One Fine Morning in Citrus World, by Jim Crescitelli

Since beginning my job at the Winter Garden Heritage Foundation in August 2012, I've been fascinated with all aspects of citrus: growing, harvesting, marketing, selling... freezes, pests, canker... everything. Everything about citrus agriculture intrigues me, and I remain astounded by the history of the millions upon millions of boxes of fruit that departed West Orange County via two railroads for a century.

At one time I planted a Meyer lemon tree in the backyard, thinking that I would be able to produce juice and lemon curd that would nourish my holiday gift list for years to come. Year One: over 40 lemons. Year Two: One lemon. Year Three: Stop kidding yourself, Jim; there was no year three as the tree had gone to wherever lemon trees go to die.

This WordPress blog post from 2017 tells you how I managed during Year One....

Friday PM: write Saturday’s to-do list:

Stop at Lukas Nursery in Slavia:

One large bag of 6-6-6 fertilizer for lemon grove (I had one tree, scarcely as tall as a sixth grader.) (And already I'm concerned about the potentially sacrilegious 6-6-6 combination of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium.)
Return used plastic containers for recycling; sneak in competitors' used plastic containers because Lukas recycles only their own.
Stop at Publix on Aloma:

sunflower seeds (Four bags.) (It was a habit.)

wine

Saturday AM: Arrive Lukas. After not seeing any, and genuflecting and crossing myself, I ask new counter person if they carry 6-6-6 fertilizer. Unsure, he hails woman who always waits on me. He tells us that he has a chip inscribed 6-6-6 embedded in his brain; I respond “so do I” and flippantly attempt fingertip touch between us. He misses irony. Woman stares, and recommends 8-8-8. (Query: will the extra 2-2-2 buy me less time in Purgatory?)

Whimsically follow "Heritage Estate Sale" signs to Grand Avenue on way home, hoping that abandoned old country house is the location – could not be more wrong. Actual estate sale is being held at Howell Farms ranch-style mid-centuryish domicile on nearby cul-de-sac, which street is already filled with bargain hunters sporting hungry looks. I turn around to leave and hungry-looker opens F-350 truck door mere INCHES ahead of my front windshield; gives me dirty look. (Query: why is it a thousand times more difficult to drive OUT of a cul-de-sac than it is to enter? Will consult high school driver's ed booklet for answer, of which there will be none.)

Arrive home after completely forgetting Publix stop. (Now out of sunflower seeds and wine.)

Bring bag of 8-8-8 to back porch. Go in house to look for close-up glasses so as to read infinitesimal directions. Come back outside; go back in house to look for scissors to cut open industrial-strength bag of 8-8-8, misplacing close-up glasses in the interim.

Pour out almost exactly a pound of 8-8-8 into container; march out to lemon grove and see that recent rain has caused woods grass to leap abundantly into every available square inch oif earth. Get on knees to remove woods grass, most of which is unreachable due to prickly, scratching branches in lemon grove.

Finally sprinkle recommended amount of 8-8-8 under lemon tree; soak it in while feeling guilty that it has JUST rained not an hour ago.

Pause on back verandah to admire well-fed Meyer lemon. (What, verandah? Thi shouse is not tara; it's a screen porch big enough for me, a guest, and the two squirrels that always seem to find their way in.)

Back inside to continue my day after rubbing alcohol on legs thanks to no-see-ums which, if I ever do actually see one, will be blasted into eternity with the most environmentally unfriendly poison known to man; so sue me.