An Orange Morning

The best thing about living in San Diego is that warm SoCal sun.  The best thing about that sun is the way everything bursts into color and fragrance beneath it.  This is one of those things people know to be true, but until confronted by it, pass through cold, dismal days without appreciating it.  I gave up trying to understand the sun in scientific terms-namely, that it will shine this many billions of years before going out, that it burns these chemicals, that it is this distance from Earth.  I would rather worship like the unlearned, like the peasant tilling the fields.

One of these days I'll figure out how to get straight to the point.

Anyways, yesterday my mother, brother, and I drove up to Lemon Grove to do some community service.  We, along with a number of other people, were to pick oranges, blood oranges, and tangerines from this man's house.  The point of the organization, you see, is to pick fruits from people's houses and redistribute it to the homeless and hungry.  It's splendid, because not only do the owners get free maintanance and the homeless some wholesome food, but we the volunteers get great exercise and some much-needed how-de-do's with Mother Earth.

And ah, the sun! It was mid-morning, so it wasn't blazing yet.  Still, it was hot enough to see us all sweat.  But it was a fine way to sweat, with the scent of orange blossom heavy in the air, and the leaves sunsoaked and vibrant.

We had come on the recommendation of my orthodontist, of all people.  Dr. Truong is a small Vietnamese lady with glossy, permed hair and a loud voice.  I like her very much, for she is always in the habit of speaking her mind, to any and all that care to hear it.

"You wearing da sunscreen?" she hollered at me.  I wasn't, and so endured a good-natured tongue lashing for it.

"You got bags? Good. You see any good fruit, you can take some home wit you."  So we did.

Pictured above is half a blood orange.  Until yesterday, I had never so much as seen one before.  To be honest, it didn't taste any different than your average joe orange.  But the crimson hue of its insides were a treat.  It was more pigmented than I expected, so imagine my surprise when I dropped it onto my shirt.  Stained.  A worthy sacrifice, I suppose.

I thought about Woodstock as I worked, because sun and trees and fields reminds me of music festivals.  It was only a passing fancy, but that very lot could have housed something like Woodstock, which was held in such a place in New York, after all.  But it was so nice to think about these things, and pick at the sharply sweet smelling fruit, so I allowed myself to continue.

My brother was reluctant to come at first, because he had wanted to stay home and play video games.  The prospect of picking oranges simply did not appeal to him...that is, until he found out he got to use one of those poles with pronged baskets at the top.  Imagine his excitement when he found out that they were extendable, too.

I suppose this was what you could call a productive day :)