I met someone once I'll never forget.
When I moved here, I didn't know a single person. Not one. Coming here was a big unknown. I loved the feeling of a new, crisp, white page about to unfold in our lives. But I wasn't entirely sold on the idea of spending forever with cacti in my front yard and rocks in my back. It was hard to surrender four seasons for one long one. And the potential thought of scorpions dropping from the ceiling into my bed (I did a lot of research on this particular topic) was almost too much.
But, we came anyway. My husband was about to start a new job. And I was pregnant with my third child and eating oranges like they were going out of style.
One afternoon, in the dead of summer (imagine sitting inside your oven while your bread bakes and you'll better understand six months of my life), we decided it was time to buy my husband a car. After much searching, he'd decided on a cherry red Porsche. It went 0-120 mph in six seconds. And we were using what was left of our student loans to purchase it.
Okay, not really. But almost. A used driftwood (that was the actual, official description) Chevy Malibu. The front seats were void of any cushioning and were so low to the ground I could scrape my hand on the pavement while driving.
As we stood inspecting this beauty in the heat, beads of sweat dripped steadily down my back like a leaky faucet. My sticky face burned in the afternoon sun. My lower back throbbed furiously from anchoring the weight of my ginormous belly. My feet swelled with discomfort. More than anything, I needed an ice bath. And an epidural.
And an orange. (Or two.)
The older man selling us this piece of driftwood took one good look at me. (With my full tummy protruding as far as it did, I was used to this. I expected the usual "you look like you're about to pop" statement any second.) But he surprised me. With what seemed to be some magic insight into my miserable soul, he smiled. His cheery eyes filled with compassion.
"You know what I love about this place in the winter?" he asked.
The random subject change startled me. "What?" I asked.
"You know what I love about this place in the winter?" he repeated. Curiosity compelled me. I waited for his response.
"Every winter the air fills with the smell of fresh citrus." My ears perked up at the mention of citrus. He continued. "You can drive with your windows down and smell sweet oranges all around. We leave our windows open at night and lay in bed, smelling the grapefruits and the oranges and all those lemons. It's incredible."
Who was this man, this Santa Claus of a man, reading my thoughts, my secret wishes, my soul's desire? His words intoxicated me as I imagined cradling my new baby in bed, the windows open and the crickets singing outside, a citrusy breeze floating in, perfuming the night air. I pictured my someday backyard, lined with bountiful citrus trees, my children playing hide-and-seek behind their painted trunks and stopping occasionally to peel a ripe orange, the sweet juice spilling out and rolling slowly down their forearms. My dry mouth began watering at the thought of endless pitchers of fresh lemonade, mint leaves and raspberries swirling between layers of thick ice.
Squinting in the sun, I looked up at this man. "Really? You can really smell the citrus in the air?" He chuckled at my desperate hope.
"Yes, you really can."
We were sold: my husband on the car, me on my new home.
Today I awoke to a typical, winter day. Not a single cloud disrupts the endless blue sky. A shy breeze sneaks through the trees, flirting with the leaves as it brushes by. And in the warm air, the scent of citrus settles in.
Scanning my kitchen for breakfast, a large box of oranges steals my gaze. I grab one and cut into it's firm flesh. Biting into the juicy pulp, I glance around my bustling home. My daughters are deep in their fairy world. My son is playing pirates with his dad. My baby is pulling books from the shelves, giggling as each one drops.
Reaching for another slice, I remember the wise salesman from long ago, the one with the driftwood car and the promise of good things to come.
When I moved here, I didn't know a single person. Not one. Coming here was a big unknown. I loved the feeling of a new, crisp, white page about to unfold in our lives. But I wasn't entirely sold on the idea of spending forever with cacti in my front yard and rocks in my back. It was hard to surrender four seasons for one long one. And the potential thought of scorpions dropping from the ceiling into my bed (I did a lot of research on this particular topic) was almost too much.
But, we came anyway. My husband was about to start a new job. And I was pregnant with my third child and eating oranges like they were going out of style.
One afternoon, in the dead of summer (imagine sitting inside your oven while your bread bakes and you'll better understand six months of my life), we decided it was time to buy my husband a car. After much searching, he'd decided on a cherry red Porsche. It went 0-120 mph in six seconds. And we were using what was left of our student loans to purchase it.
Okay, not really. But almost. A used driftwood (that was the actual, official description) Chevy Malibu. The front seats were void of any cushioning and were so low to the ground I could scrape my hand on the pavement while driving.
As we stood inspecting this beauty in the heat, beads of sweat dripped steadily down my back like a leaky faucet. My sticky face burned in the afternoon sun. My lower back throbbed furiously from anchoring the weight of my ginormous belly. My feet swelled with discomfort. More than anything, I needed an ice bath. And an epidural.
And an orange. (Or two.)
The older man selling us this piece of driftwood took one good look at me. (With my full tummy protruding as far as it did, I was used to this. I expected the usual "you look like you're about to pop" statement any second.) But he surprised me. With what seemed to be some magic insight into my miserable soul, he smiled. His cheery eyes filled with compassion.
"You know what I love about this place in the winter?" he asked.
The random subject change startled me. "What?" I asked.
"You know what I love about this place in the winter?" he repeated. Curiosity compelled me. I waited for his response.
"Every winter the air fills with the smell of fresh citrus." My ears perked up at the mention of citrus. He continued. "You can drive with your windows down and smell sweet oranges all around. We leave our windows open at night and lay in bed, smelling the grapefruits and the oranges and all those lemons. It's incredible."
Who was this man, this Santa Claus of a man, reading my thoughts, my secret wishes, my soul's desire? His words intoxicated me as I imagined cradling my new baby in bed, the windows open and the crickets singing outside, a citrusy breeze floating in, perfuming the night air. I pictured my someday backyard, lined with bountiful citrus trees, my children playing hide-and-seek behind their painted trunks and stopping occasionally to peel a ripe orange, the sweet juice spilling out and rolling slowly down their forearms. My dry mouth began watering at the thought of endless pitchers of fresh lemonade, mint leaves and raspberries swirling between layers of thick ice.
Squinting in the sun, I looked up at this man. "Really? You can really smell the citrus in the air?" He chuckled at my desperate hope.
"Yes, you really can."
We were sold: my husband on the car, me on my new home.
Today I awoke to a typical, winter day. Not a single cloud disrupts the endless blue sky. A shy breeze sneaks through the trees, flirting with the leaves as it brushes by. And in the warm air, the scent of citrus settles in.
Scanning my kitchen for breakfast, a large box of oranges steals my gaze. I grab one and cut into it's firm flesh. Biting into the juicy pulp, I glance around my bustling home. My daughters are deep in their fairy world. My son is playing pirates with his dad. My baby is pulling books from the shelves, giggling as each one drops.
Reaching for another slice, I remember the wise salesman from long ago, the one with the driftwood car and the promise of good things to come.
He was right.
I can smell the oranges.
And, it really is...incredible.
And, it really is...incredible.
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