Growing up in Southern California, I never took notice of the bougainvillea, hibiscus, jacaranda, avocado or orange trees that surrounded me. It wasn’t until I’d lived in the Bay Area, New England and the Pacific Northwest that I began to appreciate them.
My town of Covina California was famous for its oranges, and in 1909 was the third largest producer in the world. But sadly, by the time I was a toddler, most of the groves were already gone — lost to disease and tract homes.
Once in a while in my world travels, I’ve encountered a whiff of orange blossoms, and it triggers some of my earliest memories.
This past weekend in Phoenix, the citrus season was in full swing, and every other house seemed to have an overloaded lemon, tangelo, grapefruit or orange tree out front. Even the ones cut into topiary shapes.
My hosts invited me to take home as much fruit as I wanted, but I was out of luggage space. As I surveyed a tangerine tree, I remembered a scene from my childhood, when I was 3 or 4 years old:
My Russian-born grandfather was visiting, and had taken me across the street to pick a few oranges in an abandoned orchard, right before it was knocked down for apartments. He looked like an excited little kid, and when I think now about the expression on his face, it was a mix of happy/guilty — like he was getting away with something.
Much the way I felt when I plucked a big fat tangelo off the tree yesterday morning, after making sure no one was looking.
SMUDGED POSTCARDS 