Just An Orange

Oranges are so standard that they are seldom regarded as anything special. In my history, they were prime. When I smell an orange, it brings back reminders of when schools had cloak rooms and the prevailing scent of them was gum boots and orange peelings. Apples were seasonal, but for some reason, oranges were always available. Most kids had an orange in their lunch kit when they were metal kits. They were the school status symbols of the day. The children with jam cans, the big kind with snap on lids, were at the bottom of the list while Superman or Wonder Woman kits were the highest according to  what the weekly Saturday movie matinees starred. There were always the cowboy stars of course, but we girls didn't want them. We had sexism in those days. Orange peels were found everywhere on the playground because if you didn't start peeling the fruit when you were rushing out at recess, you couldn't get the job done before your twenty minutes were up. Most of us tried not to break the orange skin because if you were successful, you might even with care, be able to score off each section without getting sticky juice all over your hands. No one wanted to go to the smelly basement bathroom sink and wash hands because it took too long, and you might be late and lateness was not popular. The revered teacher you loved, would scowl. When Christmas rolled around, there were the Japanese oranges to look forward to. The best part of them, was the easy peeling and sectioning. But the most exciting, and joyous thing about Christmas oranges, was the challenge of getting the peel off in one piece. Some kids were masters and dangled their prize efforts all during recess to the envy of everyone who wasn't  allowed to bring one of those prized oranges to school. They were saved for special home consumption during the holidays. Most families could afford only one box for the season. And the most exciting part, when parents brought home the box of oranges that sat in the coolest spot in the house, usually in the hallway, to prevent spoilage, was knowing that they would last only a short, rationed out time. There was always at least one orange in the box that was rotten and all moldy and when you came across that one, there were ughs and gagging. But the odor of the rotted fruit was secretly savoured and the way the mold transfixed our eyes when it was removed and put in the trash, to the tune of groans all around, was just another strangely delicious part of  Christmas traditions. You knew that you would be getting at least one orange in your Santa stocking. You could tell by the lump it made. We didn't have fancy stockings made of felt and sequins in those days. Our girl stockings were often the long kind that were held up by contraptions we hated because they never worked well and required a lot of hitching and tugging.  And while we rather ignored the lump orange in the stocking and tossed it out to get to the other great stuff in the sock, we did eat it later because it was part of the fun. When the box of oranges in the hallway was empty, that, sadly, was, for us, the end of Christmas.