The Page slice tastes so sweet, it reminds me of orange-flavored candy - like it’s sprinkled with processed sugar. Breeders use them these days to sweeten things up they cross other oranges with Page to try and pass on its flavor.” “They fell off because they’re seedy and hard to peel. “Page oranges were popular in the ’70s and ’80s,” he tells me. He always searched for something else.įranklin passes me a slice of a Page orange, and Renz explains that these oranges must be cut open, the peel contains oil which corrupts the eating experience if broken by hand. Franklin tried his hand at growing soybeans once, but was never crazy about growing crops that came with prices dictated by global markets. After the beef trade became more heavily regulated, he leased his fields to local farmers who grew peanuts and soybeans. In 1979, he purchased an additional 100 acres, bringing the farm to a total of 450. In his younger years, Franklin raised beef cows on the land that he inherited. If there was a chance he could grow what he tasted in Louisiana, it would be worth the risk. Years would pass before Franklin could taste the fruit of these young trees. Satsumas take three to four years to produce edible fruit. Having no research-based information on how the trees might react to this environment, on what chemical regiments were required here, on how weather patterns might affect the tree’s production, this project was more gamble than investment. With site prep, irrigation, and fertilizer, Franklin’s little experiment cost in the ballpark of $10,000. This was no meager experiment, considering the price for the trees alone added up to over $4,200. The next spring he bought 200 Satsuma seedlings, for $21 each, and planted them himself on a small plot of his family farm. No information on growing Satsumas in his climate zone existed, but Franklin’s curiosity would not let up. When he returned home, he researched how to raise the trees, which have been cultivated for centuries in Japan. He pulls an orange from overhead and opens his pocket knife. “It was the best piece of citrus I’ve ever put in my mouth,” Franklin says. Curious, having never heard of the sweet loose-skinned mandarin orange, they pulled over to buy a bag. Folks sold Satsumas from nearby family orchards out of the backs of pickups. In the spring of 2009, Franklin and his fishing buddies headed to Louisiana seeking redfish, but he found his destiny. Franklin begins to tell his story while Renz disappears into rustling branches. A country ringtone blares from Renz’s phone. We walk into an open-ended hoop house where a jungle of fully grown orange and grapefruit trees press against one another, jockeying toward the sunlit ceiling. “This is Billy,” Franklin says, introducing me to his farm manager, Bill Renz, and the three of us head outside. Franklin breathes, knowing his citrus will make it to Forsyth Farmers’ Market in Savannah. A younger reddish blonde-haired man breaks the tension with news that the driver has come and gone. As far as I can see, trees gushing with bright globes bask in the sunlight. What I discover is a full-scale citrus farm where citrus farms do not belong. I imagined finding a few ugly trees clinging to life. I have entered a strange dimension, I think, where two typically distinct environments merge into one bizarre ecotone. Out in the light, long rows of glossy trees disappear into a backdrop of sycamore and pine. The sky is cloudless, and an aroma of peroxide and citrus peel lingers in the warm winter air. I needed to talk to that farmer out on U.S. A feeling of dread, but also curiosity, arose. Though the region is part of a landmass that falls gracefully from the hilly Piedmont to the ocean, it is nowhere close to the traditional citrus belt of central Florida.Įach time I glanced at the fruit, Mom’s words, I guess we can grow them here, now, roamed around my brain like a moody raccoon. My hometown of Metter lies in Georgia’s upper coastal plain, 100 miles, as the crow flies, north of Florida. Each tiny segment, robust with sweet, tangy juice, enticed me more. Confused by this, I kept a suspicious eye on the fruit. I thought Mom must be mistaken, but she assured me. I spent the first 18 years of my life in south Georgia and never saw a single orange tree. “A man in Statesboro grows them,” Mom said. Too lively, I thought, to have made the trip from Florida. Lively leaves perked from their stems as if still reaching toward the sun. Tiny heads of fresh citrus formed a delicious mound in a ceramic bowl. A blaze of orange, a tropical tone in winter, glowed from a dark corner of my mother’s kitchen.
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