MY TEENAGE EXPERIENCE WITH A BROWNSVILLE PALM READER FAMILY

 

We'll respond to this request from a reader: 

"write more about Madam Palm. I remember a big house and a big sign of a hand. 

Who was she? 

What happened to her? 

Some people do not remember her at all. Her house was located at Boca Chica Blvd, right?"

When I first came to the city in 1966, Brownsville had several palm readers, not to be confused with curanderas, healers or tarot readers.

Madam Palm operated from a house on 14th Street or Highway 48, the South Padre Island Highway.

My curiousity in the Madam Palm operation had been aroused by her house being all boarded up in anticipation of 1966's Hurricane Inez, a storm heading straight for the mouth of the Rio Grande River that, at the last instant, turned south, hitting Tampico, Mexico.  I wanted to ask Madam Palm, the so-called predictor of the future, how she was so far off in judging the hurricane.

I was 18 at the time (I'm 75 now) and my fundamental religious background had taught me that palm readers and their ilk were likely demon-possessed, getting their insight from the Satanic world.

So, I approached the house with equal parts fear and curiosity.  

The editor at 18 or 19 in a suit from Mr. John's Men's Shop

Entering the grounds, I knocked on the door, requesting a conversation with Madam Palm, but was met instead by her eldest daughter, a woman possibly in her mid to late twenties, married with a couple small children.

The daughter, whose name escapes me, stepped outside to deal with me, telling me that the matriarch was "busy."

So, I posed my question about unnecessary hurricane preparation to the daughter.

Almost immediately, her head snapped back involuntarily as she shouted "oh Jesus God!"

She did not directly answer my question, but instead grabbed my arm and pulled me into the house.  I offered no resistance because I actually wanted to see inside the place.

She sat me down on a chair in the kitchen as she started meal preparation, but continued our conversation.

I asked about a shrine in the hallway with some artifacts and lit candles.  She explained that the shrine was actually a source of information.

While the lady did want to continue our conversation, she was simply too busy with household duties and asked if I could please come back "next week."

This family was not Hispanic, but likely Romanian gypsies with black hair and dark eyes.

Yes, I did return the next week, but was not met by Madam Palm or her eldest daughter.

This time it was two younger daughters I judged to be about 19 and 17 who invited me in, knowing exactly who I was.

"Why are you talking to our older sister?  She's already married," asked the older of these two girls.

The older of the two girls was extremely flirtacious, laying her head on the kitchen table and staring into my eyes and would get angry if I asked the younger girl anything.

"Look at me, not her," she ordered.

"We can only go above the waist," she told me.

"I will only go below the waist for Tom Jones or the Beatles," she offered without being asked.

Soon an older man they identified as their uncle came in and did not seem to be the least bit bothered or surprised by my presence.

They all spoke briefly in the Romanian language.

"We're going to the island," the oldest of the two girls told me, "and we want you to come with us.  We have a motel room and swimming pool."

The girls got into a Cadillac with the older girl wanting me to sit with her in the back seat.

I told them I would instead follow in my VW bug, having visions of being stuck on the island with no way home.

After "following' for a couple blocks, I turned off Highway 48 and went home, feeling as if I'd escaped a tricky situation.

Within a year or two the Madam Palm enterprise was no longer there.