The Grove Where I Learned to Listen: Growing Navel Oranges with Dirt Under My Nails and Love in My Heart

The Grove Where I Learned to Listen: Growing Navel Oranges with Dirt Under My Nails and Love in My Heart

If you ask me where home is, I’ll point to the stretch of land beyond the red barn—rows of orange trees leaning gently toward the sky, their trunks streaked with the stories of forty years. This isn’t a “farm” in the Instagram sense. There are no perfectly aligned irrigation systems or shiny new tractors. Just me, my dog, and trees that have taught me more about patience than any textbook ever could. We grow navel oranges here, but really, we grow memories.

I was seven when I tried to “help” my dad plant a sapling. I dug a hole too shallow, plopped the tree in, and watered it with a toy bucket—proud of my work until Dad gently rerooted it, his hands steady. “Oranges need time to settle,” he said, brushing dirt off my cheek. “Like us. Rush ’em, and they’ll never take hold.”

That sapling is now the oldest tree in the grove. Its branches bow low each winter, heavy with fruit that tastes like sunshine and dad’s old pickup truck. I still think of him when I dig new holes—slow, deliberate, making sure the soil cradles the roots just right.

Farming here is a sensory journal.

Mornings start with dew. I walk the rows, boots squelching, checking leaves for aphids (ladybugs usually handle them, but I rescue stragglers with a soft brush). My coffee steams in a thermos, and somewhere, a rooster crows—old Mr. Gonzalez’s, two fields over.

Noons are for pruning. I use Dad’s old shears, their handles worn smooth. I snip only what’s necessary: dead branches, crossing limbs—never more. “Trees need room to breathe,” Mom used to say, as she hung bird feeders in the corners. Now, finches and chickadees thank us with melodies while we work.

Harvest is the best part. I start at dawn, when the oranges are cool but the sun’s already warming their skins. I carry a wicker basket, its weave familiar against my palm. Workers—friends, neighbors, even my niece, Mia—move slow, hands cupped to cradle each fruit. “Not too hard,” Mia laughs, as she sets one gently in the crate. “They’re sleeping.”

Not every orange is picture-perfect. Some have a nick from a branch, others are lopsided, their tops a little flat. For years, I’d toss them—or sell them cheap. Then Mia, age 8, brought me one, its peel crumpled like an old map. “This one’s brave,” she said. “It survived the hailstorm!”

Now, we call them “adventure oranges.” They go to the food bank, where a single mom tells me, “My kid eats these like candy—their ‘ugly’ oranges are the best.” They go to the elementary school, where kids paint them and call them “nature’s canvases.” And some stay right here, left for deer or squirrels—because even the “imperfect” ones deserve a feast.

When you hold one of our oranges, I hope you feel the weight of this place. The sun that baked its skin golden. The rain that plumped its segments. The hands that picked it gently, the bees that pollinated it, the deer that kept the weeds in check.

Bite in, and taste the story. First, the bright tang—like a squeeze of morning lemonade, but warmer, softer. Then, the sweetness unfolds, slow and rich, like honey steeped in summer. The juice runs, thick and golden, not watery. Peel it, and the skin comes away cleanly, leaving no bitter pith—just a faint, citrusy scent that lingers, like a memory you don’t want to forget.

If you’re ever nearby, pull up a stool under the old oak. I’ll pour sweet tea, hand you a basket, and let you pick. I’ll show you the first tree I planted with Dad—its trunk thick, its branches still heavy with fruit. Mia will teach you to test ripeness by smell: “If it smells like sunshine, it’s ready.” And Mom’s ghost? She’ll hum from the kitchen, where she’s probably baking orange muffins for the next visitor.