Antonia’s Lemon Tree

When you read these stories, will you expect nothing more than that they are ordinary and simple. For—though unique as we all are—much of our life passes in an ordinary and simple way. But it is in this way that life is extraordinary.

We will wander. We will search. And through it all, we will have trod a very common pilgrimage. It is on this pilgrimage that we share our lives and this world with each other. It is on these roads—engraved by the common people—where we will ultimately end.

Antonia is 73-years-old. The wrinkles that travel across her face, the glint in her eyes, and the seriousness of her gaze reveal a life deeply lived—a life of love, devotion, humility, strength, and courage. She is like Tibet—with a beautiful soul, a mysterious past, and wisdom of spirit and adventure I have yet to experience.

Her display of feelings and opinions are raw and captivating. Uninhibited. She seems fearless. This daring expression of one’s self—born in her from her Hispanic culture—is what I admire most about her. Antonia’s culture has raised her to be totally secure in her emotions. She has been taught to feel life.

The stories she tells are vivid. I am pulled back in time; I can see the Mexican countryside; and imagine the people. The world is still the same, yet different—it is her world.

Antonia came from a family poor in material possessions, but rich in their faith and love for one another.

They lived in a modest square house, with dirt floors, and few belongings. There were nine children, her mother who worked hard at home to take care of them all, and her father who worked long days on a farm.

At sunrise, her father would already be gone, working from dawn through twilight. His family would wait for his return, when they would then eat dinner together. They sat in a circle, cross-legged on the dirt floor, each eating a corn tortilla, what they had also eaten for lunch.

Lemon trees grew throughout the entire neighborhood. With her brothers and sisters, she would climb them, picking their fruit.

Skipping down a dusty road, beneath the blazing sun, on their little legs they would race to the lemon trees. Laughing, as children do, they would push each other up the trunks, scrambling to hang onto the tree’s limbs.

Climbing the rough branches, each of their five fingers would reach as high as possible through the vibrant green leaves. Eagerly they would pluck the yellow fruit, passing it down to waiting hands that made a pile of lemons at the base of the tree. With their treasures bundled up in their t-shirts, proud of their work, they ran back home.

As long as they had lemons, the tea would be sweet and so would the corn tortillas.

Like I said, the story is not one of extraordinary adventure and heroism. Nonetheless, it is still a story of a miracle: A Day Lived.

And as those days accumulated, Antonia’s childhood taught her the importance of hard work, humility, play, and devotion to those she loved.

May the days of our own childhood have taught us the same.