So you can imagine how nostalgic I get around groves of orange trees. When I look at packing crates depicting a rural scene, it’s as if I can still see the hills of Anaheim, Orange, Laguna, and Tustin covered with live oak, aromatic California sagebrush, delicate red flowers of Indian paintbrush, buzzing bees, and the kitten-like mewing of the tiny, now-endangered bird called the California Gnatcatcher. Rather than blanketed with multimillion dollar homes and buildings, the landscape was definitely wilder and freer than what Orange County has become in the last 30 years. Frankly it angers and saddens me that the pastoral countryside that was once enjoyed and cultivated by my family and others for centuries has all but disappeared. Now, I’m left with only snatches of stories to reconstruct the simple beauty of a life woven in with the land and deeply connected to neighbors and families.Even though my grandparent’s meeting had always been legendary in our family; it was inaccessible to me. I never heard my grandmother’s version of their meeting. She died before I was born. And grandpa didn’t tell me anything about those days because he was ashamed of having been a picker. He didn’t want to be a Mexican day worker—just a red, white, and blue loyal American citizen, thank you very much. So last winter while working at Chapman University I heard about the plans to tear down the packing house to build a state-of-the-art science school. I simply had to see this link to my past. I called the owner of Prime Produce, the company packing avocados at the packing house for the time being, and arranged for a backstage visit. I agreed to write about the company in the university newsletter. I was eager to see for myself tangible evidence of my grandparents’ story and Orange County’s agricultural history.The sun had been bright the day I walked up to the large faded yellow building of the packing house. My eyes took a little time adjusting as I walked into the cavernous maw and took in the antique machinery and wooden sorting bins. One lone woman, wearing a green hair net, inspected avocados on a long, wide, conveyor belt. I nodded hello to her. She smiled and quickly returned to her work. Original hardwood floors bore tread marks from decades of foot traffic. Back in its heyday, the packaging of lemons, oranges, and almonds stopped once every year, so the floors could be polished. They threw open the barn-like doors and celebrated with a huge company picnic, right there on the gleaming floors.
As I poked around the packing house, I tried to guess where or if my grandparents might have scuttled off for clandestine kisses. I imagined their sweet whispers echoing from secret corners. In large part, it seemed my grandparents and their fellow packers may have lived the uncomplicated, community-centered life portrayed on the packing crates. Workers walked to the plant in the pre-dawn morning light, and home at twilight. A school was built for the workers’ children near the north end of the property. The groundskeeper lived across the street. The locals themselves had built the packing house. Of course my romantic view overlooks the long hours, low wages, and other realities such racial segregation in Orange County’s school system. My grandparents persevered against the prejudice and difficulties of their era to create a solid foundation they hoped their children and grandchildren could build upon to enjoy and prosper. Yet, I can’t help but look back and with a deep longing, envision some of the beauty we lost in the process of progress.I live in a world of crowded freeways, where huge SUVs take up two parking spaces, purses slung over the shoulders of the uber chic cost more than an average American’s weekly salary, a polished veneer has replaced authenticity, and the grocers I visit on a weekly basis rarely show they recognize me. But I hold on with feral tenacity to a simple, pastoral time in Orange County. I visit the back roads and pockets of untouched land where developers haven’t yet degraded the last of the California coastal sage scrub, considered to be one of the most endangered ecosystems in the United States. When I attended Orange Coast College, I used to drive around Santiago and Silverado Canyons, hoping to get lost in wilderness—to tap into the unpredictable, uncontained part of me that seemed to be ebbing away as each new strip mall replaced yet another orange grove. I wanted to connect with the timelessness of nature working in symbiotic connection with the world, and measure moments for the treasures they bring, rather than rush from my next class to work and back again without noticing the beauty around me.
I realize I’m an idealist, and that we’re living on prime real estate. But I do enjoy reminiscing about a time when the spirit of camaraderie drew the community together, and the perfection of Orange County wasn’t just its perpetual sunshine and master-planned developments, but its verdant hills dotted with soft, sweet-smelling groves.My Orange County lives on in me, because I carry these memories. Any time around late spring through summer, I can walk by the few orange groves left or a lone tree, close my eyes, breathe in the sweet, alluring scent of orange blossoms, and remember. It would be foolish not to notice that few people in Orange County care, much less remember, what this place used to look like or be like, or how liberating it can be to roam sage-covered hills or walk under a shower of delicate orange blossoms as they swirl around on a warm Santa Ana breeze. I worry that we’re losing our agricultural roots, erasing our history, fragmenting the wild beauty of our stunning home.
And I wonder if anybody else is noticing?
