Farewell, dear supermarkets. For I will no longer be darkening your doors in search of low fat milk and a packet of barbecue shapes. From this day forth, I reject your recyclable bags, loyalty cards and propensity for ruining major holidays by pretending that they start months earlier than they really do (Easter in January? Please.) I will, henceforth, refuse to keep feeding your gluttonous, insatiable corporate souls. That’s because I am now, officially, a man of the land.
Farewell, dear supermarkets. For I will no longer be darkening your doors in search of low fat milk and a packet of barbecue shapes. From this day forth, I reject your recyclable bags, loyalty cards and propensity for ruining major holidays by pretending that they start months earlier than they really do (Easter in January? Please.) I will, henceforth, refuse to keep feeding your gluttonous, insatiable corporate souls. That’s because I am now, officially, a man of the land.
About a month ago, the lemon tree on our back verandah finally gave forth its glorious bounty when it produced a lemon. This is no small achievement. In fact, given my history with plants, this has to be the most remarkable lemon in recorded history; enduring, as it did, all manner of mistreatment. Should the world descend into an atomic fugue tomorrow, all that will survive are the cockroaches and this lemon. What kind of civilization they’ll build together doesn’t stand thinking, but that’s probably not so such much beside the point as around the corner, seated at a corner table and awaiting a chai latte. The point is this: having now produced my own produce, I have decided that this is the thin end of the lemon wedge.
If growing your own lemon seems a trifle dull or even a bit ordinary, then you have some nerve even reading this far. To fully appreciate the awesome magnitude of this achievement, it’s important to take a step back, give the glasses a quick polish and cast a glance over my potted history with potted plants. My thumb is not green, nor does it have a greenish hue. It refuses to be anything other than ‘fleshy pink’. But it’s not the colour of this digit as its near-certain fatal impact on all forms of plant life that’s truly disturbing. I need only pull it from my pocket and indoor plants within a fifty-metre radius feel a collective shudder. Pots of herbs and windowsill cacti do not refer to my thumb as ‘green’. Instead, they call it, ‘the widow-maker’.
As is so often the case, the roots of this problem stem back to childhood. Back then, kids were forced to undertake forms of child-labour which were known as ‘chores’. It’s a model since adopted by several sneaker manufacturers where, under threat of punishment, young children are forced to perform tasks that no one in their right mind would want to do. In our household, several of these tasks involved watering plants.
My father had planted a number of young trees around the yard. Crucially, it meant that they could not be reached by hose. The only way to water them was by bucket. These, in turn, were made of plastic with wire handles. The more you filled the bucket, the deeper the wire would cut into your hand. It was during this period that I truly learned to loathe agriculture. As I poured water over thirsty plants, the resentment began to build and build until came a time that every plant I touched died almost instantly.
Believe me, I’ve tried to turn things around. For years, I’ve subjected myself to back-to-back episodes of ‘Gardening Australia’ in an attempted horticultural marathon, all in the hope that some of their glorious enthusiasm might well be contagious. It was of no use. In fact, all it’s done is give me a sneaking admiration for the enduring power and importance of manure. I’ve even tried watching films featuring the man with the greenest of green thumbs, The Hulk, just to learn a thing or two. It’s not been easy – some of those movies leave a lot to be desired. But even this kind of self-inflicted flagellation has been of no discernable benefit. Each time I’ve bought a plant, it has shriveled up a surely as an insect under a magnifying glass. But I didn’t give up. Throughout, I have continued to buy plants in the hope that, one day, I too will be able to grow my own vegetables.
When we bought the lemon tree about twelve months ago, I was convinced that it was not long for this earth. I even dug a small grave for it in the back yard in anticipation of its imminent demise. Which, given that the back yard is made entirely from concrete, was a lot harder than it sounds. But the little lemon tree that could continued to live on, despite my best efforts. Finally, after many months, it began to bud and, in the weeks that followed, a nascent lemon began to form. Having reached it’s full potential, the one and only lemon has been removed and the time has come for me to revel in this bounteous harvest as the local villagers rejoice.
I appreciate that some will suggest that my decision to declare myself self sufficient on the back of a single lemon might be a case of too much too soon. Even if a solitary lemon is unlikely to feed me for much of the upcoming year, it hasn’t stopped me from embracing the rural lifestyle in all its glory. These days, I dress only in overalls and wear gumboots, even to work. When I step out my front door, I no longer see trees and lawn; I see fields ready for sowing and crops waiting to be plucked. For that’s how it is when you live off the land. It goes to show: when life gives you a lemon, turn it into a very small glass of lemonade.