Summers at Abuelo's

When summertime arrives the very first food I crave is a succulent orange. I remember the smell and the taste of the fruit as I consumed them at my grandfather’s orchard. I can still see the sun shining brightly and feel its rays peeking through the leaves that shade us as my siblings and I pick the ripe fruit, our buckets ready in hand. It takes me to a place in South Texas where I am close to still nature and with the ones I love.

The lemon trees are the first ones we always picked. We know we would have to pick more than enough for the trek home, but as children we are coyly aware if we start with the lemons, our abuelo will make lemonade for a refreshment as we pick under the Texas sun. I check with intention every fruit within my sight and grasp what is acceptable and ready to be collected. As my siblings and I find our next spots to pick from, I hear my abuelo speaking in Spanish among the citrus trees. He speaks plainly as he tells us what to look for, his soft instructions lack vanity but instead show his attentiveness and patience. He shares stories from his life, some serious, yet his wittiness paints a levity for each experience he revisits in his memory. We slowly make our way to the orange trees, the dirt underneath our boots smells of warm, soft earth. As a child, my mind wanders to where my friends are at the same moment. Some are vacationing in the mountains; others are basking on the beach. And while I could still be happy for them, I knew I was right where I was supposed to be, breathing in the warm, sweet air and feeling that rare child-like contentment. Only during short breaks do I catch glimpses of my abuelo, his white cowboy hat steadily passing through some orange branches. Through some rows of trees, the ground is muddier than others, his feet stick harder as he attempts to avoid them. It is in those moments I notice he does not move as fast as he once did, but it never seems to deter him. Eventually the coolness of the evening signals to us our productive yet leisurely day has come to an end. After we have gathered all three different kinds of fruits, we arrange them into their bright colored citrus bags, prepared for my family’s ride return.

After a few days of relaxation and adventure, my family is ready for the journey home. Before we leave, we share a meal together and one more citrus delight between us. As we finish our summer treat, I watch as my abuelo savors the seeds just as much as he enjoys the juicy goodness. The warmth of the van as we drove home through the valley enhanced the delicious citrus aroma of the fruit that was gingerly packaged by my parents earlier that morning. As the scent gently fills the car, my family makes a list of everyone who will receive a basket of grapefruits, lemons and oranges, for there is more than enough for our family and for others to share in the end of summer bounty.

As ignorant as I could be as a young child, I could still sense what these precious moments would mean for me as I grew older even more than they meant to me in the moment. My abuelo did not have much, but he had his trees and he gave us his time. It was his generosity of spirit that made him give what he had, and we gladly received it. There were not any fancy meals or priceless heirlooms that he gifted his grandchildren to show how much he loved us. But what he had in excess; he gave with both hands. When I cut into a grapefruit, when I peel back an orange on a sunny or rainy day, I am immediately transported back into my grandpa’s citrus oasis. I smell the dried trees, I see the dirt on my hands, I feel the beads of sweat on my forehead but I do not feel unclean. I am a child again. I am grateful for the memory of my abuelo, Andres, for his example of generosity is also a mindful act of living in the moment. The taste of Summer will forever be the flavor of a sun warmed orange. Although this season is fleeting, the memories and lessons this fruit invokes are ones I hold onto forever.