A Bag of Oranges and a Family of Four

For almost four years we have lived up in the giant cabin. After living cheek and jowl down in the suburbs the space between us and the neighbors was welcome. There is a buffer of fence and shrubbery between our neighbors now. Just enough to give the sense of space and privacy. Our neighbors? How to describe them? Writers and teachers, of English and Latin they are the epitome of cool modern teachers. He dons his buddy holly eyeglasses and old work boots to build garden beds and play with their young sons on the weekend. I can see him teaching kids both interested and not, their latin roots. She reminds me of a modern Birth of Venus, willowy, with the same beautiful wavy hair. That sense of calm that she seems to carry with her as she walks down the road. My mind adds in the image of her pensively writing—having never seen her wield pen or keyboard my imagination is just running wild. They have two golden haired boys who we hear laughing in joy more than we ever hear their cries.

We have passed hellos and other neighbor commentary back and forth, but covid like many things changed the relationship a bit. They have always been helpful and kind neighbors, but over the past year through sheltering in place, wildfires, texts and silly memes, and neighborhood water dramas–“just neighbors” turned into dear friends. 

A few days ago, a bag of oranges were left on our porch.  It has been a year since the pandemic began. The simple gift left on our porch brought back all those fears, worries and stress of the beginnings of all this. Last year at this time we were gifted a similar bag of fruit. The oranges are from our neighbor’s mother’s tree. A trip that last year must have been filled with a bit of stress. Family, masking, not being able to hug a parent, all wrapped up with having to leave the safety of home at the height of the pandemic to harvest fruit or have it go to waste.

These oranges are some of the sweetest I have ever tasted. As we sheltered in place and had no idea what the pandemic would bring, all those months ago, I ate the oranges with an almost superstitious obsession. When the stress got too much, or my nose was running from all the pollen, and I was fretting over whether it was a cold, allergies or covid, I would eat an orange while sitting by the chickens. Calm would descend and I could set aside fears and worries and continue with the day. 

I thought of those oranges as the talismans that were keeping covid at bay. The burst of vitamin c that would keep me healthy and strong. I greedily asked for more until the season was over. I planted the very last one I had with hope that it would sprout, so that I could grow some of those magical oranges. A year later, it still has not sprouted. The oranges are seedless, and my pot remains just dirt. 

So, here we are, a year later and a bag of oranges is sitting on the deck again—a gift.  I bring the bag in and set it on the counter. I think of the sense of safety and protection those oranges gave me. I open the bag and take one out. I breathe in the scent and hold the small weight in my hand. I head out to the coop, sit and peel the orange. The spritz of zest and juice fills the air. Proust can keep his madeleines, for me, the scent of oranges will forever l mean friendship, safety, community and kindness.