Driving home from the shop this afternoon, I passed a yard with a handmade sign posted by the edge of the road that read: ORANGES FOR SALE. YOU PICK. I didn't stop then to take a picture, though I wish I had because the scene opened a flood of memories. By the time I turned north on Narcoossee Road and reached Ralph Miller, I was obsessed with finding an orange tree. Ralph Miller Road offered up the wish, so I parked just off the dirt road and got out my camera. The grove, sadly, sits in sandy disarray. Many of the trees have been dead since Hurricane Charley and Company passed through a few years ago. Most of the groves that thrived around the St. Cloud area when I was much younger are gone, replaced by subdivisions, fallen into misuse, or cursed by canker. I found a few nice trees, and I was glad because my memories of oranges were sweet and colorful. Barren branches wouldn't do, so I cropped them out.
Years ago, Christmas time, in my home, was orange time. Daddy always had heavy laden fruit trees in the backyard. He'd pick the ripe fruit every year, divide it into even lots and box it up to send to his many brothers and sisters who lived in the north for Christmas. He would then begin juicing. When I was really young, he would use a simple manual glass juicer that held a half cup of juice on a good day. He would twist and squeeze and dump, twist and squeeze and dump for hours at a time, making the kitchen a sweet smelling, sticky mess of pulp, juice and rinds. I had no idea what a labor of love that was until years later when I tried it myself. Daddy shared most of his juice with his kids and family. Mama would take the juice and make orange cake. I LOVED orange cake. It was brown and moist and very sweet. She would mix sugar, I think, and juice and pour it over the cake, hot out of the oven after she had poked the cake with several holes with a fork. She always used very simple tools in the kitchen. Regular forks, spoons and knifes were versatile instruments.
Some days, when my friends came over, we would pick oranges from the tree and peel them in the back yard and eat them, bent over at the waist so the sticky juice would run down our chins onto the ground instead of on our clothes. Then we would hose off our arms and hands. What wonderful memories of oranges, and all around the holidays because that's when they first became ripe. It's funny today how my mind went back to those orange days many years ago. It's Christmas time in Florida, and I'm dreaming of an orange Christmas.
And hardworking farmers should be the first to enjoy the fruit of their labor. 2 Timothy:6
Peace. Love, Linda
1 comment:
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas.
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