Forbidden Fruit

         My very first memory is about a tree. When I was 3 years old, I loved to play in the yard. We didn’t have any trees in our backyard. But the lady who lived behind us had an orange tree. I was not allowed out of my yard, but I would sometimes see the backyard lady picking oranges from her tree. This was very interesting to me. A tree covered with bright orange balls. I was tempted by the fruit, like it was calling to me, “Come here, Little John. Look at us! Touch us!” Yes, there was no doubt about it. I needed one of those oranges.

         I squeezed through a corner of the fence where the wire was loose. I stepped closer to one of the trees. I grabbed an orange with both hands, not to pick it, just to touch it. But then, after touching it, I had to have it. Yet when I tried to pluck it from the tree, I found that to be harder than I thought. The first time I tried, the orange slipped from my hand and swung back and forth, as if to taunt me. I grabbed it with both hands tightly and pulled back with a twist. The orange, with a sudden pop, came loose. I took my treasure back to my own yard.

         They say that stolen fruit tastes sweet, but I couldn’t even taste the orange because I did not know how to peel it. But an orange can be rolled on the ground, tossed in the air, or even dropped down the front of your shirt. I was busy doing all those things when a shadow fell over me. There was my mother. She was like a detective. One look and she knew the whole story. But still, even though she knew, my mother asked, “Where did that orange come from?” Lieutenant Mom took me into the kitchen—that’s where she always took me when she wanted to give me a talking to—and sat me on this high stool. Harder for me to run away, I guess. Mother was using her frowny face as she gave me the lecture on “’Thou shalt not steal thy neighbor’s fruit.” It started off kind of interesting, but after a while my legs began to fall asleep. In the end, though, I was shocked to hear that my mother expected me to return the orange and say sorry to the lady.

My mother grabbed my hand walked me the long way around to our neighbor’s house and knocked at the door. When the giant fruit tree lady opened the door, I was hiding behind my mother’s leg. I was nudged forward and gave the lady back the forbidden fruit and whispered, “Sorry.”

         The two ladies looked at each other, exchanging secret mother messages with their minds. Then the neighbor lady knelt in front of me and said in her mother-talk voice, “MY, what a BIG BOY you are to come and say you’re sorry like this. I’m SURE you’ve learned your lesson. SWEETHEART. You can have an orange ANYTIME you like.” And she held out that orange to me. What? She was handing the orange back to me? But my Mother was quick and intercepted, saying, “But he needs to ask first.” As we walked home, all the lessons swirled through my head.  First, do not take fruit from another yard. Second, if you do, your mother will always find out. But third, after you say sorry, you are promised as much fruit as you want. Hmm. My three-year old mind couldn’t quite figure it all out. But it was very impressive.