Chorus

“Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.”

Will Holt wrote the beautiful song “Lemon Tree”, which many of us remember because of Peter Paul and Mary’s version recorded in 1962. As the chorus suggests, the fruit has beauty and bitterness, much like the story you are about to read, but there is neither melody nor harmony here, just a living nightmare.

There never was beauty or sweetness about, our cantankerous neighbour’s tree. Standing alone and unloved, it annoys me, particularly as my preferred seat at the dining room table gives me an opportunity to look out the window and face IT; despite a better fence and standard roses that my husband planted and nurtured lovingly. This beast conveys anger with its sour look and misshapen fruit, which tastes sourer than any lemon I have sipped, soaked fish with, or tickled avocado with. I may as well admit that I drink black coffee with a slice of lemon and sugar. Odd perhaps, but to me delicious, except with those lemons.

It all started one morning some years back. I ventured outside to visit the local shops; a five-minute walk from our home.  I noticed the box of lemons on our neighbour’s nature strip. I needed to replenish my store, and at that stage, we did not possess a lemon tree. I planned to get some on the way back. Little did I know that the action would bring a battle royal.

As I walked homeward, I noticed that Mrs Sourpuss was there. She was sitting on a deckchair, staring at anyone who passed by, except when someone looked at the lemons. She smiled but not too gleefully as that might have shown friendship.

“Can I take a couple?” I asked her.

She nodded, still smiling, the kind of smile that looked painted on, instead of natural. Her gaze made me feel uncomfortable, but I thanked her, taking the lemons with me.

I sliced the lemon with difficulty and boiled the kettle. Oh, My Golly Gosh! No wonder they were free. Their shape looked like female body parts, with tough skin, and oh the taste! Mother’s milk it wasn’t. In short, it was vile. The contents of the mug went down the drain, and the kettle re-boiled for a cup of untainted char, black without anything to spoil it!

The box stayed on that nature strip for weeks, with about a dozen of the prize poisonous specimens sunning themselves, to no avail. Fortunately, the neighbour further down had a more inviting tree. My darling asked him if we could have a couple of fresh, normal-looking (and tasting) lemons.

“Sure, mate we can’t use them all. Help yourself.”

Little did my darling know that Mrs Sourpuss, from her vantage point on the deckchair by her lemons, was watching closely, tight-lipped and incensed.  Minutes later I heard her screech to a family member in their native language. Perhaps if the conversation had been in French, or even German, I would have got the gist and been better prepared. I soon saw her marching up the path in high dudgeon. Reaching our front door she knocked and hollered, repeatedly.

“I will get it, darling.”

What a good idea; she should be a little intimidated by the perfect giant in the house who could usually manage cranky old biddies, especially his wife.

“You did not take my lemons. Where your wife she answer!” Our visitor was screaming so loudly that if we had had a dog, he (or she) would be the only one to hear; either that or he would run away and hide.

She pushed passed the giant and stormed down the hallway. No

 “Hi it’s only me!” just:

“What’s wrong with my lemons?” she glared at me. She turned up her nose, and her look said, ‘The house is filthy.’

“Well answer me.” Her stare was cold.

They are too sour.” I ventured.

“Whaddya mean? Lemons are sour.”

“True, but not like these.”

“But they’re free.” she ventured. “How come you took his lemons?”

“My husband asked for them.”

“How much did he pay?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “However your lemons are still too sour.”

 I smiled.

“I do love the Norfolk pine tree in your garden,” I stated trying to smooth things over.

“Humph.” she stared at me. “I still no understand.”

My darling was watching closely. He coughed. For the first time, I saw her startled. She wanted to verbally attack him, but thought better of it, given she reached his navel.

“I think you should leave now. You are upsetting my wife in our home.”

She turned on her heel, stormed up the hallway, stepped out, slammed the door, and yelled in her native language.

Three days later we heard the sound of the chainsaw.  I was looking forward to the beast being taken away.

Venturing into the dining room, I looked out the window. I could have wept. The healthy, beautiful Norfolk pine was being slaughtered by a chainsaw. Alas, the lemon tree with its awful fruit remains to this day.