Fruitful sabbatical

Beginning in January, 2001, I was awarded a semester-long sabbatical from Georgia Southern. This was one of the happiest periods of my life---I was being paid to stay home and write. I was alone all day, but I was never lonely; I felt cozy and safe. I went for long stretches without seeing anyone, other than L. and P. when they arrived home from work and school, and that was okay with me. On stormy January days, I watched the gray drizzle from the inside of the warm house, thankful not to be on 1-16 alongside the roaring 18-wheelers. As spring came, for the first time in years, I had the extra time to watch it unfold. One afternoon,some half-cut lemons were lying on the counter---we'd had fish for dinner the night before---so I decided to plant some seeds in dixie cups.
During the last trip to Venezuela in '99, we had visited Uncle Hernandez' house, and his back yard was teeming with fragrant lemon trees. Aunt Esperanza plucked an armful of ripe lemons and sent them home with us to L's parents' house. I was quite taken with the idea of lemon trees, even though I wasn't sure they'd grow in the Georgia climate. They smelled tantalizing, and, as the song goes, "Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet..." So, nothing ventured, nothing gained, I planted a few lemon seeds during sabbatical, and soon they sprouted. I chose one and transplanted it into a larger pot, and it grew. When it was about two feet tall, I planted it in the back yard in front of what was then the small fish pond, which has since been retired in favor of the large fish pond.
The plant transformed into a small tree. I watered it with fish pond water, which is the best fertilizer. The trunk thickened, the branches spread. But as the years passed, no lemons appeared. I was disappointed. The tree was healthy and beautiful, but bore no fruit. Someone told me that fruit trees need to be near other fruit trees so they could benefit from both male and female pollination, whatever that meant. Maybe our lemon tree was a boy tree and it needed a girl tree. Resigned, I appreciated it for its loveliness, minus lemons. The leaves smelled like perfume. You'd step out onto the patio at night, and the fragrance would sweep in on the breeze. One year, S. called me outside and pointed to a spot in the thick branches, where a bird nest had been built with twigs and Spanish moss. Inside, three baby bird heads jutted up and down, mouths wide open, squeaking for food. The parents, cardinal mates, flew back and forth with food, hiding in the lush branches. Eventually, the birdies grew up and flew away, but the nest is still there. Spiders, too, took up residence and wove beautiful, sun-reflecting, three-dimensional webs between the trees branches and the roof of the house. Chameleons, whose color was a dead-on match to the leaves, made their homes there too.
About a year ago, L. was outside with me. He nudged me and pointed at the tree. "Look," he said. I looked up, and to my surprise, one, just one, of the branches of the lemon tree had sprouted round green nodules that looked like miniature limes.
"See, it's really a lime tree," said L.
"No it's not," I replied. "I'm positive it's lemon because I planted the seed from a lemon."
In a month or so, the green fruit had rounded out and turned vivid yellow. They grew twice as big as any lemon I've seen in the store. That year, the tree produced about 10 large lemons. I was thrilled.
But the biggest surprise came this summer, when the entire tree exploded with the little green nodules. Super-size lemons now cover the tree. I tell L. not to pick them because they're prettier out there than in the kitchen. But he sneaks one now and then as flavoring for dinners.