My mother is “La Señora.” She’s the one who calls the landlord when the music is being played loudly at 7 p.m., the one who calls the police when kids are trying to skateboard off the roof, the one who doesn’t return baseballs that get hit into her yard, the one that yells at you to get off of her property.
My mother’s brand of law and order, if not appreciated by those under 40, is welcome by her elderly neighbors. But, for the most part, they’re not the ones prone to retaliation.
Yesterday, the under-18 set went to war with my mom. In the way of mischievous kids, they pelted my mom’s house with limes.
According to my mom, her peaceful afternoon was broken by the loud sound of citrus working against gravity. She heard branches break in the hedges, some loud booms on the garage, and a “thwhack, thwhack, thwhack” against the trash cans.
Because “La Señora” doesn’t ever expect to be under attack, she was more intrigued by the sounds than dismayed. After the first barrage she came out to investigate. As she walked the perimeter of the property she found one lime after another.
She went back inside. The next barrage started and this time she went outside—with a basket. She picked up every single one of those limes. “Y no lo vas a creer, eran de esos limones buenos,” she said. Twice she filled up her basket.
She couldn’t believe her luck. Fifty limes, all from the neighbor’s lime trees. All from trees that are normally just outside of her reach.
It was like manna from the heavens, but because she’s Mexican, even better.