09/05/2025
Chapter 9: The Lemon Tree That Taught Me Everything
My windows were rolled up, the air conditioning humming in my Suburban, parked near Ventura Harbor Cove. I was angry.
Coffee in hand, lavender latte with a strawberry sourdough croissant already gone, I had tried to write at the café this morning, but all the tables were full. Forced to leave, I ended up here, staring out at the lot where a yellow-vested attendant now patrolled. Paid parking. At the harbor. The place that had always been home to locals, now policed and monetized. Families confused at the machines, visitors turning away. Streets jammed while the lots sat empty. No sea lions, no seagulls, only the steady stream of homeless men and women wandering by like shadows.
I was fuming.
So I did what I always do when I’m angry: I wrote.
Anger, I’ve learned, can be fuel.
Just like today, when the harbor I love feels taken from us, there were times when my business left me angry. Times when people told me I wasn’t good enough, or that Lori’s Lemonade was just a hobby. Times when the system felt rigged, unfair, impossible to fight. Every time, I used that frustration as fuel. I got busy. I got to work. I proved them wrong. And little by little, we won—small wins, but wins nonetheless.
It’s the same lesson I learned from the lemon tree.
It arrived as nothing more than a stick in a pot—something my husband had rescued from being thrown away. We planted it in the front yard of our Ojai home. We didn’t expect much, but we gave it a little water, a little care. Somehow, it survived. And then it thrived. Year after year, that little tree gave us more Meyer lemons than we could ever use. We shared them with neighbors. We made lemonade. And that’s where it all began.
That lemon tree taught me about resilience. Its roots dug deep, holding it steady no matter the weather. It grew strong, quietly building the foundation that would one day sustain us. Lori’s Original Lemonade is grounded in the same way—roots growing deep, holding fast, weathering storms we never saw coming.
From the outside, people often think they know better. Local government officials move into small towns and change them against the will of the community. Big distributors and executives try to alter the trajectory of Lori’s Lemonade without ever having stood in our shoes. But like the lemon tree, we remain authentic, organic, local, and true to our roots.
It’s not always easy. Everything swirls around us and often nothing feels fair. Yet here I am—still writing, still showing up. Even today, despite parking fees, a crowded café, and melted chocolate on my hands. Even with frustration bubbling under my skin, I remember:
I am alive.
I am healthy.
LOL is flourishing.
My kids and grandbaby are thriving.
And like the lemon tree, I have persisted.
Lori, Chief Believer
Lori's Original Lemonade
est 2011