The Orange Tree

On the small rectangle of decaying, gray-painted boards that passes for my back porch stands an orange tree. An odd thing to find in Chicago, which is not know for its citrus groves. A small thing, too--it stands around two feet tall, counting the pot, but manages to tower over the shamrocks and cacti that stand atop the alley-acquired end table that all the plants in the house stand on from as early in April as they can be set out (in other words, once the snow has stopped) to as late in October as they can safely stand it (in other words, until the snow shows up again).

The orange tree belonged to Dad, who grew it from a seed. Really, he did. Ate the orange. Laid the seeds out on a paper towel. Laid the paper towel out on a shelf in the basement, safely away from the cats, to dry them out. Planted each seed in its own small pot. Set the pots out on the deck atop the back porch (a proper, full-sized back porch). Let them grow.

Most of the seeds didn't take. No news flash to Dad. he was always trying to grow odd things. Cherry trees. Pineapples. Avacadoes. Rasberry bushes. (Those actually grew--you can still collect quite a harvest in the fall in Mom's backyard.) A tomato tree bought out of the back of a seed catalog. Dad liked to experiment with many things. He was a carpenter. An electrician. A baker. (His doughnuts were more fit for pounding nails than for dunking in coffee.) A horticulturalist. Jack of all trades.

Most of the seedlings didn't survive. Again, no great surprise. One did, though. It grew steadily during its first season. I lived in the second floor apartment at the time, so the orange tree wintered with me among my plants. It not only survived, but thrived with regular watering and northern exposure sunlight. During the summers, it sat out on the deck, anchored with bricks all around its base to keep it from rolling over on windy afternoons. (the deck rests between two taller brick apartment buildings; on breezy days, especially when a front strolls up from the south, a wind tunnel effect kicks in and tosses around anything not nailed down.)

Five years later, it bloomed for the first time. Tiny white flowers dotted its green branches. By the end of that summer, the damn this bore fruit. Nothing edible. Nasty, bitter stuff. Oranges. Freshly grown on the cusp of Ukrainian Village. In Chicago. Amazing.

After Dad passed away--two days before Father's Day of that year--Mom gave me permanent custody of the orange tree. Made sense. It spent the winters with me anyway, and the deck was technically part of my apartment (since I lived on the second floor). When I moved into La Casa del Terror later that year, the orange tree came with me. It winters in my office (soon to be converted back into a bedroom). It summers on the back porch. It blooms small, fragrent white flowers. And it bears fruit that, someday, may be edible.

All because a man from Alabama living in a cold northern town wanted to see what would happen if he planted orange seeds. Maybe that's what he and Mom were thinking when they decided to have me. They wanted to see what would happen. That would make the orange tree my litte brother. Or not.

I think he was pleased with the progress of both though. Proud, even.

Happy Father's Day to all the dads I've known. Especially one.