The Orange Lady

The Orange Lady

Marie Verdin's Satsuma's Brighten Highway 24

Story and photo by Jason Vowell

My wheels spun along the cold asphalt of state Highway 24, past shipyards and trees hanging heavy with moss when out of the corner of my eye I caught a color out of place. On this gray January morning full of dull shades, the color orange popped bright in my peripheral vision. A small grove of satsuma trees sprang out from in between swampy lagoons, the bright fruit dotting the landscape like an impressionist painting. And standing there under a small pop-up tent was a white-haired lady with bright orange lipstick, waving to the passing cars. A small, handwritten sign hanging on a folding table piled high with sweet fruit read: “Satsumas. Three dollars a bag.”

I spun the steering wheel and turned my car around in a muddy lot. I could already feel my cheeks puckering at the anticipation of peeling back the loose leathery skin and popping a slice in my mouth. As I rounded the bend, I could see the lady waving me into a gravel driveway. Quick to approach my car, she flashed a friendly smile before fumbling to put on her mask.

Her name is Marie Verdin, she told me in a heavy Cajun accent. “I’m known as the Orange Lady!” Warmth radiating, she said, “I used to sell satsumas down at the farmers market, but I can’t go to the farmers market anymore. My eyes are bad. So my son and daughter-in-law pick me up in the morning and bring me to the farm to sell now.”

She was soft spoken, and I could barely hear her over the roaring semi trailers barrelling down the highway full of harvested sugarcane.

“So, why are you called the Orange lady?” I asked. A twinkle of mischief flashed across her face. “Because no one else can sell oranges like I can!”

Her family planted the trees in 1995. And they have born fruit for twenty-one years.

“This year the trees were all full, but we lost four of them during Hurricane Zeta,” she told me. “A lot of the fruit got bruised. So you gotta pick the good ones. And you leave the bad ones to fall off the trees.”

I paused to ponder how that metaphor might apply to so many other things in life.

She told me she was born and raised here on this farm, which has supported five generations. Most of her family has worked in the shipyards, but she was the first to sell satsumas.

“You can start harvesting satsumas in September. But we don’t. We wait until late October. We want them to be good and ready. We don’t sell them until they are sweet enough.”

Some of her old customers from the farmers market make their way out to the farm to buy fruit. “Some of my old customers don’t know that I’m out here now. But oh! Do I have new customers! There’s a lot of people that pass through here. And some days I have better business here than I did at the market.”

I asked her what her favorite way to eat a satsuma is. “When I’m selling I ain’t got time for no recipes. I like to eat em’ just plain. I love ‘em. I love em all.”

I grabbed two bags from the table and passed her some cash. She patted me on the shoulder and thanked me. Walking away, I felt a twinge of anxiety leaving her standing there by the highway. But before I even closed my car door, another customer pulled into the gravel driveway. I unwrapped a juicy section of fruit, and the tart sweetness brought tingles to my cheeks. I pulled back out onto highway 24, Marie waving in my rearview mirror.

Jason Vowell