of nowhere and zing you in the neck. He was a skilled carpenter, crafting everything from furniture to our family’s legendary, enormous game board, which I would beg him to take out so we could play marbles. He kept a small journal in his front shirt pocket, where he kept a daily diary of his life in neat block print. He liked nothing more than to take a drive in the serene Washington State countryside, country music playing from the radio, mom sitting beside him, kids fighting in the back seat, our picnic box packed in the trunk. He was always in the front row at every music performance and school recital of mine, a big, beaming smile plastered on his face. For my dad , there was nothing that came before his family.

When I had my own children, my father became even more important to me, as he dedicated hours to being a good grandfather. When I had a business trip, I’d meet my parents in the given city, whether it was Boston or Atlanta, get one big double hotel room, and he would spend all day on his hands and knees playing with Christian and Nicholas, and then we’d all crash at night, exhausted. My boys ADORED their grandpa. He never missed a Grandparents Day at school, nor any of their childhood birthday parties. Grandpa would never tire of playing games with them, helping them build Lego castles, or telling stories.

And oh, the stories! That time when he found a bear cub on a trail and took it home. Or when he would go off into the wild country of Minnesota at 12 years of age for days on his own. When he walked two and a half hours in the snow to go to a one-room schoolhouse, and then the same trip back again at the end of the day. When he and his younger brother took over the farm in Minnesota at the age of 13 when his father had a heart attack. When he served as a medic and conscientious observer at a MASH unit in Korea (think Radar on the TV show MASH) and traded in his cigarette rations (he didn’t smoke) for supplies to build his elaborate model cars.

Here’s to you, dad. Your love for the earth and your family lives on in each of us. Your bright blue eyes live on in my son’s eyes. And your kindness lives on in everyone that had the good fortune to meet you. 

Sharon

You can read more about my dad’s life on his farm in my blog here.