Standing in the Shade of My Abuelito’s Lemon Tree
In our Salinas Valley garden, a longstanding reminder of my family legacy bears fruit
It’s 2005 and I’m 10 years old again. As I skip through rows of plump wine grapes and trace the cracks in the clay-rich soil, fragmented like the fragile pieces of a Mazapán, my abuelito Ángel braves the scorching California heat to tend to the crops. His sun-browned fingers move deftly as he checks the irrigation system, sweat dripping from his brow beneath the shade of his sombrero. When we return home, he’ll do the same in his garden, not for endless rows of mass-produced grapes but for the flowers, herbs, and fruit trees he spent countless hours cultivating with his own two hands.
While I collect roly-polies and nibble on yerba buena leaves plucked fresh from the earth, my abuelito collects lemons from the tree outside my bedroom window. Later in the week, my abuelita Rosa will slice and serve these same lemons over steaming bowls of menudo, juicy ceviche, and thick jicama sticks dusted with Tajín. In my innocence, this is how it’s always been: a home full of food, a lush backyard, and a family rich in recipes. All around me, though, there are signs — signs of the sacrifices made to give me this life, not least the decades of hard work and dedication my abuelito committed to his garden.
Soil, water, and sunshine — in my abuelito’s hands, these were the ingredients that would feed generations.
Agriculture is the primary livelihood in the Salinas Valley, where I spent the first 18 years of my life. On average, the region employs over 90,000 farmworkers responsible for growing some of the nation’s most widely consumed crops — broccoli, lettuce, strawberries, cauliflower, celery, spinach, and wine grapes — earning it the nickname “the Salad Bowl of the World.” In my hometown, Greenfield, California, my maternal abuelito, Ángel, served as a farmworker in the grape fields for over 40 years until his passing at 72 years old in 2012.
Six days a week, before the sun crept over the horizon, he’d drive to the fields in his coveralls — a homemade lunch my abuelita made fresh at 5 a.m. packed away in his cooler — and work until sunset. In the evenings and on Sundays, he’d spend hours in the garden pulling weeds, laying bricks, trimming trees, and harvesting fruit; on the rare occasions when he wasn’t in his garden, he enjoyed fishing and hunting. Even at home, he spent every moment hard at work, not out of obligation but out of pride. Everything he crafted was made with intention, from the trellises draped in honeysuckle to the old wooden doghouse that has stood the test of time. This was the man I knew and loved, who taught me how to peel the green flesh off a walnut shell in winter and who proudly barbecued steak and pollo asado on Sunday afternoons to celebrate the weekend.
The moments that made these idyllic memories of mine were set in motion during my abuelito’s own childhood. Born in Casacuarán, Guadalajara, Mexico in 1940, Ángel grew up on a farm in a family of 10 brothers and sisters. Their land was abundant with nopales, ferns, and various fruit trees, the branches heavy with ripe guava, papaya, lemons, limes, and avocados.
The second-oldest child, Ángel was among the first in his family to cross the United States-Mexico border in search of a new life, one that promised better opportunities. Around 18 years old, alongside his father and oldest brother, he crossed the border into Texas to join the Bracero Program, an agreement that permitted Mexican citizens to accept agricultural “guest work” in the U.S. during a World War II labor shortage. During its 22-year run from 1942 to 1964, hundreds of thousands of Mexican men desperate for work applied to the program, which granted short-term work contracts ranging from one to six months at a time.
My abuelito, his brother, and their father underwent a brutal application process to be a part of this. After making their way to the U.S., they were subjected to intense medical checks and inhumanely sprayed with harmful pesticides, like DDT, to ensure that the braceros did not carry lice or diseases into the U.S. Braceros were not allowed to bring their families with them to the U.S., and relatives — including Ángel and his brother Arnufo — were separated almost as soon as they were assigned work. Wages were low; living conditions were poor. Room and board were typically deducted from their pay, and workers spent long hours working under hazardous conditions, being exposed to deadly chemicals as they harvested and hauled heavy sacks of cauliflower and other vegetables through the fields. At the end of their contracts, it was the bracero’s responsibility to get themselves back home to Mexico before starting the application process all over again.
