The Last Lemon: The Quiet Psychology of Generosity in a Small Town
In San Juan Bautista, generosity doesn’t announce itself. It sits quietly on a bench outside the post office, in a box of Meyer lemons or apples or persimmons or potatoes or corn or cabbage or carrots. It lives in the pantry cabinet tucked against the wall across from the post office in the small and shopping "center" in town and on two-shelf book cabinets nailed to posts around town, always stocked with a variety of books and pantry staples. It shows up in the way people take what they need and leave what they can, without fuss or fanfare. And then there’s the last lemon. Anyone who has ever left produce out for neighbors has seen it: a big box disappears quickly, but one lone lemon remains. It can sit there all day, untouched. Not because no one wants it, but because no one wants to take the last one. That tiny hesitation reveals something profound about how a community sees itself. The last lemon becomes a symbol — of courtesy, of restraint, of the assumption that s...
