During the first part of our marriage we lived in the City of Orange, which rightly deserved its name. The climate in that area is perfect for growing oranges, and the city was surrounded by orange groves that were still in production when we moved there. One of the first apartments we lived in was on the edge of an orange grove that was still producing oranges, and the smell of the blossoms wafting through the air when the trees began to bloom made one giddy. But by the time we left for Oregon in 1979, most of the trees had been bulldozed to make room for people and their buildings. The City Fathers, in their wisdom, proudly announced the city would plant a specimen orange grove in a green space to remind people of the history of the town. How ironic, we thought.
Orange was incorporated in 1871, and in 1971, the city decided to celebrate the Centennial of its founding by having a huge street party. I am not sure how this happened, because my husband is a rather shy type, but he became the chairman of the committee that was organizing the festivities. And somehow, and again, I am not sure how this happened, we came to be in possession of a collection of labels that the packing houses put on the crates of oranges that they shipped.
Some of them are quite beautiful, and have themes—these with a fabric theme hang in our bathroom.
A few of the many others that are hanging here and there around the house....
His mother (my Dad’s youngest sister) and father lived not too far from where our family lived, and we spent quite a bit of time together when we were children.
And then life happened, and I hadn’t seen him for about 12 years. It worked out quite nicely that he was able to time a visit to his father and they could both come on Nov. 13 to celebrate my Dad's birthday
He told me that while he on a quest to find fruit crate labels of all the places he had lived in, he happened across a crate label that he thought would be the perfect label to give me for a belated birthday present.
And indeed it is.