Silver & Gold: An Orange Picker's Meditation
From Mission Gardens to Monkey Glands
YESTERDAY, I picked our ancient orange tree that stands in the front yard sidewalk. It’s enough fruit to feed a small army.
We say 'ancient' because the tree is spotted in black and white photographs from the turn of the 20th century, silver gelatin prints that capture a younger California, a younger tree, different hands tending to its harvest. Imagine all the secrets these branches have seen.
My hands are slow and clumsy— I will not be getting hired to pick the neglected groves of Southern California.
But by being out on a pretty busy street all day, I talk to scores of passersby who tell me the story of their grandmother’s orange tree, or the summers they worked in the groves when it was 110 degrees in the shade. Some eagerly tear into the fruit I offer them, others are afraid it will be “sour.”
No, no, no. You don’t cultivate a tree this old for sour surprises!
The Color Orange vs. The Fruit
Oranges— all citrus, actually— are so ubiquitous to California sunshine that I was surprised to discover they're a colonial import with as much of a crazed greedy legacy as all the other golden nuggets of our territorial history.