Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Lemon Tree

My earliest memory, should I be asked, is an image of a lemon tree. It carries with it a number of other images; of my sister Margie, of running laughing over dry summer grass and sitting drinking cordial in its cool shade.

Years later in another state, another home, I have another lemon tree. Untended it had grown sykwards. Its top-most fruit, beyond reach of man and ladder, were only collected when loosed to the ground with a heavy thump that would waken the sleeping hounds but fail to provoke any Newtonian response.

Then this blasted drought killed it. Its old roots unable to draw deep enough in the hardened parched soil.

Perched dangerously on the broken top step of the ladder (the crack runs right through the 'do not stand' warning) I hacked away with Dad's old chainsaw, cursing the dead tendrils that caught on each other and drew deep scratches down my forearms.

Now the lemon tree stands like a six foot inverted tripod, surrounded by green grass fed from the washing machine's grey water. A myriad of green shoots have emerged from its old limbs and I have hope for more lemons yet.



At April 13, 2008 at 6:43 PM , Blogger franzy said...

Piss on it. It is the best thing for old lemon trees.
Do not question this advice. Teach The Noodle to do this too.


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