You know, for years, the smell of orange blossoms reminded me of the Orange Shop at the Silver Springs Attraction in the 60s. Silver Springs was where I grew up, and Dad worked for Ross Allen (and he was our neighbor as well) for over 30 years. Every day, Silver Springs was my preferred bus stop from school. I could either get off at Silver Springs, and swim for a while until Dad got off work at 5, or I could get off at my street at the Hammock, run home to Willie Mae, our maid, and watch "Dark Shadows."
I would walk by the row of retail shops that used to line the sidewalk along the glass bottom boat rides. The one that I always stopped in was the Orange Shop, because it smelled divine. There was a woman there who threw orange-smelling pottery, making little vases and pots with lids. Leftover clay was rolled up into little balls and put in little mesh bags for "potpourri" to sell to the tourists. It was always busy, and I always got a wink and a smile from The Lady Who Made Pots.
For a long time, that is how I remembered the smell of orange blossoms.
Until I met and married a man who bought me "my house" in McIntosh, Florida. That was in 2002, and it wasn't orange blossom season yet. I knew there were orange groves everywhere in that area, because there used to be a huge grove by Orange Lake. The house we owned was in the middle of a grove, and we even had a couple of trees in the yard.
This house was an old Craftsman-style home, and had been originally owned by the first post-mistress of McIntosh. Several other people had lived in it after she died, including Ross Allen and his first wife, Celeste, which made it even more special to me. An artist I had a crush on in high school, Gary Schlabaugh, had also lived there at one time. It was perfect. I was in love with my husband, and he was in love with me. I had left my job at the newspaper to become a freelancer and I had coffee in the morning with my man, on the side porch, while the breezes of summer made us both smile with the anticipation of adventure and hope and exploration.
While I fought the vines and weeds back to make a garden, my husband was busy creating a staircase to the attic, which became his office after a while. I wrote stories, created logos, created my own art and we talked and snuggled on the couch after our long days. We read poetry to each other. We swore nothing and no-one would ever tear us apart. We took a trip to Jacksonville, Florida, where we married on July 11, 2003, and had a short honeymoon in Savannah.
And then the orange trees bloomed.
The scent was almost too heavenly to describe. It came in through every window, every crack in the door, morning, noon and night. When the crickets sounded out in the evening, you could sit outside on the porch and watch fireflies and smell that incredible aroma. There was nothing more romantic in the world than our own little world. Our clothes, hung out on the clothesline, took on the scent of orange and made our closets fresh and clean.
I wish we could have made our marriage work. It had such a beautiful beginning, and such a short, abrupt end, six years later. After only a year, he sold our home to make a stab at renovating an old building in Kentucky.
We left our orange blossoms behind for the adventure of lofting and a new experience, which ultimately broke us apart. I came back home to Florida, and he followed a few years later. Six years later. We started seeing each other again for a while, but he couldn't figure it all out, and we split again.
Just yesterday, that certain smell was in the air. It was orange blossoms, and I'm not sure where it came from.
But it brought back memories of my little McIntosh home, the wistful hand-written Pablo Neruda poem someone had left behind the bedroom door, the beautiful old oaks in the front yard, my little dog, Rita. It brought back memories of sitting together on the porch, making up dreams and sipping wine.
I'm thankful for the smell of orange blossoms. They bring back the best of my days.
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