Palm trees grow in warm places all over the world, but somehow they got branded as California’s signature accessory — like aviator sunglasses for the landscape. They aren’t even native to most of the state. The tall, spindly Mexican fan palms that define so many skylines were imported by the thousands in the early 1900s, especially in the run-up to the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics. Somebody decided the city needed a breezy tropical facelift, and the palms delivered.

Of course, palms have résumés beyond California: they shade Caribbean beaches, date groves in North Africa, temple courtyards in India, and just about every tropical coastline you can name. But thanks to Hollywood, surf posters, and music videos, “palm-lined boulevards” became shorthand for California sunshine.

For kids growing up in the Imperial Valley, though, they weren’t postcard props — they were part of the scenery of everything. By the time you’ve grown up under them, palm trees stop being background and start feeling like stubborn relatives who refuse to get a haircut.

In Calexico, they towered over schoolyards, the tortillería parking lot, and even the uncles at Sunday carne asadas who swore they were this close to catching a foul ball at an Águilas game in ’84. They lined streets all over town, but the palms along the west side of Highway 111 were special. Rising like sentinels beside East Imperial Avenue, they formed a grand (and slightly spiky) welcome into the international gateway city. A few of those tall palms are still there, standing watch as visitors arrive and waving a breezy goodbye as they leave.

They marked the seasons better than any wall calendar. In summer, their fronds hissed in the heat while we turned sprinklers into backyard water parks. In fall, the dried leaves clacked together like castanets as we pedaled home from Little League. Winter was the season of palm “boots” — those chunky husks the wind shook loose — daring us to stack and climb them, usually until someone yelled, “Get down before you break your neck!”

They once stood like steady watchmen, keeping an eye on motorists gliding east and west along Highway 98 — Birch Street — guiding travelers from one edge of Calexico to the other.

Over the years, the city has trimmed away many of the palms that once framed its streets, reshaping the view — and, if we’re honest, stealing a touch of the charm that made Calexico feel like itself. Still, plenty of homeowners have kept the tradition alive, planting palms in their yards so that breezy magic still sways just outside their windows.

Even now, when I catch their silhouettes against a sherbet-colored sunset, I’m eight again: pedaling home with dust on my socks, a baseball glove dangling from my handlebars, and the smell of someone’s carne asada drifting over the fence.

The thing about palm trees is they don’t just grow — they hoard your stories, all the way up their wrinkled trunks. They’re tough, stubborn plants — not technically trees — but enduring figures in the desert landscape. Hard to take down, they stretch skyward despite the heat, bending but not breaking in the stiffest winds, standing tall after the storms have passed.

In a lot of ways, they mirror the resilience of Calexicans and of the whole Imperial Valley: rooted deep, weathering everything, and somehow still looking good in the breeze.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.