THE ORANGE GROVE MAN

THE ORANGE GROVE MAN

a parable of sorts — BY MATT HONOLD

Every morning, the orange grove man would unfold from sleep when the sun hit him. His days were mostly the same, and they began as he drank his coffee. He cracked two eggs onto the stove and then enjoyed them over avocado, tomato, and toast. He ate in silence.

He emerged into his grove with the sun low in the sky. This was the best time to pick oranges.

He spent two hours in the grove, looking up into the gills of the trees and finding ripe oranges. He climbed the trees, pulled oranges down by hand, and hardly ever shook the branches. He tossed them into his backpack, descended deftly, and emptied the oranges into a handcart, which he wheeled to the next tree. Once he’d touched every tree in the grove, he would contemplate with the trees for while, sometimes in the grove and sometimes on the periphery.

He often thought about his wife and the son they would have raised together. The thoughts would bring back the feeling of helplessness he felt when they were lost. Any life begot by nature, the man thought, is not under its own control. He wished his own life could be as organized and sturdy as his orange trees.

He did however have great control over his thoughts, though he indulged them to roam. He would close his eyes and imagine what his son would look like at age three, four, or five, losing his breath as he ran around the trees, his mother looking on, smiling. He imagined sitting in the shade of the grove, attempting to answer all manner of questions from his son. His day dreams were full of life – full of dirt, sweat, laughter, and memories of his wife. Were they memories or imaginations? He would smile and sigh before he opened his eyes. It hurt when those day dreams collided with reality.

Before lunchtime, the man walked to town, his handcart brimming with citrus, and he visited the market man and woman for the day’s trade. He would always take a most of his pay in fresh goods – grain, milk, and legumes; fruits and vegetables; tomatoes, avocados, coffee; maybe a chicken, maybe a jug of beer or wine. He knew everybody there. They knew him. His oranges always sold before the sun was up the next day.

*          *          *

One day, he stopped and stayed at the market for a bit. The orange grove man was feeling social and decided to help the market man and woman with their prepared foods. They talked and made fruit salad. He peeled many of his own oranges. “You know,” he said to the market man, who was slicing slices in half, “I  just eat them whole.”

When they had finished dismantling the fruits, the market man began to mix them into a salad while his wife mashed eclectic mixes into juice, which was funneled into brown jugs. The orange grove man looked from the piles of fresh, whole oranges, cucumbers, grapes, berries and pineapple, to the fruit salad and jugs of juice. He looked up at the market’s painted sign, which artfully depicted a range of fruits and vegetables. “You know,” he said, “They only go one way.”

The market woman gave her husband a quizzical look, then looked at the orange grove man. “Huh?”

“You can’t turn juice into oranges.”

* * *

The orange grove man returned home with a jug of juice, a gift for his help at the market. He also asked to keep the orange peels and other food scraps they’d accrued. He sat in the chair at the edge of his grove, drinking from the jug – orange strawberry cucumber, a new combination to him – while the sun wandered toward the horizon. It was refreshing. He laughed. He thought about the dirt and the sweat that went into making the fruit that made the juice. He thought about his childhood, the way he ran, the curiosity he had.

He thought about his son, and a tear fell from his eye. That tear, this memory dreamt, he thought, feels like juice from my heart. He laughed again and sighed. He plugged the jug when it was a quarter full. It was a cool enough night to leave the jug outside.

The next morning, he went about his routine. Coffee, eggs, avocado, tomato, and toast. He climbed every tree and plucked many oranges, and his handcart was brimming. When he walked among the trees in late morning, he brought with him the peels and scraps from the market, and his quarter-jug of juice. He scattered peels about the orange grove and kicked them into the dirt. He covered most of the top of the jug with its cap, leaving a small opening, and sprinkled a bit of juice on every tree.

At one tree, he stopped, looked up at the oranges in its branches, looked at the juice in his hand and the peels on the dirt, and he laughed in spite of himself. He thought about his son again— cried, closed his eyes, and smiled.

He felt a light rain on his neck, shoulders, and back. He opened his eyes and looked up. There were sun showers.