The fact is, lemons began to get really expensive, upwards of six dollars a pound! My closet market sold them for three fifty each, which was simply incomprehensible. On Saturday mornings I would pose for a local artist in his home studio and would permit him to pay me in lemons, which he picked from his garden. This was an amicable exchange until the trees simply refused to continue to bear fruit. At the house on the corner of 1st and Trudie, the garden had four lemon trees amongst a couple of fig, and one avocado. One of the lemon trees stood close to the garden wall with some of the branches in plain view to the passer by, laden with a tidy sum’s worth of produce on one single branch. I would be certain to pass by the residence daily hoping to catch a glimpse of the old lady whose fortune it was to live in that big old house alone. How old was she, 73 maybe? What was she to do with all those trees? But the days passed, the weather became cooler and my morning fresh lemon juice elixir was quite honestly too expensive to continue. It was on a cool Friday morning at 1.35am that I parked in front of the old ladies garden. I had circled the immediate vicinity to ensure all was still with no restless strays lurking about. I scaled the wall with soft bag slung across my torso and picked a pregnant full bag of yellow bitter delight. As I turned to disembark the tree a voice called up from the ground below. As I looked down, the barrel of a shotgun stared back at me. “You girl, who dares trespass and steal my treasures.” It was the old lady! She scared me to death—literally. Cos not a moment later, she shot at and killed me.