Pop used to tell me that on his birthday, he got to ride the barn pony to school. The walk was about a mile long, which worsened in the winter months of Wisconsin. By late December, snow was creeping under the roof shingles as he slept, drifting lazily onto his forehead. He woke up to the crow of a half dozen roosters and the ravenous howl of his chihuahua, Zombie.
By the time I was born, he lived in Jenkintown, an outer layer of Philadelphia, nestled away on Sycamore Street atop the steepest driveway known to man. Regardless, he schlepped our house roughly five days a week to bring my sister tasty cakes and play dumb when I cheated in Solitaire.
My grandfather grew up on a farm, which meant he cradled the lemon tree sapling like a fourth grandchild when he brought it home. He did not have my mother’s blessing, nor my father’s, but he delivered it to my brother. Josh was eleven, towering over the sapling that would eventually gaze down upon him.
When my grandpa slept over, he stayed in Josh’s room. The tree fit neatly onto the corner of his desk, scooping up every last drop of the natural sunlight. By the time my brother graduated high school, the lemon tree was awkwardly balancing in a pot the size of a cantaloupe. It threatened to topple, and my brother threatened to leave.
By the time my brother left for Penn State, Pop’s visits became infrequent. I like to think there was less to see around the house, no little kids running amok. Truthfully, I believe he felt outgrown. We moved the lemon tree to a wider clay pot, stashing it in the living room. Situated in the space between two windows, the tree bent and wobbled. It was desperately stretching for the sun.
My father fastened the plant with pieces of rope to straighten its growth. At this point, my sister had left for Drexel, and the plant was about six feet tall.
I used to yank on the leaves, taking one with me on the bus and running my thumbs over it like a boarding pass. I know better now; the leaves fall off on their own.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he affectionately joked when I asked if he’d be around before I left for college.
Ever since being confined to a wheelchair, it was comedic gold to him.
His 100-acre farm was now a 7 by 10 studio, the kind with handles in the shower and baby-blue trays that fasten around the side of the bed. My grandfather always told me he wanted to be remembered as honest and generous, and I did my best to return the favor. I picked up three jelly donuts from Dunkin on the way, maneuvering the stallion of a Toyota I had inherited from the man himself.
My last visit was unremarkable. I teased him that he couldn’t die before Penn State’s Thanksgiving break, and it was more or less unspoken that he was praying to. It was worth noting that his tree never produced lemons — nor did my grandfather ever make it to college, or even remarry. Lemon trees aren’t indoor plants, but our family loved him so.