The Orange

Monte asked me what I’d like for my birthday this weekend, and the first thing that came into my mind was a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice hand-carried to me in bed on Sunday morning. We’ve been squeezing homegrown oranges lately with an old citrus reamer of green Depression-era glass, one of my best ever thrift store finds. Not only is it an appealingly simple and effective device, it’s also sort of beautiful. I like how the pulp and pits collect in a separate channel around the raised crown, and the way the juice runs into the base, and how the thing thus becomes a little pitcher, filled with fresh juice ready to be poured and sipped. I suppose it's an indulgence, since we do use a lot of oranges just to make a glassful, and the squeezing takes a bit of stamina, but it’s so satisfying.

And it’s what I want.

Which is also my way of saying that I am pretty happy on this birthday, and I have everything I need, and if I were to list all the things for which I am grateful, the people I love and oranges would be high up on my list.

Today's poet, Wendy Cope, seems to feel exactly the same way in her poem, The Orange. I came upon this one a couple of years ago in an anthology compiled by Garrison Keillor called Good Poems; so you see, it may be "light verse", but it shows up in some rather impressive circles, and it's not easy to craft such a sweet and succinct little poem. Anyway, it's delightful, no analysis required, and it says something very important.

THE ORANGE by Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange -

The size of it made us all laugh.

I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave -

They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.

This is peace and contentment. It's new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.

I did all the jobs on my list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.