The Orchard
She would play for hours in the orchard, dancing around under the dense canopy. Her own little forest, just tall enough for her to race under the low hanging fruit.
Sarah Duval was the daughter of a fruit farmer. She lived in a small home at the end of a long dirt drive lined by fruit trees. Beyond the ancient rusted plows and tractor engines that surrounded the house were seemingly endless rows of trees- tangelo, clementine, tangor, and satsuma.
Her father was a commercial citrus farmer. After leaving a failed dairy business her father spent their savings on the citrus farm- a bargain investment- with soil too bare to nourish, and trees too old to harvest.
Too young to concern herself with or understand the questionable financial decisions of her father, Sara fell wholly in love with the orchard.
Aisles of the tiny trees diminished into the seemingly endless distance in all directions. Their perfect aisles of cultivation made it so very easy to get lost- she found great peace aimlessly walking through the trees. If she walked for long enough she could reach the edge of the property; she would come upon a road with few cars, or a ranch with many horses.
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The orchard taught her a quality of awareness and appreciation of the subtle aspects of the world that she had never known before.
She loved finding animals amongst the foliage. The starlings that would nest in the trees during the spring, or the barn owls that would call at night. Once she found a vole den in the orchard, so excited and wanting to share her joy, she told her parents about it. Shortly after, her father flooded them out, saying “They are no good. They are varmints and do not belong in the orchard. They will eat the roots and kill the trees!”
She could not understand why so much beautiful land could not be shared. She learned to never tell her parents about the animals she met in the orchard- the deer, field mice, jack rabbits or coyote.
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The land would often fall into intense drought. The ground would become so dry that the soil would peel into complex patterns that would turn to dust under foot.
On some days, when the wind from the mountains was strong, the dust would kick up, shrouding the fields in a golden eye irritating cloud. If she ventured outside, she could see only few feet in front of her.
She loved the energy the wind infused into the orchard.
It rarely rained in the valley but she experienced such overwhelming joy during the rain storms that came during the winter months. She particularly enjoyed how a crescendo of rain could be hushed by the trees to a slow waltz of droplets below the canopy.
She loved falling asleep to the croaking of the toads that took respite in the orchard following a heavy deluge.
~
The orchard was a quiet and peaceful place, the trees silently doing their work with little intervention for most of the year. It was only during harvest season when the quiet aisles of trees were filled with the loud engines of harvesters and shouts of labourers.
During the peak of harvest season the orchard became blanketed in the sweet aroma of citrus. She would sip on cold clementine juice freshly made by her mother, and listen to, but never understand, the language of the labourers her father had hired.
Though she couldn’t understand most of what they said, they seemed genuine. She admired them for the gratitude and happiness they seemed to exude, even when working in the orchard on the hottest of days. They would say things to her like “Tu padre es un hombre muy generosos”.
Despite the poor harvests, her father would pay the labourers generously. Many years he made almost no profit. With little money for the family, their pantry was often bare and their home fell into disrepair.
Her father would say that the rewards reaped from a harvest should be fairly shared.
Her parents would have late night quarrels about their finances. Sara found respite from the chaos at home amongst the orchard.
~
She observed the perennial happenings of the orchard more intimately every year.
She grew older and took more concern with the ever changing moments of life, but the orchard was a consistent presence.
After many years, the valley experienced the driest season she could ever remember. Winter and spring brought almost no rain. The toads never returned and the soil turned to a barren dust. Summer came and the sun seemed to burn hotter than ever. The valley was filled with warm air that felt like an oven. The leaves on the trees contorted and lost their colour. The clementines and tangelos were tasteless and dry. Her father would say “it’s only a passing year, things will return to normal next season”. But Sara knew it wouldn’t be.
She could see it for years. She saw the neighbouring farmers, seasoned life long fruit growers, selling their land and leaving the valley.
One day late that summer the temperature began to cool for the first time in months and a gentle breeze from the mountains was pouring through the valley. That night she was awakened by a soft orange glow coming through her bedroom window and the sound of commotion outside. Her father was spraying down the lawn and house with a garden hose and she could see licks of flames traveling through the orchard in the distance.
She heard her mother running upstairs to her room; She said that they need to leave.
Sara quickly dressed, packed a small bag of her dearest belongings and hurried outside. The fire was spreading quickly.
They got into the car and began driving down the long dirt drive, the flames slowly converging behind them, swallowing their home and the trees. Books and photos, linoleum and cotton, nesting starlings and field mice, were all turned thoughtlessly to a thick black smoke.
She knew it would be the last time she would ever be in the presence of the orchard.
But she knew it was entirely fair, at least for her, because she had known and loved it as deeply as she possibly could. She had been with orchard as closely as lovers are with each other.
Through the choking smoke she savoured the sweet aroma of citrus for one last time.