On oranges
World is crazier and more of it than we think, / Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion / A tangerine and spit the pips and feel / The drunkenness of things being various.*
Recently I attended a memorial service for a man I never met. Perhaps it wouldn’t have happened in normal times but, as coronavirus had restricted the numbers that could attend the funeral proper, a gathering had been arranged via Zoom: one of those curious new types of intimacy fostered in this odd year. We wanted to show our support for our friend, whose father this was, and being there was our way of doing that.
So for two and a half hours, I listened to the friends and family of this man I’d never met tell stories that demonstrated what he’d meant to them, and I began to build a picture of him in my head. He was, I learnt, a keen sailor, enjoyed drinking beer, and had been very kind to many people. He had invented a game called speed scrabble and kept a special ‘spoon rest’.
One anecdote in particular stayed with me. His relative described how he would eat an orange, peeling it agonisingly slowly and then taking his time over ensuring that every last piece of pith was removed. And then, just as slowly, he’d eat it, savouring every single slice.
What a wonderful thing to be remembered for, I thought, and then thought of how unlikely it would be for any of us, if pressed to offer a narrative of ourselves, of our lives, would choose to tell a story like this.
But hearing it made me quite certain that this person I had never met had figured out something important about living a good life. And what is more, I thought: they have taught me something about it too.
*from ‘Snow’ by Louise MacNeice