My Grandma’s Lemon Tree: A Lesson for Sukkot

Grandma and Grandpa sit on plastic Adirondack chairs under the fig tree in their backyard, the heavy leaves grazing their heads. Their chairs sit on a custom-built wooden perch, as the wobbly earth no longer holds these two 92-year-olds upright like it used to. Ever since the wood slats were placed in the garden, it looks like Grandma and Grandpa are sitting on a little stage in their yard, an aged Adam and Eve on their thrones. The garden is sparser than it used to be, but it is still beautiful. Grandma calls the backyard her Green Sanctuary.

Directly in front of Grandma’s chair lives the Meyer lemon tree — a cross between a lemon and a mandarin orange. The crooked branches of the tree have grown old along with Grandma, mirroring her arthritic hands. The lemon tree used to be boisterous and  heavy with citrus, but every year the fruit shrinks. These gnarled lemons never look like the ones at the store; they are bumpy and lopsided. A few squeezed into a pitcher doesn’t even require sugar, as the taste is so pleasant and fresh, the sourness tolerable — inviting, even — to balance its sweetness. 

Grandma’s lemon tree is an offering for all those who come and visit. “Take a lemon home with you,” she commands visitors, handing them a clipper from her top kitchen drawer. One time my cousin took too many lemons, and Grandpa was mad at his greed. The right amount is between two and four: one to cut open and squeeze right into a tall glass of water and one to keep for later. Growing up, Grandma would send me into the backyard to harvest a lemon to make lemonade for the family. Other times I’d squeeze a single lemon into my glass of water and gulp it down in one, two, three. 

Grandma planted the Meyer lemon tree in 1968 in the backyard of their home in Manhattan Beach, California, a ten-minute trudge uphill from the ocean (longer when carrying a boogie board and a sandy, wet towel). Grandma’s tree is 55 years old; ten years younger than my mom, and 22 years older than me. Grandma was a self-taught guerilla composter. She dug a hole in the ground next to the tree and fed it banana peels, coffee grounds, and lemon rinds throughout the last five decades, nourishing the tree's soil. I have no doubt her constant tending has contributed to the tree’s longevity. Grandma has always been a nurturer, whether it be for her garden, her grandchildren, or her Judaism. At 80 years old, Grandma became an adult Bat Mitzvah, as girls were regularly left out of the Jewish coming-of-age ceremony when she was a child. She studied the Torah and chanted her portion on the bimah.

A citrus fruit grown in Israel called an etrog is one of the central ritual objects of the Jewish holiday of Sukkot, a joyful harvest festival. The Meyer lemon shares the same bumpy skin of an etrog and is my own timeless ritual object. Lemons are my transitional object between Grandma and my life in Oakland. Before a weekend visit to my grandparents ends, I cut a lemon off of the tree and shove it into the top of my suitcase. Once back north, I unpack the lemon first and rejoice in the abundance of my family and of the Meyer lemon tree. I hold a gift from the land that has been home to my grandparents and their three children and later a place of gathering for their six grandchildren. I bring my maternal ancestors home with me: Grandma’s mother, my great-grandmother Fritzie, and her mother Marishka. I also bring home my childhood with me into my adult home, remembering sunny days playing in the backyard followed by homemade lemonade.

On the days I really miss my grandma, I sink my teeth into the juicy flesh of a lemon. A sweetness drops onto my tongue, and a sourness sucks in my cheeks. A store-bought lemon never tastes the same as a Meyer from my grandparent’s tree. Choosing to live several hours away from my grandma and the tree, I am learning to live with the pains of always missing something. My grandparents are in their nineties, and every fall, every ambulance ride to the hospital, every moment moves us forward into the eventual reality of loss. There is a liminal space of having my grandparents, pulling lemons off the lemon tree, visiting for long weekends, while also knowing the time is limited. No longer am I a child, counting on years more with my beloved Grandma. No longer can I feign disbelief that my loved ones will die, because it’s now real. In parallel, I watch my parents age, and my mother’s hand looks foreign beside my own. 

The lemon tree may still be alive when my grandparents are gone. Like a pet left behind when one dies, what will become of the tree? Will the roots shrivel and die with no one to love and care for it? My grandparents’ garden – the jasmine bushes and the lemon tree and the mint growing wild – will become a fading picture in my mind. I cannot bear to think that the scenery of my memories, of my childhood, will be gone forever. Just like the sukkah, a temporary shelter traditionally built for Sukkot, the refuge of the garden, my grandparents, and even myself is ultimately impermanent. 

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I have picked lemons off my grandma’s Meyer lemon tree for my entire life. When it is all gone, I will search for a Meyer lemon. Although it won’t be from the same tree, I hope to return to the taste of what once was. 

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At The Well uplifts many approaches to Jewish practice. Our community draws on ancient Jewish wisdom, sometimes adapting longstanding practices to more deeply support the well-being of women and nonbinary people. See this article’s sources below. We believe Torah (sacred teachings) are always unfolding to help answer the needs of the present moment.

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Sources

Sukkot 2023, My Jewish Learning 

Growing Etrog Citron: How To Grow An Etrog Tree, Gardening Know How

Ask the Expert: What Can I Do With An Etrog?, My Jewish Learning 

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