If it's brown . . .

. . . It must come down. Thus am I cursed with the memory of Johnny Cochran every time a frond needs trimming -- in this case, the Christmas palm just off the porch, which has been here for decades.

It has gouges and nicks in the trunk from construction, though Ref reserved some of his most colorful yelling for any of his sketchy temps who got near it.

And when we're primping, feeding and generally spoiling all our new palms (fishtails, ladies, licualas, foxtails . . . I lost count when we put them in, but I think there are 20 or so), I have to smile at myself, thinking of the year after year after year that the biggest one we have got no attention at all.

Still, the place wasn't quite as presentable then either.