For years, my abuelito repeated this process in Texas and in California, each time leaving his growing family behind in the hopes of earning enough money to feed and house them properly. Back in the mesa of Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico, where my abuelita lived with their four children, money was scarce — even a five-cent gelatina sold by the local street vendors was too much of an indulgence. Each person had one pair of clothes; their food came from free crates of nearly spoiled fruits and vegetables left outside of produce markets; and bedrooms were constantly overcrowded with tíos, tías, and primos crowded side by side.
By the time my mom and her three brothers, followed by my abuelita, crossed the border into the U.S., it was 1978 and my mom was five years old. Together, Ángel and Rosa found work in the broccoli and lettuce fields in Greenfield, California. At the time, my abuelito had been staying with my adoptive tía Bernie and her husband in exchange for landscaping and maintenance services. Generous people, my tía and her husband invited my family to live with them until they were able to afford a house of their own.
Nearly 10 years later, Ángel bought a ranch house in a new housing development four blocks away. There, he saw a blank slate where he, his wife, and their children could build the life they had dreamed about for decades. Starting with a plot of dirt behind the house, he dedicated his modest free time to transforming their home into a verdant oasis.
Meditatively, he planted the grass that would grow into a playground for his pets and grandchildren. (It’s here that I remember staring up at the stars on clear nights.) He sifted through the soil to make room for the expansive roots of apple and pear trees. (Each fruit imperfect but sweeter than the last.) And like a painter delicately swathing the canvas with color, he filled his garden with thriving plum trees, nopales, cherry tomatoes, squash, grapevines, rose bushes as high as the rooftop, and nasturtiums in every shade, all while whistling his favorite mariachi tunes. In the back right corner of the garden nearest my mom’s childhood bedroom, between the bricks and cement he laid to create walkways for the garden, he also planted a lemon tree.
While the tree took two years to produce fruit, it was the only plant in that section of the yard to survive droughts and dry summer soil. By the time I was born, in 1995, the lemon tree — like the rest of the garden — had flourished, reaching far above the house to create a canopy that housed generations of birds and provided vital shade during California heat waves. In a few short years, the lemon tree became essential to my family’s everyday food rituals.
In the summers, around my birthday, my abuelita and I would squeeze the waxy fruit into a big pitcher of water, scooping the seeds out with a spoon, our hands still sticky with citrus juice. Eyeballing each measurement, we’d add in heaping spoonfuls of sugar and stir, the gentle scraping of the sugar granules melding beautifully into my memory alongside the taste of the sweet yerba buena lemonade.
Sometimes I would watch my mom and abuelita as they bit into fresh lemon halves, their faces crumpling over the sour fruit every few seconds before they eagerly dove in for another bite. For my abuelito, the lemons were best paired with ceviche or fresh-caught fish, served whole with the eyeballs, which were reserved specifically for him. Other times, the lemons were cleaning tools, their scent covering the kitchen countertops and the hands of anyone who passed through the heart of the house. More often than not, though, they were a centerpiece on our kitchen table, overflowing and frequently replenished — a reminder of the bounty all around us.
In my eyes, the tree was a constant. Older than me, it symbolized home, delicious food shared across a bustling kitchen table. It wasn’t until I moved away for school — the first in my family to go to college — that I realized how fortunate I had been to have such a lush landscape at my fingertips.
It didn’t appear by magic. While at times his lessons were harsh, my abuelito’s actions told a story I only began to appreciate when the time to ask him questions had passed. His garden was a love letter to his home in Casacuarán. It was a bold “I love you” to my abuelita and my mom, to me and my sister, and to every member of our family who’d ever called our huddled house a home. His legacy is reflected in our food and our blood. For my sister, a green thumb, a major in environmental studies, and a passion for water conservation; for me, a unique sense of solace in nature and a profound appreciation for food, from semilla to cena.
Now, when I return to the garden, I feel my abuelito’s loss. The impact is immediate — empty spaces where arching trees once watched over me, breaks in the fence that he would have patched diligently, and smatterings of flowers where what seemed like a full meadow once blossomed eternally. Still, our lemon tree stands tall and proud, her yellow fruit finding its way up north with me every time I visit home.
Chanel Vargas is a freelance writer, editor, and journalist based in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Nicole Medina is a Latina illustrator based in Philadelphia who loves using bold color and detailed patterns to create eye-catching illustrations.
