FULL CIRCLE
It took me 5 years to sit in my own backyard and listen to the orange tree. The rented quarter-acre block, now a dying breed, gave me the space, the grace, to raise fur families. Five dogs, two cats and two fosters for whom I found forever homes. Four of my own, I had to leave behind, buried in my quarter-acre block, my rented backyard- the backyard where my orange tree stood, listening.
My orange tree was taken too- but somewhere she lives, I know. I know her well, and, well, she knows me. I will find her for she will come again, one day. I will listen for her. I know her well.
In the year 1939 just before WW2, an Italian dairy farmer craved fresh, sweet orange juice and planted a tree. Orange tree was an old-fashioned lady. Perfectly groomed. Orange tree had an understated elegance that sowed patience. She gave generously, and gave nurture, through my ages.
It was in my backyard, once an Italian dairy, where my orange tree first bore fruit. She nurtured the immigrant workers who milked the cows, and the cows milked the workers for stories of homelands that they so craved. Orange tree spoke to them through the sound of the wind, the rhythm of the wind as tickled her peel, her skin: ‘the love you crave, will one day find you again’, she spoke gently to assure them.
The workers peeled the fruit of the orange tree every day at morning break. The rough and tumbled workers of the milking sheds, tore open her flesh and were eager to devour, for they needed reassurance. Their mouths were dripping wet with her free-flowing juice and they laughed at each other’s wet, wet lips that bounced joy when light streamed through the old, corrugated iron makeshift old, old, dairy shed.
Orange tree sighed as the men took rest under her fresh, vibrant lime-coloured canopy. She waited until they were still and still-more, ready to listen. She stood patient. Orange smiled as she drew pictures of their ancestors hard at work in mountain orchards and reminded them that their village lands needed plough and harvest attention. Orange tree drew pictures and gave them to the worker’s minds which they saw as dreams. She reassured them: ‘Don’t be afraid to dream’, she whispered, as they dozed.
Her roots recorded every conversation of those early dairy days. She learned their language well. Birds would listen, confer and cock their heads. Birds would listen to the workers’ excited tones and their tired laughter. Laughter balanced their exhaustive sorrow of being underpaid. Their wry and knowing smiles balanced their abundant dreams, their hopes that better days would surely follow. Family flocks flew further afield, and high, high above, to deliver their hopes and dreams of love. Birds, were and will always be, anointed messengers, of my own, my true, sweet orange tree.
There, the birds belonged and knew their own history. Here and there, white cockatoos, red-tailed black cockatoos, parrots and pink galahs were abundant, to name but a few. They conjured, competed and conferred; scattered peel, stole pollen and spread the word.
It was an unlikely congregation of men and feathered friends that had come together, ready to listen, eager to learn. They conspired and inspired one another ready to receive the medicine of the sweet orange tree. Very soon, all would become part of her history. Stories, are inclusive.
Fertile was Orange, and of her grace, she freely gave. Fertility comes from the land, the rivers and the trees, the birds and yes, the bees. Orange tree made real that which was hoped for - longed for – and that which was needed to be seen. I asked of her, respectfully: who is destined to become my own, beloved, family?
I bought another Lady Orange who was not yet in the ground. I dig deep and add water to the hole in the Earth before I plant her. Dreams need nurture.
The memory of my first beloved orange tree I thought, had passed, but I need her medicine now, more than ever. Her roots are bound and bruised. I listen closely and try to give her my medicine that she needs now, too. Around her base, I clear, I care and I prepare. Companion herbs sing and soothe us both. Together, we have travelled far.
Together, Lady Orange and I invite birds to nest in her branches. Maybe, with fearless hope, a caterpillar will nibble on her smoky-muted, citrus leaves and become a butterfly? Lady Orange pricks her ears, and a butterfly appears. Butterfly is anxious to talk to a spider who need not be feared. Hope and fear have much to learn from each other.
Golden oregano becomes the base and bed for Lady Orange tree. I add garlic bulbs, lime balm and lemon thyme to her fragrant understory. I imagine that with pink sea salt, I can create a cocktail to marinate my olives that are growing over the back fence. I can taste tomorrow.
It is Christmas.
I wrap the leaves of Lady Orange in cinnamon bundles, carefully prick the skin of her fruit and puncture her flesh with star anise and cloves. She is on-track to re-discover her own spice trail: her juice becomes warmer, rounder.
Together, we gaze at our Christmas tree and inhale the orange-pine cinnamon sticks that make for a sweet-spicy, melt-in-the-moment mix. My brother and I laugh as we remember the backyard-of-a-quarter, and relive the numbing ‘thud’ when an orange fell on the card table and frightened my half-mother.
‘Thud’. Another orange fruit landed on the Christmas card table that was shaded and protected by orange tree’s light-green canopic umbrella. Again, our half-mother jumped in fright. She could have been our mother- but she wasn’t. She offered us no protection, no nurture, and now, too, she has gone. The chance for motherhood won’t come again.
But here, this Christmas, we have fresh orange juice, once again. My brother loves fresh juice and we laugh. We enjoy the scented Christmas decorations on our branch-of-pine. Together, we create fragrances that take us outside. Together, we bring others from outside, closer to us and closer still – within us. It may rain but here, now together, we know nurture. We laugh as we remember every orange tree that we ever loved. Together, we unwrap memories.
Together, we make food.
Food from the garden that we have grown and mix now, with other backyard fruits, nuts, flowers and spices that we have collected from the streets. My brother and I know how to forage. We learned that growing up, together.
Together, we re-invent recipes from our grandfather’s cookbook. Our grandfather wrote it for Nanna because she had not stayed in school long enough to learn how to read or write. Nanna dreamed of better days, in her early days. Just before the war, in 1939, she married our grandfather who loved and cared for her through the ages. I see our grandparents on a rainbow in the distance. Rainbows are not bridges between two worlds, they are full circles when you see them from high above.
Together, my brother and I change the measurements in the family recipe book to metric, which is our language. Nanna whispers through the wind and her laughter tickles my skin. She reassures me that measures of circumstance can and will surely change.
Together, we are all, this Christmas.
This Christmas will be the 5th Christmas without my brother.
I make a seafood platter punctuated with orange wedges and marinated olives. I create a Greek salad with lime-orange jus and garlic-infused olive oil. I invent a smoked-orange, slow-roasted peach and macadamia cheesecake. I squeeze fresh orange juice. I take home-baked dog treats out of the oven and let them cool for my four-legged family that have made my home, our forever home.
Recipes from childhood, tapered by time itself. Recipes taught to me by my brother who was once a chef and who will always love fresh orange juice.
I listen to him.
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