The Lemon Tree Theory

We had a lemon tree in our backyard that somehow survived every drought, dog, and misguided game of tag. It was crooked, scarred, and only bore fruit if you ignored it completely. Dad said it was “like the rest of us—thrived under chaos.”

There were five of us kids, which made for more elbows than peace at the dinner table. Our plates were a mix of hand-me-downs, odd mugs with chipped rims, and at least one bowl that had once held keys, pennies, and whatever else Mom dumped in it from her purse.

Mom had a theory about lemons. She said they were life’s little punctuation marks—tart reminders that sweetness isn’t a guarantee. You’ve got to learn to live with a little bite. “That’s why we don’t sugar our tea,” she said. “It builds character.” We didn’t sugar it because we ran out and nobody wanted to go back to the store, but that’s not the point.

My oldest brother, Marty, tried to escape the lemon tree every chance he got. He moved to Oregon, grew a beard, and started fermenting pickles for a living. He says it’s a metaphor for reclaiming control over your own rot. I think he just likes bossing cucumbers around.

Angie, the middle sister, became a nurse, mostly because she was always bandaging our scraped knees with duct tape and muttering, “We’re fine, don’t cry, it’s just skin.” She lives two streets over, still uses duct tape for everything, and has three kids who climb her fridge when she’s not looking.

Then there’s me—the accidental historian. I didn’t plan on it, but someone had to remember how Dad used to sing Sinatra while fixing the toaster, or how Mom ironed our clothes while watching “Murder, She Wrote,” talking to Angela Lansbury like they were old war buddies.

I write things down in an old ledger now. Things like:

“Grandpa once wrestled a goat in his pajamas, which sounds weird until you remember he was a goat farmer.”

“Aunt Lois smoked menthols and read romance novels with the covers ripped off—said she liked the mystery.” No one asked me to be the archivist. I just couldn’t stand the idea of forgetting.

We weren’t particularly religious, but Mom had rules that felt like commandments. “Don’t lie unless it saves someone’s life,” she’d say. “And always eat something green with dinner. Except Jell-O. Jell-O doesn’t count.”

Dad’s version of a lesson usually involved power tools or old cars. He’d say things like, “Don’t marry anyone who honks in driveways,” or, “Always keep duct tape, jumper cables, and pie in your trunk.” I followed one of those pieces of advice religiously, and I’m still single—but my car smells amazing.

You’d think with five kids, Mom would’ve had a favorite. She did. It was our dog, Stanley. Stanley didn’t talk back, steal her good tweezers, or forget birthdays. He also didn’t lock himself in the bathroom to escape family game night, like some of us. Ahem not me.

But if you asked Mom, she’d say, “Each of you is my favorite on different days. And some days, I prefer silence.”

When Mom passed, it was sudden. Heart attack in the produce aisle of the grocery store. She was buying lemons. I kid you not. She had five in her cart. One for each of us, we joked at the service. Dad didn’t laugh, but his eyes crinkled in that way they used to when he was trying not to cry.

We buried her under that crooked lemon tree. Planted her ashes in a ceramic urn she once used for potato salad. She’d have hated that part—"too kitschy," she’d say. But we figured she’d forgive us if we left a spoon sticking out of it.

Now every spring, the tree gives a little more fruit. Angie swears it’s Mom’s way of reminding us to call each other. Marty mails jam jars labeled “Sunshine in Brine” from Oregon, and the rest of us gather for what we call the Annual Lemon Roast. It’s just grilled chicken and too much wine, but we bring lemon-themed desserts and pretend we know what we’re doing.

The younger nieces and nephews swing from the rope tied to the tree like we used to. One broke his arm last year, and while he sniffled into his cast, I drew a lemon on it and wrote, “When life gives you lemons, break the other arm and even it out.” He laughed so hard he snorted fruit punch.

We’re a weird bunch. Messy, mouthy, emotionally allergic, but stitched together with some strange invisible thread made from shared history and sarcasm. We argue about politics and potato salad, but we never forget the things that matter.

Like how to find joy in odd places.How to forgive each other by accident.And how a crooked old lemon tree in the middle of a dusty backyard can teach you more about love than any book ever could.