Oranges

My only memories of Florida growing up revolve around Calvin, the truck driver who married my aunt, the one no one ever thought would get married, the one everyone whispered was slow, the one who still lived with my grandmother, even though that described all of us at some point in our lives. In a house that’s always been occupied by Mexicans, half-Mexican/half-whites and half-Mexican/half-blacks, he’s the only all-white person who’s ever lived there, and strangely enough, the only person I remember speaking Spanish to me.

Calvin: You better stay outta my truck. You sabes?
Me: What?
Calvin: Sabes? It means you know. Like savvy. You savvy?
Me: Okay.

The cab of his semi held all kinds of things magical to a 10-year-old boy. Liquor, cigarettes and porn. The trucker trifecta. But ironically, he never needed to tell me to stay away. For me, that truck, sitting in the gravel drive between the pecan grove and the crape myrtles served as my childhood equivalent of the haunted house on the corner. I expected Boo Radley himself to jump from the passenger seat and snatch me at any time, adding me to the collection of contraband and kids who always seemed to move away from our street.

I managed, as children somehow do, to escape the imaginary danger. And when things took a bad turn, Calvin would cheer me up with his own memories of Florida. As a kid, the question you wonder, but never dare to ask is, “If it was so great, how come you ever leave?”. But that’s how he described his home state, a place so fantastic that you couldn’t do anything but leave.

I’ll finally get to see for myself on May 20th. I fly to Orlando to give a 2-hour speech. I’m getting back on the plane immediately afterwards, and coming home the 21st. I think 24 hours is more than enough for a visit to the sunniest place on earth.