Three years ago I bought a satsuma tree.
I brought it home in anticipation of husband arriving back home so he could plant it out on Highway 90.
Toby thought that tree in a pot must have had something wonderful hidden among its roots. She dug it out of the pot three times.
Lee, who mows the yard for me, happened to be there when I was trying to pick up the tree—again and repot it. He was laughing. I gave up on waiting to plant it elsewhere and asked him to plant it somewhere that was a good spot–and not where Toby could dig it up.
The first year we had a dozen fruits.
The next year two dozen–we cherished them–saved them for special occasions.
We had a hard frost last winter and were afraid we might lose the tree–along with our Meyer Lemon.
But we have had bushels of fruit–we became so spoiled–just run out to the front yard and pick a half dozen, when those were gone, go get more.
Starting in October, we have had fresh fruit from the tree. I’ve picked several dozen lemons, given away some, and then there were no more.
But as soon as we mourned the loss of the fresh fruit, blossoms appeared. Branches are heavy and need propping against the promised fruit.
And the lemon tree?
Covered with blossoms with bees eagerly working away.