Friday, August 18
For Mom the move from Texas to Florida was a military operation,
like the many moves she had made as a child. We had our orders. We had
our supplies. We had a timetable. If it had been necessary to do so, we
would have driven the eight hundred miles from our old house to our new
house straight through, without stopping at all. We would have refueled
the Volvo while hurtling along at seventy-five miles per hour next to a
moving convoy-refueling truck.
Fortunately this wasn’t necessary. Mom had calculated that
we could leave at 6:00 A.M. central daylight time, stop three times at
twenty minutes per stop, and still arrive at our destination at 9:00
P.M. eastern daylight time.
I guess that’s challenging if you’re the driver.
It’s pretty boring if you’re just sitting there, so I slept
on and off until, in the early evening, we turned off Interstate 10
somewhere in western Florida.
This scenery was not what I had expected at all, and I stared out
the window, fascinated by it. We passed mile after mile of green fields
overflowing with tomatoes and onions and watermelons. I suddenly had
this crazy feeling like I wanted to bolt from the car and run through
the fields until I couldn’t run anymore. I said to Mom,
“This is Florida? This is what it looks like?”
Mom laughed. “Yeah. What did you think it looked
“I don’t know. A beach with a fifty-story condo on
“Well, it looks like that, too. Florida’s a huge
place. We’ll be living in an area that’s more like this one.
There are still a lot of farms around.”
“What do they grow? I bet they grow tangerines.”
“No. Not too many. Not anymore. This is too far north for
citrus trees. Every few years they get a deep freeze that wipes them all
out. Most of the citrus growers here have sold off their land to
“Yeah? And what do the developers do with it?”
“Well . . . they develop it. They plan communities with nice
houses, and schools, and industrial parks. They create jobs—
construction jobs, teaching jobs, civil engineering jobs— like
But once we got farther south and crossed into Tangerine County,
we did start to see groves of citrus trees, and they were an amazing
sight. They were perfect. Thousands upon thousands of trees in the red
glow of sundown, perfectly shaped and perfectly aligned, vertically and
horizontally, like squares in a million-square grid.
Mom pointed. “Look. Here comes the first industrial
I looked up ahead and saw the highway curve off, left and right,
into spiral exit ramps, like rams’ horns. Low white buildings with
black windows stretched out in both directions. They were all identical.
Mom said, “There’s our exit. Right up there.”
I looked ahead another quarter mile and saw another pair of spiral
ramps, but I couldn’t see much else. A fine brown dust was now
blowing across the highway, drifting like snow against the shoulders and
swirling up into the air.
We turned off Route 27, spiraled around the rams’ horns, and
headed east. Suddenly the fine brown dirt became mixed with thick black
smoke. Mom said, “Good heavens! Look at that.”
I looked to where she was pointing, up to the left, out in a
field, and my heart sank. The black smoke was pouring from a huge
bonfire of trees. Citrus trees.
I said, “Why are they doing that? Why are they just burning
“To clear the land.”
“Well, why don’t they build houses out of them? Or
homeless shelters? Or something?”
Mom shook her head. “I don’t think they can build with
them. I don’t think those trees have any use other than for
fruit.” She smiled. “You never hear people bragging that
their dining-room set is solid grapefruit, do you?”
I didn’t smile back.
Mom pointed to the right and said, “There’s another
Sure enough. Same size; same flames licking up the sides; same
smoke billowing out. It was like a Texas football bonfire, but nobody
was dancing around it, and nobody was celebrating anything.
Then, in an instant, in the blink of an eye, we crossed over from
this wasteland into a place carpeted with green grass, with trees along
both sides of the road and flower beds running down the middle of a
median strip. We could see the roofs of big, expensive houses peeking up
over the landscaping.
Mom said, “This is where the developments begin. This one is
called the Manors of Coventry. Aren’t they beautiful? Ours is a
little farther in.”
We went past the Villas at Versailles, which, if anything, looked
even more expensive. Then we saw a high gray wall and a series of
wrought-iron letters that spelled out LAKE WINDSOR DOWNS. We passed iron
gates and a pond of some kind. Then we made a couple of turns and pulled
into a wide driveway.
Mom announced, “This is it. This is our house.”
It was big— two stories high— and very white, with
aqua trim, like a Miami Dolphins football helmet. A new wooden fence ran
around both sides to the back, where it met up with that high gray wall.
The wall, apparently, surrounded the entire development.
The garage door opened up with a smooth mechanical hum. Dad was
standing in there with his arms open. He called out, “Perfect
timing, you two. The pizzas got here five minutes ago.”
Mom and I climbed out of the car, stiff and hungry. Dad came
outside, clicking the garage door closed. He put an arm around each of
us and guided us toward the front, saying, “Let’s do this
the right way. Huh? Let’s go in the visitors’ door.”
Dad led us through the front door into a tiled foyer two stories
high. We turned to the left and passed through an enormous great room
with furniture and boxes piled all around it. We ended up in an area off
the kitchen that had a small, round table and four chairs. Erik was
sitting in one of the chairs. He waved casually to Mom. He ignored me.
Mom waved back at him, but she was looking at the boxes stacked in
the kitchen. She said to Dad, “These boxes are marked DINING
Dad said, “Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I marked DINING ROOM on them so the movers
would put them in the dining room.”
“OK. Erik’ll put them over there.” He looked at
me and added, “Erik and Paul.” Mom asked, “Did
the movers break anything?”
“No. They didn’t break a thing. They were real pros.
Nice guys, too.”
Mom and I each grabbed a chair. Erik opened a pizza box, pulled
out a slice, and started stuffing it into his mouth. Mom said,
“How about waiting for the rest of us, Erik?”
He gave her a tomatoey grin. Dad passed out paper plates, napkins,
and cans of soda. Once Dad sat down, the rest of us started to eat.
Copyright © 1997 by Edward Bloor Reader’s Guide copyright
© 2006 by Harcourt, Inc.
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Excerpted from "Tangerine" by Edward Bloor. Copyright © 2006 by Edward Bloor. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.