Circa 1935.
Soup
kitchens.
Bread lines.
Unemployment almost 25 percent.
The Great Depression had America’s stomach gnawing on its
backbone. Jobs were hard to come by, but the two youthful brothers always found
work. Even as boys, they realized the need to shoulder their share of
responsibility to keep food on the table.
Their
mother had died in 1933. Their father had a job—a pretty good railroad job—but
he provided marginal support. The oldest child, a daughter, left home as soon
as she could. The younger daughter, a high school graduate, had a job. Her telephone-company
paycheck was critical, but her determination to hold the motherless family,
including a 6-year-old boy, together was more important.
The
brothers shared a job at a dairy. They took turns on the home-delivery route. Legend
was that the one making deliveries got to wear the also-shared pair of
high-top tennis shoes. The pay was meager, but a fringe benefit—a daily quart
of milk—was huge.
One day,
a peddler came by Shedd’s Dairy, selling navel oranges. The younger brother had
never seen such large and luscious-looking oranges. He asked, “Mister, do you
think I could have one of those big oranges?”
“I won’t
give you just one,” the stranger said. “But I will give you a dozen if you’ll
eat them all right now.”
“Mister,
can I suck them?”
“No. You
have to eat them.”
The boy
wasn’t that hungry, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to taste those navel
oranges. One by one, he peeled and ate all 12. Years later, when my dad had a
family of his own, he loved to tell us about the time that he ate a dozen
oranges. The remembrance usually came when he was peeling navel oranges for our
traditional Christmas ambrosia. Always, he punctuated the story with a laugh.
Several years ago—on an experimental whim—we planted three Satsuma orange trees on the edge of a pine plantation. The strategy was to protect the “Florida fruit” from colder South Georgia weather. Satsumas are in the Mandarin orange family and easy to peel, much like a tangerine.
Within
two years, the trees were producing. And then the production exploded. This
fall the limbs were groaning to hold the bounty. Some limbs snapped. I must do
my homework before next season.
Two days
after Thanksgiving, I decided to finish the harvesting of our mini grove of
oranges. I guesstimate that I had picked almost 1,000 Satsumas over the past
month. I also had learned that you can’t pluck the oranges. You must snip each
stem or risk pulling off a patch of the peel.
Several
times, I didn’t follow my own advice, and I pulled off a patch of the thick
peeling. Rather than put the damaged orange into a 5-gallon bucket with the
good ones, I took a break and enjoyed the “fruit of my labor.” And every time
that I ate an orange, my thoughts drifted back to the navel-orange story that I
had heard so many times.
Since we
are still in the season of thanksgiving, I am grateful that my Aunt Sue kept
her younger siblings together under one roof. Even as a teenager, she was a
remarkable woman. Uncle James and his younger brother, my dad, were two of my
heroes. Their hard work during the Great Depression did not depress them. Instead,
they developed a remarkable sense of humor.
I can
hear them laughing now.
Believe
I’ll stop and go eat an orange.
But just
one.
